 CHAPTER XX. THE WEAVING OF THE SILVER FLIECE. The silver fleece darkly cloaked and girded lay in the cotton warehouse of the Cresswells near the store. Its silken fibers cramped and close shone yellow-white in the sunlight, sadly soiled yet beautiful. Many came to see Zorris twin bales as they lay handling them in questioning, while Colonel Cresswell grew proud of his possession. The world was going well with the Colonel, freed from money-cares, praised for his generalship in the cotton corner, able to entertain sumptuously, he was again a southern gentleman of the older school, and so in his envied element. Yet today he frowned as he stood poking absently with his cane at the bailed fleece. This marriage, or rather these marriages, were not to his liking. It was a maze alliance of a sort that pricked him tenderly. It savored grossly of bargain and sale. His neighbors regarded it with disconcerting equanimity. They seemed to think an alliance with northern millions in honour for Cresswell blood, and the Colonel thumped the nearer bail vigorously. His canes slipped along the iron band suddenly and the old man lurching forward clutched in space to save himself and touched a human hand. Zorra, sitting shadowed on the farther bail, drew back her hand quickly at the contact and started to move away. How's that? Thundered the Colonel more angry at his involuntary fright than at the intrusion. Now, boys! But Zorra had come forward into the space where the sunlight of the wide front doors poured in upon the cotton bails. It's me, Colonel! She said. He glared at her. She was taller and thinner than formerly, darkly transparent of skin, and her dark eyes shone in strange and dusky brilliance. Still indignant and surprised the Colonel lifted his voice sharply. What the devil are you doing here? Sleeping when y'all to be at work? Get out and see here. Next week cotton-chopping begins. You'll go to the fields or to the chain-gang. I'll have no more of your loafin' about my place. Awaiting no reply, the Colonel, already half ashamed of his vehemence, stormed out into the sunlight and climbed upon his bay mare. But Zorra still stood silent in the shadow of the silver fleece, hearing and yet not hearing. She was searching for the way, groping for the threads of life, seeking almost wildly to understand the foundations of understanding, piteously asking for answer to the puzzle of life. All the while the walls rose straight upon her and narrow. To continue in school meant charity, yet she had nowhere to go and nothing to go with. To refuse to work for the Cresswells meant trouble for the school and perhaps a rest for herself. To work in the fields meant endless toil and a vista that opened upon death. Like a hunted thing the girl turned and twisted and thought and faced everywhere the blank impossible. Cold and dreamlike without, her shut teeth held back seething fires within and a spirit of revolt that gathered wildness as it grew. Above all flew the dream, the fantasy, the memory of the past, the vision of the future. Over and over she whispered to herself, This is not the end! This cannot be the end! Somehow, somewhere would come salvation, yet what it would be and what she expected she did not know. She sought the way. But what way and wither she did not know she dared not dream. One thing alone lay in her wild fancy like a great and wonderful fact dragging the dream to earth and anchoring it there. That was the silver fleece. Like a brooding mother Zora had watched it. She knew how the gin had been cleaned for its pressing and how it had been bailed apart and carefully covered. She knew how proud Colonel Cresswell was of it and how daily he had visitors to see it and finger the wide white wound in its side. Yes, sir. Grown on my place by my negros, sir. He assured them and they marveled. Zora's mind, this beautiful bailed fiber, was hers. It typified happiness. It was a holy thing which profane hands had stolen. When it came back to her, as come it must, she cried with clenched hands. It would bring happiness. Not the great happiness. That was gone forever. But illumination, atonement, and something of the power and the glory. So involuntarily almost she haunted the cotton storehouse, flitting like a dark and silent ghost in among the workmen, greeting them with her low musical voice, warding them with the cold majesty of her eyes, each day afraid of some last parting, each night triumphant. It was still there. The Colonel, Zora already forgotten, wrote up to the Cresswell Oaks pondering darkly. It was bad enough to contemplate Helen's marriage in distant prospect, but the sudden almost peremptory desire for marrying at Easter-tide, a little less than two months away, was absurd. There were business reasons arising from the presidential campaign in the fall. John Taylor had telegraphed, but there was already too much business in the arrangement to soothe the Colonel. With Harry it was different. Indeed it was his own quiet suggestion that made John Taylor hurry matters. Harry trusted to the novelty of his father's new wealth to make the latter complacent. He himself felt an impatient longing for the haven of a home. He had been too long untethered. He distrusted himself. The devil within was too fond of taking the bid in his teeth. He would remember to his dying day what awful shriek in the night as of a soul tormenting and tormented. He wanted the protection of a good woman, and sometimes against the clear whiteness of her letters so joyous and generous even if a bit prim and didactic he saw a vision of himself reflected as he was, and he feared. It was distinctively disconcerting to Colonel Cresswell to find Harry quite in favor of early nuptials, and to learn that the sole objection even in Helen's mind was the improbability of getting a wedding gown in time. Helen had, all of a child's naive love for beautiful and dainty things, and a wedding gown from Paris had been her life dream. On this point therefore there ensued spirited arguments and much correspondence, and both her brother and her lover evinced characteristic interests in the planning. Said Harry, Sister, I'll cable to Paris today. They can easily hurry the thing along. Helen was delighted. She handed over a telegram just received from John Taylor. Send me express two bells best caught and you can get. The Colonel read the message. I don't see the connection between this and hurrying up a wedding gown. He growled. None of them discerned the handwriting of destiny. Neither do I, said Harry, who detected yielding in his father's tone. But we better send him the two prized bells. It will be a fine advertisement for our plantation, and evidently he has a surprise in store for us. The Colonel effected to hesitate, but next morning the silver fleece went to town. Zora watched it go, and her heart swelled and died within her. She walked to town to the station. She did not see Mrs. Vanderpool arriving from New Orleans, but Mrs. Vanderpool saw her, and looked curiously at the tall, tragic figure that leaned so dollarously beside the freight car. The bales were loaded into the express car. The train pulled away, horse snorting, waking, vague echoes in the forest beyond. But to the girl who stood at the end, looking outward to darkness, those echoes roared like the crack of doom. A passing band of contract hands called to her mockingly, and one black giant laughing loudly gripped her hand. Come on, honey. He shouted. Use a drayman. Come on, honey. She turned abruptly and gripped his hand as one drowning grips anything offered. Grip till he winced. She laughed a loud, mirthless laugh that came pouring like a sob from her deep lungs. Come on. She mocked and joined them. They were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. There were husky, big-limb youths and bold-faced, loud-tongued girls. Tomorrow they would start up-country to some backwards barony in the Kingdom of Cotton and work till Christmas time. Today was the last in town. There was craftily advanced money in their pockets and ride in their hearts. In the gathering twilight they marched noisily through the streets, in their mist, wide-eyed and laughing almost hysterically, marched Zora. Mrs. Vanderpool, meantime, rode thoughtfully out of town toward Creswell Oaks. She was returning from witnessing the Mardi Gras festivities in New Orleans and at the urgent invitation of the Creswells had stopped off. She might even stay to the wedding if the new plans matured. Mrs. Vanderpool was quite upset. Her French maid, on whom she had depended absolutely for five years or more, had left her. I think I want to try a colored maid. She told the Creswells laughingly as they drove home. They have sweet voices and they can't doth their uniform. Her lean, without her cap and apron, was often mistaken for a lady. And while I was in New Orleans, a French confectioner married her under some such delusion. Now haven't you got a girl about here who would do? No, declared Harry decisively, but his sister suggested that she might ask Miss Smith at the colored school. Again Mrs. Vanderpool laughed, but after tea she wandered idly down the road. The sun behind the swamp was crimsoning the world. Mrs. Vanderpool stalled alone to the school and saw Sarah Smith. There was no cordiality in the latter's greeting, but when she heard the callers errand her attention was at once arrested and held. The interests of her charges were always uppermost in her mind. Can't I have that girl, Zora? Mrs. Vanderpool at last inquired. Miss Smith started, for she was thinking of Zora at that very instant. The girl was later than usual, and she was momentarily expecting to see her tall form moving languidly up the walk. She gave Mrs. Vanderpool a searching look. Mrs. Vanderpool glanced involuntarily at her gown and smiled as she did it. Would I trust you with a human soul? asked Miss Smith abruptly. Mrs. Vanderpool looked up quickly. The half-mocking answer that rose involuntarily to her lips was checked. Within Mrs. Vanderpool was a little puzzled at herself. Why had she asked for this girl? She had felt a strange interest in her, a peculiar human interest since she first saw her, and as she saw her again this afternoon. But would she make a satisfactory maid? Was it not a rather dangerous experiment? Why had she asked for her? She certainly had not intended to when she entered the house. In the silence Miss Smith continued. Here is a child in whom the fountains of the great deep are suddenly broken up. With peace and care she would find herself or she is strong. But here there is no peace. Slavery of soul and body awaits her and I am powerless to protect her. She must go away, that going away may make or ruin her. She knows nothing of working for wages and she has not the servant's humility, but she has loyalty and pluck. For one she loves there is nothing she would not do. But she cannot be driven. Or rather, if she is driven it may rouse in her the devil incarnate. She needs not exactly affection. She would almost resent that, but intelligent interest and care. In return for this she will gradually learn to serve and serve loyally. Frankly, Mrs. Vanderpool, I would not have chosen you for this task of human education. Indeed, you would have been my last thought. You seem to me, I speak plainly, a worldly woman, yet perhaps, who can tell. God has especially set you to this task. At any rate, I have little choice. I'm at my wit's end. Elsebeth, the mother of this child, is not long dead. And here is the girl, beautiful, unprotected, and here am I, almost helpless. She is in debt to the Cresswells and they are pressing the claim to her service. Take her, if you can get her. It is, I fear, her only chance. Mind you, if you can persuade her. And that may be impossible. Where is she now? Miss Smith glanced out at the darkening landscape and then at her watch. I don't know. She's very late. She's given to wandering, but usually she is here before this time. I saw her in town this afternoon, said Mrs. Vanderpool. Zora? In town? Miss Smith rose. I'll send her to you tomorrow, she said quietly. Mrs. Vanderpool had hardly reached the oaks before Miss Smith was driving toward town. A small cabin on the town's ragged fringe was crowded to suffocation. With Anna Rose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous laughter. The scraping of a fiddle and wine of a necordian, liquor began to appear and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden as the dances whirled. At the end of the orgy stood Zora, wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain that gripped her heart and hammered in her head, crying in tune with the frenzied music. The ant, the ant. Abruptly she recognized a face despite the wreck and ruin of its beauty. Buddy? She cried as she seized the mother of little Emma by the arm. The woman staggered and offered her glass. Drank! She cried. Drank and forget! In a moment Zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in both hands. A dozen hands clapped a devil's tattoo. A score of voices yelled and laughed. The shriek of the music was drowned beneath the thunder of stamping feet. Men reeled to singing women's arms, but above the roar rose the song of the voice of Zora. She glided to the middle of the room, standing tiptoed with skirts that curled and turned. She threw back her head, raised the liquor to her lips, paused, and looked into the face of Miss Smith. A silence fell like a lightning flash on the room as that white face peered in at the door. Slowly Zora's hands fell and her eyes blinked as though waking from some awful dream. She staggered toward the woman's outstretched arms. Late that night the girl lay close and Miss Smith's motherly embrace. I was going hell. She whispered trembling. Why Zora? Asked Miss Smith calmly. I couldn't find the way and I wanted to forget. People in hell don't forget was the matter of fact comment. And Zora, what way do you seek? The way where? Zora sat up in bed and lifted a gray and stricken face. It's a lie. She cried with hoarse earnestness. The way nowhere. There is no way. You know, I want him. I want nothing on earth but him and him I can't ever have. The older woman drew her down tenderly. No Zora, she said. There's something you want more than him and something you can have. What asked the wondering girl? His respect, said Sarah Smith, and I know the way. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 The Marriage Morning 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. Mrs. Vanderpool watched Zora as she came up the path beneath the oaks. She walks well, she observed. And laying aside her book, she waited with a marked curiosity. The girl's greeting was brief, almost curt, but unintentionally so, as one could easily see. For back in her eyes lurked an impatient hunger. She was not thinking of greetings. She murmured a quick word, and stood straight and tall with her eyes squarely on the lady. In the depths of Mrs. Vanderpool's heart something strange. Not new, but very old, stirred. Before her stood this tall black girl, quietly returning her look. Mrs. Vanderpool had a most uncomfortable sense of being judged, of being weighed, and there arose within her an impulse of self-justification. She smiled and said sweetly, Won't you sit? But despite all this, her mind seemed leaping backward a thousand years. Back to a simpler primal day when she herself, white, frail and fettered, stood before the dusky magnificence of some bejeweled barbarian queen, and sought to justify herself. She shook off the fantasy. And yet, how well the girl stood, it was not everyone that could stand still and well. Please sit down. She repeated with her softest charm, not dreaming that outside the school white persons did not ask this girl to sit in their presence. But even this did not move Zora. She sat down. There was in her walking, standing, sitting, a simple directness which Mrs. Vanderpool sensed and met. Zora, I need someone help me to do my hair and serve my coffee and dress and take care of me. The work will not be hard. You can travel and see the world and live well. Would you like it? But I do not know how to do all these things. Returned Zora slowly, she was thinking rapidly, was this the way? It sounded wonderful. The world, the great mysterious world that stretched beyond the swamp into which bless and the silver fleece had gone. Did it lead to the way? But if she went there, what would she see and do? And would it be possible to become such a woman as Miss Smith pictured? What is the world like? Asked Zora. Mrs. Vanderpool smiled. Oh, I meant great active cities and buildings, myriads of people and wonderful sights. Yes, but back of it all. What is it really? What does it look like? Heaven's child, don't ask. Really? It isn't worth while peering back of things. One is sure to be disappointed. Then what's the use of seeing the world? Why one must live. And why not be happy? Answered Mrs. Vanderpool, amused, baffled, spurred for the time being from her chronic ennui. Are you happy? Retorted Zora, looking over her carefully, from silk and stockings to garden hat. Mrs. Vanderpool laid aside her little mockery and met the situation bravely. No, she replied simply. Her eyes grew old and tired. Involuntarily Zora's hand crept out protectingly and lay a moment over the white-jeweled fingers. Then quickly recovering herself, she started hastily to withdraw it. But the woman's fingers closed around her darker ones, and Mrs. Vanderpool's eyes became dim. I need you, Zora, she said, and then seeing the half form question. Yes, and you need me. We need each other. In the world lies opportunity, and I will help you. Zora rose abruptly and Mrs. Vanderpool feared with a tightening of heart that she had lost this strangely alluring girl. I will come tomorrow, said Zora. As Mrs. Vanderpool went into lunch, reaction and lingering doubts came trooping back to replace the daintiest of trained experts with the most baffling semi-barbarian. Well, have you had a maid? Asked Helen. I've engaged Zora, laughed Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, and now I'm wondering whether I have a jewel or white elephant. Probably neither, remarked Harry Cresswell dryly, but he avoided the lady's inquiring eyes. Next morning Zora came easily into Mrs. Vanderpool's life. There was little she knew of her duties, but little too that she could not learn with a deafness and divination almost startling. Her quietness, her quickness, her young strength were like a soothing balm to the tired woman of fashion, and within a week she had sunk back contentedly into Zora's strong arms. It's a jewel! She decided. With this verdict the house agreed. The servants waited on Miss Zora gladly. The men scarcely saw her and the ladies ran to her for help in all sorts. Harry Cresswell looked upon this transformation with an amused smile, but the Colonel saw in it simply evidence of dangerous obscenity and a black girl who hitherto had refused to work. Zora had been in the house but a week when a large express package was received from John Taylor. Its unwrapping brought a cry of pleasure from the ladies. There lay a bolt of silken-like cambrick of wondrous fineness and luster marked for the wedding dress. The explanation accompanied the package that Mary Taylor had a similar piece in the north. Helen and Harry said nothing of the cablegram to the Paris Taylor, and Helen took no steps toward having the cambrick dress made, not even when the wedding invitations appeared. A Cresswell? Married in cotton? Helen was almost in tears lest the Paris gown be delayed, and sure enough a cablegram came at last, saying that there was little likelihood of the gown being ready by Easter. It would be shipped at the earliest convenience, but it could hardly catch the necessary vote. Helen had a good cry and then came a wild rush to get John Taylor's cloth ready. Still Helen was quarrelous. She decided that silk embroidery might embellish the skirt, the dressmaker was in despair. I haven't a single-spale worker, she declared. Helen was appealing to Mrs. Vanderpool. I can do it, said Zora, who was in the room. Do you know how? asked the dressmaker. No, but I want to know. Mrs. Vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. Show her, she said. The dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. Zora sows beautifully, added Mrs. Vanderpool. Thus the beautiful cloth came to Zora s room and was spread in a glossy cloud over her bed. She trembled at its beauty and felt a vague inner yearning, as if some subtle magic of the woven web was trying to tell her its story. She worked over it faithfully and lovingly in every spare hour and in long nights of dreaming. Willfully she departed from the set pattern and sewed into the cloth something of the beauty in her heart in new and intricate ways with soft shadowings and coverings. She wove in that white veil her own strange soul, and Mrs. Vanderpool watched her curiously, but in silence. Meantime all things were arranged for double wedding at Creswell Oaks. As John and Mary Taylor had no suitable home, they were to come down and the two brides to go forth from the Creswell mansion. Accordingly the tailors arrived a week before the wedding and the home took on a festive air. Even Colonel Creswell expanded under the genial influences, and while his head still protested, his heart was glad. He had to respect John Taylor s undoubted ability, and Mary Taylor was certainly lovely in spite of that assumption of cleverness of which the Colonel could not approve. Mary returned to the old scenes with mingled feelings, especially where she startled at seeing Zora a member of the household, and apparently high in favour. It brought back something of the old uneasiness and suspicion. All this she soon forgot under the cadence of Harry Creswell s pleasant voice and the caressing touch of his arm. He seemed hansomer than ever, and he was. For sleep and temperance and the wooing of a woman had put a tinge in his marble face, smooth the puffs beneath his eyes, and given him a more distinguished bearing and a firmer hand. And Mary Taylor was very happy. So was her brother only differently. He was making money, he was planning to make more, and he had something to pet which seemed to him extraordinarily precious and valuable. Taylor eagerly inquired after the cloth and followed the ladies to Zora s room, adjoining Mrs. Vanderpools to see it. It lay uncut and shimmering, covered with dim silken tracery of a delicacy and beauty which brought an exclamation to all lips. That's what we can do with Alabama cotton, cried John Taylor and Triumph. They turned to him incredulously. But no buts about it. These are the two bales you sent me, woven with a silk wolf. No one particularly noticed as Zora had hastily left the room. I had it done in Easterly's new Jersey Mills according to an old plan of mine. I'm going to make cloth like that right in this county someday. And he chuckled gaily. But Zora was striding up and down the halls, the blood surging in her ears. After they were gone, she came back and closed the doors. She dropped on her knees and buried her face in the filmy folds of the silver fleece. I knew it. I knew it. She whispered in mingled tears and joy. It called and I did not understand. It was her talisman who found her love come back. Her stolen dream come true. Now she could face the world. God had turned it straight again. She would go into the world and find not love, but the thing greater than love. Outside the door came voices, the dressmaker's tones, Helen's soft drawl, and Mrs. Vanderpool's finished accents. Her face went suddenly gray. The silver fleece was not hers. It belonged. She rose hastily. The door opened and they came in. The cutting must begin at once. They all agreed. Is it ready, Zora? inquired Helen. No. Zora quietly answered. Not quite. But tomorrow morning, early. As soon as she was alone again she sat down and considered, by and by, while the family was at lunch. She folded the silver fleece carefully and locked it in her new trunk. She would hide it in the swamp. During the afternoon she sent to town for oil cloth, and bade the black harbinger at Miss Smith's make a cedar box, tight and tarred. In the morning she prepared Mrs. Vanderpool's breakfast with unusual care. She was sorry for Mrs. Vanderpool and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not, they could not understand what would happen to her, she did not know. She did not care. The silver fleece had returned to her. Soon it would be buried in the swamp once it came. She had no alternative. She must keep it and wait. She heard the dressmaker's voice and then her step upon the stair. She heard the sound of Harry Cresswell's buggy and the scurrying at the front door. On came the dressmaker's footsteps. Then her door was unceremoniously burst open. Helen Cresswell stood there radiant. The dressmaker, too, was wreathed in smiles. She carried a big red-sealed bundle. Zora cried Helen in ecstasy. It's come. Zora regarded her coldly and stood at bay. The dressmaker was ripping and snipping and soon their lay revealed before them the Paris gown. Helen was in raptures, but her conscious spricked her. She appealed to them. All that to tell? You see, Mary's gown will look miserably calm and beset it. The dressmaker was voluble. There was really nothing to tell and besides, Helen was a Cresswell and was to be expected and so forth. Helen pursed her lips and petulantly tapped the floor with her foot. But the other gown? Where is it? asked the dressmaker looking about. It would make a pretty moaning dress. But Helen had taken a sudden dislike to the thought of it. I don't want it, she declared. And besides, I haven't room for it in my trunks. Of a sudden she leaned down and whispered to Zora. Zora had it and keep it if you want it. Come to the dressmaker. I'm dying to try this on now. Remember Zora, not a word. And all this to Zora seemed no surprise. It was the way and it was opening before her because the talisman lay in her trunk. So at last it came to Easter morning. The world was golden with jasmine and crimson with azalea. Down in the darker places gleamed the misty glory of the dogwood. New cotton shook, glimmered and blossomed in the black fields. And overall the soft southern sun poured its awakening light of life. There was happiness and hope again in the cabins. And hope and, if not happiness, ambition in the mansions. Zora almost forgetting the wedding stood before the mirror. Laying aside her dress, she draped her shimmering cloth about her. Dragging her hair down in a heavy mass over ears and neck until she seemed herself a bride. And as she stood there, awed with the mystical union of a dead love and a living newborn self, there came drifting in at the window. Faintly, the soft sound of far off marriage music tis thy marriage morning shining in the sun. Two white and white suave brides were coming slowly down the great staircase of cruswell oaks. And two white and black cloth bridegrooms awaited them. Either bridegroom looked gladly at the flow of his sister's garments and almost darkly at his brides. For Helen was decked in Parisian splendor while Mary was gowned in the fleece. Tis thy marriage morning shining in the sun. Uploaded the song of the little dark-faced children and Zora listened. CHAPTER XXI THE SILVER FLICE Bless all one was seated in the anti-room of Senator Smith's office in Washington. The Senator had not come in yet and there were others waiting too. The young man sat in a corner dreaming. Washington was his first great city, and it seemed a never-ending delight. The streets, the buildings, the crowds, the shops and lights and noise, the kaleidoscopic panorama of a world's doing, the myriad forms and faces, the talk and laughter of men. It was all wonderful magic to the country boy, and he stretched his arms and filled his lungs and cried, Here I shall live! Especially was he attracted by his own people. They seemed transformed, revivified, changed. Some might be mistaken for field hands on a holiday, but not many, others he did not recognize. They seemed strange and alien, sharper, quicker, and at once more overbearing and more unscrupulous. There were yet others, and at the sight of these, bless stood straighter and breathed like a man. They were well dressed and well-appearing men and women, who walked upright and looked one in the eye and seemed like persons of affairs and money. They had arrived. They were men. They filled his mind's ideal. He felt like going up to them and grasping their hands and saying, At last, brother! Ah, it was good to find one's dreams walking in the light, in flesh and blood. Continually such thoughts were surging through his brain, and they were rioting through it again as he sat waiting in Senator Smith's office. The senator was late this morning. When he came in, he glanced at the morning paper before looking over his mail in the list of his clients. Do fools like the American people deserve salvation? He sneered holding off the headlines and glancing at them. League beats trust. Farmers of South smash effort to bear market, send cotton to twelve cents. Common people triumph. A man is induced to bite off his own nose and then sing up being a victory. It's nauseating, senseless. There is no earthly use driving for such blockheads. They'd crucify any savior. Thus half consciously Senator Smith saved his conscience, while he extracted a certificate of deposit for fifty thousand dollars from his New York mail. He thrust it aside from his secretary's view and looked at his list as he rang the bell. There was representative Todd and somebody named Alwyn. Nobody of importance. Easterly was due in a half hour. He would get rid of Todd meantime. Poor Todd! he mused. A lamb for the slaughter! But he patiently listened to him plead for party support and influence for his bill to prohibit gambling in futures. I was warned that it was useless to see you, Senator Smith, but I would come. I believe in you. Frankly, there is a strong group of your old friends and followers forming against you. They met only last night, but I did not go. Won't you take a stand on some of these progressive matters? This bill or the child labor movement or low tariff legislation? Mr. Smith listened but shook his head. When the time comes, he announced deliberately, I shall have something to say on several of these matters. At present I can only say that I cannot support this bill. And Mr. Todd was ushered out. He met Mr. Easterly coming in and greeted him effusively. He knew him only as a rich philanthropist who had helped the neighborhood guild in Washington, one of Todd's hobbies. Easterly greeted Smith quietly. Got my letter! Yes. Here are the three bills. You will go on the finance committee tomorrow. Soundridge is chairman by courtesy, but you will have the real power. Put the child labor bill first and we'll work the press. The tariff will take most of the session, of course. We'll put the cotton inspection bill through in the last days of the session. See, I'm maneuvering to get the southern congressman into line. Oh, one thing. Thompson says he's a little worried about the Negroes. Says there's something more than froth in the talk of a bolt in the northern Negro vote. We may have to give them a little extra money and a few more minor offices than usual. Talk with Thompson. The Negroes are sweet on you and he's going to be the new chairman of the campaign, you know? Ever met him? Yes. Well, so long. Just a moment. The statesman stayed the financier. Todd just let fall something of a combination against us in Congress. Know anything of it? Not definitely. I heard some rumors. Better see if you can run it down. Well, I must hurry. Good day. While bless Alwyn in the outer office was waiting and musing, a lady came in. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the curve of her gown and as she seated herself beside him, the suggestion of a faint perfume, a vague resentment rose in him. Colored women would look as well as that, he argued. With the clothes and wealth and training he paused, however, in his thought. He did not want them like the whites, so cold and formal and precise, without heart or marrow. He started up for the secretary was speaking to him. Are you the, uh, the man who had the letter to the senator? Yes, sir. Let me see it. Oh, yes. He will see you in a moment. Bless was returning the letter to his pocket when he heard a voice almost at his ear. I beg your pardon. He turned and started. It was the lady next to him and she was colored. Not extremely colored, but undoubtedly colored, with waving black hair, light brown skin, and the fuller facial curving of the darker world. And yes, bless was surprised for everything else about her, her voice, her bearing, the set of her gown, her gloves and shoes. The whole impression was, bless hesitated for a word, well, white. Yes ma'am. He stammered, becoming suddenly conscious that the lady had now a second time asked him if he was acquainted with Senator Smith. That is, ma'am, why was he saying ma'am like a child or a servant? I know his sister. And have a letter for him. Do you live in Washington? She inquired. No, but I want to. I've been trying to get in as a clerk, and I haven't succeeded yet. That's what I'm going to see Senator Smith about. Have you had the civil service examinations? Yes. I made ninety-three in the examination for a treasury clerkship. And no appointment. I see they are not partial to us there. Bless was glad to hear her say us. She continued after her pause. May I venture to ask a favour of you? Certainly, he responded. My name is Wynne, lowering her voice slightly and leaning toward him. There are so many ahead of me, and I am in a hurry to get to my school, but I must see the Senator. Couldn't I go in with you? I think I might be of service in this matter of the examination, and then perhaps I'd get a chance to say a word for myself. I'd be very glad to have you come, said blessed cordially. The secretary hesitated a little when the two started in, but Miss Wynne's air was so quietly assured that he yielded. Senator Smith looked at the tall, straight black man with his smooth skin and frank eyes, and for a second time that morning a vision of his own youth dimmed his eyes, but he spoke coldly. Mr. Alwynne, I believe? Yes, sir. And? My friend, Miss Wynne! The Senator glanced at Miss Wynne, and she bowed demurely. Then he turned to Alwynne. Well, Mr. Alwynne, Washington is a bad place to start in the world. Bless looks surprised and incredulous. He could conceive of no finer starting place, but he said nothing. It is a grave, continued the Senator, of ambitions and ideals. You would far better go back to Alabama, pausing and looking at the young man keenly. But you won't. You won't. Not yet at any rate, and bless shook his head slowly. No. Well, what can I do for you? I won't work. I'll do anything. No, you'll do one thing. Be a clerk, and then if you have the right stuff in you, you will throw up that job in a year and start again. I'd like at least to try it, sir. Well, I can't help you much there. That's in civil service, and you must take the examination. I have, sir. So, where and what mark? In the Treasury Department. I got a mark of nine to three. What? And no appointment? The Senator was incredulous. No, sir. Not yet. Here Miss Wynn imposed. You see, Senator, she said, Civil service rules are not always impervious to race prejudice. The Senator frowned. Do you mean to intimate that Mr. Alwyn's appointment is held up because he is colored? I do. Well, well, the Senator rang for a clerk. Get me the Treasury on the telephone. In a moment, the bell rang. I want Mr. Cole. Is that you, Mr. Cole? Good morning. Have you a young man named Alwyn on your eligible list? What? Yes? Indeed. Well, why has he no appointment? Of course, I know he's a negro. Yes, I desire it very much. Thank you. You'll get an appointment tomorrow morning, and the Senator rose. How is my sister? he asked absently. She was looking worried, but hopeful for the new endowment when I left. The Senator held out his hand, blessed took it, and then remembered, Oh, I beg pardon, but Ms. Wynne wanted a word on another matter. The Senator turned to Ms. Wynne. I am a schoolteacher, Senator Smith, and like all the rest of us, I am deeply interested in the appointment of the new school board. But you know the district committee attends to those things, said the Senator hastily, and then too, I believe there is talk of abolishing the school board and concentrating power in the hands of the superintendent. Precisely, said Ms. Wynne, and I came to tell you, Senator Smith, that the interests which are back of this attack upon the schools are no friends of yours. Ms. Wynne extracted from her reticule a typewritten paper. He took the paper and read it intently. Then he keenly scrutinized the young woman, and she steadily returned his regard. How am I to know this is true? Follow it up and see. He mused. Where did you get these facts? he asked suddenly. She smiled. It is hardly necessary to say. And yet, he persisted, if I were sure of this source, I would know my ground better, and my obligation to you would be greater. She laughed and glanced toward Allwin. He had moved out of Earshot and was waiting by the window. I am a teacher in the M. Street High School, she said. And we have some intelligent boys there who work their way through. Yes, said the senator. Some continued Ms. Wynne tapping her boot on the carpet. Some wait on table. The senator slowly put the paper in his pocket. And now, he said, Ms. Wynne, what can I do for you? She looked at him. If Judge Haynes is reappointed to the school board, I shall probably continue to teach in the M. Street High School, she said slowly. The senator made a memorandum and said, I shall not forget Ms. Wynne, nor her friends. And he bowed, glancing at Allwin. The woman contemplated Bless in momentary perplexity, then bowing in turn, left. Bless followed, debating just what he ought to say, how far he might venture to accompany her, what, but she easily settled it all. I thank you. Goodbye. She said briefly at the door and was gone. Bless did not know whether to feel relieved or provoked or disappointed, and by way of compromise felt something of all three. The next morning he received notice of his appointment to a clerkship in the Treasury Department at a salary of nine hundred dollars. The sum seemed fabulous and he was in the seventh heaven, for many days of consciousness of wealth. The new duties, the street scenes, the city life kept him more than busy. He planned to study and arranged with a professor at Howard University to guide him. He bought an armful of books and a desk and plunged desperately to work. Gradually as he became used to the office routine, and in the hours when he was weary of study, he began to find time hanging a little heavily on his hands indeed, although he would not acknowledge it, he was getting lonesome, homesick amid the myriad men of a busy city. He argued to himself that this was absurd, and yet he knew that he was longing for human companionship. When he looked about him for fellowship he found himself in a strange dilemma. Those black folk in whom he recognized the old sweet-tempered negro traits had also looser, uglier manners than he was accustomed to, from which he shrank. The upper classes of negroes, on the other hand, he still observed from afar. They were strangers not only in acquaintance, but because of a curious coldness and aloofness that made them cease to seem his own kind. They seemed almost at times like black white people, strangers in way and thought. He tried to shake off this feeling but it clung, and at last in sheer desperation he promised to go out of a night with a fellow clerk who rather boasted of the people he knew. He had soon tired of a strange company and had turned to go home when he met a newcomer in the doorway. Well, hello! Sam! Sam Stillings! He exclaimed delightedly and was soon grasping the hand of a slim, well-dressed man of perhaps thirty, with yellow face, curling hair and shifting eyes. Well, of all things! Bless, uh, um, Mr. Owen! I thought you were Owen Cotton! Bless laughed and continued shaking his head. He was foolishly glad to see the former Creswell butler whom he had known but slightly. His face brought back unuttered things that made his heart beat faster and a yearning surge within him. I thought you went to Chicago, cried Bless. I did, but going into politics, having entered the political field, I came here. And you graduated, I suppose, and all that? No, bless admitted a little sadly, as he told of his coming north and of Senator Smith's influence. But how are all? Abruptly Sam hooked his arm into all ones and pulled him with him down the street. Stillings was a type, up from servility and menial service he was struggling to climb to money and power. He was shrewd, willing to stoop to anything in order to win. The very slights and humiliations of prejudice he turned to his advantage. When he learned all the particulars of all ones visit to Senator Smith and his cordial reception, he judged it best to keep in touch with this young man, and he forthwith invited Bless to accompany him the next night to the 15th Street Presbyterian Church. You'll find the best people there, he said, the aristocracy. The treble clef gives a concert and everybody that's anybody will be there. They met again the following evening and proceeded to the church. It was a simple but pleasant auditorium nearly filled with well-dressed people. During the program Bless applauded vociferously every number that pleased him, which is to say every one, and stamped his feet, until he realized that he was attracting considerable attention to himself. Then the entertainment straightway lost all its charm. He grew painfully embarrassed and for the remainder of the evening was awkwardly self-conscious. When all was over the audience rose leisurely and stood in little knots in eddies, laughing and talking. Many moved forward to say a word to the singers and players. Stillings stepped aside to a group of men, and Bless was left miserably alone. A man came to him, a white-faced man with slightly curling close gray hair and high-bred aesthetic countenance. You are, stranger! He asked pleasantly, and Bless liked him. Yes, sir, he answered, and they fell to talking. He discovered that this was the pastor of the church. Do you know no one in town? One or two of my fellow clerks and Mrs. Stillings. Oh, yes, I've met Miss Wynn. Why, here's Miss Wynn now! Bless turned. She was right behind him, the center of a group. She turned slowly and smiled. Oh! She uttered twice but with different cadence. Then something like amusement lurked a moment in her eye, and she quietly presented Bless to her friends, while Stillings hovered unnoticed in the offing. Miss Jones? Mr. Alwyn of—she paused a second—Alabama. Miss Taylor? Mr. Alwyn? And with a backward curving of her neck, Mr. Tearswell? And so on. Mr. Tearswell was handsome and indolent, with indecision in his face and a cynical voice. In a moment Bless felt the subtle antagonism of the group. He was an intruder. Mr. Tearswell nodded easily and turned away, continuing his conversation with the ladies. But Miss Wynn was perverse and interrupted. I saw you enjoyed the concert, Mr. Alwyn, she said, and one of the young ladies rippled audibly. Bless darkened, painfully realizing that these people must have been just behind him, but he answered frankly. Yes, I did, immensely. I hope I didn't disturb you. You see, I'm not used to hearing such singing. Mr. Tearswell compelled to listen, laughed dryly. Plantation melodies, I suppose, are more your specialty? He said with a slight cadence. Yes, said Bless simply, a slight pause ensued. Then came the surprise of the evening for Bless Alwyn. Even his inexperienced eye could discern that Miss Wynn was very popular, and that most of the men were rivals for her attentions. Mr. Alwyn, she said, graciously rising, I'm going to trouble you to see me to my door. It's only a block. Good night all! She called, but she bowed to Mr. Tearswell. Miss Wynn placed her hand lightly on Bless's arm, and for a moment he paused. A thrill ran through him as he felt again the weight of a little hand, and saw beside him the dark, beautiful eyes of a girl. He felt again the warm quiver of her body. When he awoke to the lighted church and the moving well-dressed throng, the hand on his arm was not so small, but it was well gloved, and somehow the fancy struck him that it was a cold hand, and not always sympathetic in its touch. END OF CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII THE TRAINING OF ZORA 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. I did not know the world was so large, remarked Zora as she and Mrs. Vanderpool flew east and northward on the New York New Orleans Limited. For a long time the girl had given herself up to the sheer delight of motion. Gazing from the window, she compared the lands she passed with the lands she knew, noting the formation of the cotton, the kind and growth of the trees, the state of the roads. Then the comparisons became infinite, endless. The world stretched on and on until it seemed near distance, and she suddenly realized how vast a thing it was and spoke. Mrs. Vanderpool was amused. It's much smaller than one would think, she responded. When they came to Atlanta, Zora stared and wrinkled her brows. It was her first large city. The other towns were replicas of Toomesville, strange in number, not in kind, but this was different and she could not understand it. It seemed senseless and unreasonable and yet so strangely so that she was at a loss to ask questions. She was very solemn as they rode on and night came down with dreams. She awoke in Washington to new fairy lands and wonders. The endless going and coming of men, great piles that challenged heaven and homes crowded on homes till one could not believe that they were full of living things. They rolled by Baltimore and Philadelphia and she talked of everyday matters, of the sky which alone stood steadfast amid whirling change, of bits of empty earth that shook themselves here and there loose from their burden of men and lay naked in the cold shining sunlight. All the while the greater questions were beating and curling and building themselves back in her brain and above all she was wondering why no one had told her before of all this mighty world. Mrs. Vanderpool, to whom it seemed too familiar for comment, had said no word or if she had spoken, Zora's ears had not been tuned to understand and as they flew toward the towering ramparts of New York she set up big with the terror of a new thought. Suppose this world were full yet of things she did not know nor dream of, how could she find out? She must know. When finally they were settled in New York and sat high up on the Fifth Avenue front of the hotel, gradually the inarticulate questioning found words, albeit strange ones. It reminds me of the swamp. She said, Mrs. Vanderpool just returned from a shopping tour burst into laughter. It is, but I marvel at your penetration. I mean it is moving, always moving. The swamp seemed to me unearthly still. Yes, yes, cried Zora eagerly brushing back the rumpled hair and so did the city at first to me. Still? Yes, you see, I saw the buildings and forgot the men and the buildings were so tall and silent against heaven and then I came to see the people and suddenly I knew the city was like the swamp, always restless and changing. And more beautiful, suggested Mrs. Vanderpool, slipping her arms into her lounging robe. Oh no, not nearly so beautiful and yet more interesting than with a puzzled look. I wonder why? Perhaps it's because it's people and not things. It's people in the swamp, asserted Zora dreamily smoothing out the pillows of the couch. Little people, I call them. The difference is I think that there I know how the story will come out. Everything is changing, but I know how and why and from what and to what. Now here everything seems to be happening, but what is it that is happening? You must know what has happened to know what may happen, said Mrs. Vanderpool, but how can I know? I'll get you some books tomorrow. I'd like to know what it means, wistfully. It is meaningless. The woman's cynicism was lost upon Zora, of course, but it possessed the salutary effect of stimulating the girl's thoughts, encouraging her to discover for herself. I think not. So much must mean something. She protested, Zora gathered up the clothes and things and shaded the windows, glancing the wild down on the street. Everybody is going, going, she murmured. I wonder where, don't they ever get there? Phew, arrive, said Mrs. Vanderpool. Zora softly bent and passed her cool, soft hand over her forehead. Then why do they go? The zest of the search, perhaps. No, said Zora as she noiselessly left the room and closed the door. No, they are searching for something they have lost. Perhaps, they too are searching for the way. And the tears blinded her eyes. Mrs. Vanderpool lay in the quiet, darkened room with a puzzled smile on her lips. A month ago she had not dreamed that human interest in anybody would take so strong a hold upon her as her liking for Zora had done. She was a woman of unusual personal charm, but her own interest and affections were seldom stirred. Had she been compelled to earn a living she would have made a successful teacher or manipulator of men. As it was she viewed the human scene with detached and cynical interest. She had no children, few near relations, a husband who went his way and still was a gentleman. Essentially Mrs. Vanderpool was un-moral. She held a coat of her social set with sportsmen like honor but even beyond this she stooped to no intrigue because none interested her. She had all the elements of power save the motor for doing anything in particular. For the first time perhaps Zora gave her life a peculiar human interest. She did not love the girl, but she was intensely interested in her. Some of the interest was selfish for Zora was going to be a perfect mate. The girl's language came to be more and more like Mrs. Vanderpool's. Her dress and taste in adornment had been Mrs. Vanderpool's first care and had led to a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now and then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of Zora's mind. When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious and noted the girl's rapid development. I wonder what I shall make out of her, queried Mrs. Vanderpool. Do you know? I believe I could mold her into a lady if she were not black. Mary Cresswell laughed. With that hair? It has artistic possibilities. You should have seen my hairdresser's face when I told her to do it up. Her face and Zora's were a pantomime for the gods. Yet it was done. It lay in some great twisted cloud and in that black net gown of mine Zora was simply magnificent. Her form is perfect, her height is regal, her skin is satin, and my jewels found a resting place at last. Jewels you know dear were never meant for white folk. I was tempted to take her to the box at the opera and let New York break its imputed neck. She was shocked. But Mrs. Vanderpool, she protested, is it right? Is it fair? Why should you spoil this black girl and put impossible ideas into her head? You can make her a perfect maid, but she can never be much more in America. She is the perfect maid now. That's the miracle of it. She's that deft and quick and quiet and thoughtful. The hotel employees think her perfect. My friends rape, really. I'm the most blast of women, but do you know? I like the girl. I, well, I think of her future. It's wrong to treat her as you do. You make her an equal. Her room is one of the best and filled with books and bric-a-brac. She sometimes eats with you. Is your companion in fact? What of it? She loves to read and I guide her while she keeps me up on the latest stuff. She can talk much better than many of my friends and then she piques my curiosity. She's a sort of intellectual sauce that stirs my rapidly failing mental appetite. I think that as soon as I can make up my mind to spare her, I'll take her to France and marry her off in the colonies. Well, that's possible, but one doesn't easily give up good servants. By the way, I learned from Miss Smith that the boy, Les Alwyn, in whom Zora was so interested, is a clerk in the Treasury Department at Washington. Indeed! I'm going to Washington this winter. I'll look him over and see if he's worth Zora, which I greatly doubt. Mrs. Cresswell pursed her lips and changed the subject. Have you seen the Easterlies? The ladies left their cards. They are quite impossible. Mr. Easterly calls this afternoon. I can't imagine why, but he asked for an appointment. Will you go south with Mr. Cresswell? I'm glad to hear he's entering politics. No, I shall do some early house-hunting in Washington, said Mrs. Cresswell, rising as Mr. Easterly was announced. Mr. Easterly was not at home in Mrs. Vanderpool's presence. She spoke a language different from his, and she had shown a disconcerting way, in the few times when he had spoken with her, of letting the weight of the conversation rest on him. He felt very distinctly that Mrs. Vanderpool was not particularly desirous of his company nor that of his family. Nevertheless he needed Mrs. Vanderpool's influence just now, and he was willing to pay considerable for it. Once under obligation to him her services would be very valuable. He was glad to find Mrs. Cresswell there. Mrs. Cresswell showed that the Cresswells were still intimate and the Cresswells were bound to him and his interests by strong ties. He bowed as Mrs. Cresswell left, and then did not beat around the bush because, in this case, he did not know how. Mrs. Vanderpool, I need your aid! Mrs. Vanderpool smiled politely and murmured something. We are, you know, in the midst of a rather warm presidential campaign, continued Mr. Easterly. Yes, with polite interest. We are going to win easily, but our majority in Congress for certain matters will depend on the attitude of Southerners, and you usually spend the winters in Washington. If now you could drop a word here and there, but why should I? Asked Mrs. Vanderpool. Mrs. Vanderpool, to be frank, I know some excellent investments that your influence in this line would help. I take it you're not so rich, but that... Mrs. Vanderpool smiled faintly. Really, Mr. Easterly? I know little about such matters and care less. I have food and clothes. Why worry with more? Mr. Easterly half expected this, and he determined to deliver his last shot on the run. He arose with a disappointed air. Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool, I see how it is. You have plenty, and one can't expect your services or influence for nothing. It had occurred to me that your husband might like something political, but I presume not. Something political? Yes, you see, it's barely possible, for instance, that there will be a change in the French ambassadorship. The present ambassador is old and, well, I don't know, but as I say, it's possible. Of course, though, that may not appeal to you, and I can only beg your good offices and charity if you see your way to help us. Well, I must be going. What is... I thought the president appointed ambassadors? To be sure, but we appoint presidents, laughed Mr. Easterly. Good day. I shall hope to see you in Washington. Good day. Mrs. Vanderpool returned absently. After he had gone, she walked slowly to Zora's room and opened the door. For a long time she stood quietly looking in. Zora was curled in a chair with a book. She was in dreamland. In a world of books, build it thoughtfully for her by Mrs. Vanderpool, and before that by Miss Smith. Her work took but little of her time and left hours for reading and thinking. In that thought life, more and more her real living centered. Hour after hour, day after day, she lay buried, deaf and dumb to all else. Her heart cried. Up on the world's four corners of the way, and to it came the vision splendid. She gossiped with old Herodotus, across the earth to the black and blameless Ethiopians. She saw the sculptured glories of Phidias marbled amid the splendor of the swamp. She listened to Demosthenes and walked the Epian Way with Cornelia, while all New York streamed beneath her window. She saw the drunken Goths reel upon Rome, and heard the careless Negro's yodel as they galloped to Toomsville. Parish she knew. Wonderful, haunting Paris, the Paris of Clovis and St. Louis, of Louis the Great and Napoleon the Third, of Balzac and her own Dumas. She tasted the mud and comfort of thick old London, and the wild wept with Jeremiah and sang with Deborah, Samirimus and Attala. Mary of Scotland and Joan of Arc held her dark hands and theirs, and kings lifted up their sceptres. She walked on whorls and whorls of whorls, and heard there, in her little room, the tread of armies, the theons of victory, the breaking of hearts and the music of the spheres. Mrs. Vandipool watched her awhile. Sora! She presently broke into the girl's absorption. How would you like to be an ambassador to France? End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 The Education of Alwyn 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. Miss Caroline Nguyen of Washington had little faith in the world and its people, nor was this wholly her fault. The world had dealt cruelly with the young dreams and youthful ambitions of the girl, partly with its usual heartlessness, partly with that cynical and deadening reserve fund which it has today for its darker peoples. The girl had bitterly resented her experiences at first, she was brilliant and well-trained, she had a real talent for sculpture and had studied considerably. She was sprung from at least three generations of respectable mulattoes who had left a little competence which yielded her three or four hundred dollars a year. Furthermore, while not precisely pretty, she was good-looking and interesting, and she had acquired the marks and insignia of good breeding. Perhaps she wore her manners just a trifle consciously, perhaps she was a little morbid that she would fail of recognition as a lady. Before was this unnatural her brown skin invited a different assumption. Despite this almost unconscious mental aggressiveness, she was unusually presentable and always well-groomed and pleasant of speech, yet she found nearly all careers closed to her. At first it seemed accidental, the luck of life, then she attributed to her sex, but at last she was sure that, beyond chance and womanhood, it was the color line that was himming her in. Once convinced of this she let her imagination play and saw the line even where it did not exist. With her bit of property and brilliant parts she had had many suitors, but they had been refused one after another for reasons she could hardly have explained. For years now Tom Tierswell had been her escort. Whether or not Caroline Nguyen would ever marry him was a perennial subject of speculation among her friends, and it usually ended in the verdict that she could not afford it, that it was financially impossible. Nevertheless the two were usually seen in public together, and although she often showed her quiet mastery of the situation, seldom had she snubbed him so openly as at the Treble Clef concert. Tierswell was furious and began to plot vengeance, but Miss Nguyen was attracted by the personality of Bless Alwyn. Southern country Negroes were rare in her set, but here was a man of intelligence and keenness, coupled with an amazing frankness and modesty, and perceptibility shadowed by sorrow. The combination was, so far as she had observed, both rare and temporary, and she was disposed to watch it in this case purely as a matter of intellectual curiosity. At the door of her home, therefore, after a walk of unusual interest she said, I'm going to have a few friends in next Tuesday night, won't you come, Mr. Alwyn? And Mr. Alwyn said that he would. Next morning Miss Nguyen rather repented her hasty invitation, but of course nothing could be done now. Nothing? Well, there was one thing, and she went to the telephone. A suggestion to Bless that he might profitably extend his acquaintance sent him to a certain tailor shop kept by a friend of hers, a word to the tailor guarded against the least suspicion of intrigue entering Bless's head. It turned out quite as Miss Nguyen had designed. Mr. Gray, the tailor, gave Bless some points on dressing, and made him, southern fashion, a frock coat for dress-wear that set off his fine figure. On the night of the gathering at Miss Nguyen's Bless dressed with care, hesitating long over a neck-tie but at last choosing one which he had recently purchased and which pleased him particularly, he was prompt to the minute and was consequently the first guest, but Miss Nguyen's greeting was so quietly cordial that his embarrassment soon fled. She looked him over at leisure and sighed at his tie, otherwise he was thoroughly presentable according to the strictest Washington standard. They sat down and talked of generalities. Then an idea occurring to her she conducted the conversation by devious paths to ties, and asked Alwyn if he had heard of the fad of collecting ties. He had not, and she showed him a sofa pillow. Your tie quite attracted me, she said. It would make just the dash of color I need in my new pillow. You may have it, and welcome! I'll send! Oh, no! Her bird in the hand, you know. I'll trade you now for another I have. Done! The exchange was soon made. Miss Nguyen, tying the new one herself and sticking a small carved pin in it, Bless slowly sat down again and after a pause said, Thank you! She looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and good-natured. You see, he explained, in the country, we don't know much about ties. The well-balanced Miss Nguyen for a moment lost her plumb, but only for a moment. We must all learn, she replied with penetration, and so their friendship was established. The company now began to gather and soon the double parlor held an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. They formed a picturesque group, conventional but graceful in dress, animated in movement, full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-American in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones, chiefly noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color and skin which imparted to the throng a peaking and unusual interest. Every color was here, from the dark brown of Alwyn, who was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of Miss Jones, who could pass for white when she would, and found her greatest difficulties when she was trying to pass for black. Midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of the church, the creamy Miss Williams, the golden yellow of Mr. Tearswell, the golden brown of Miss Johnson, and the velvet brown of Mr. Gray. The guests themselves did not notice this. They were used to asking one's color as one asks of height and weight. It was simply an extra dimension in their world whereby to classify men. Beyond this and their hair there was little to distinguish them from a modern group of men and women. The speech was a softened English, purely and on the whole correctly spoken, so much so that it seemed at first almost unfamiliar to bless, and he experienced again the uncomfortable feeling of being among strangers. Then too he missed the loud but hearty good nature of what he had always called his people. To be sure, a more experienced observer might have noted a lively, excitable, tropical temperament set in cast in a cold northern mold, and yet flashing fire now and then in a sudden anomalous outbursting. But blessed missed this, he seemed to have slipped and lost his bearings, and the characteristics of his simple world were rolling curiously about. Here stood a black man with a white man's voice, and yonder a white woman with a negro's musical cadences, and yet again a brown girl with exactly Miss Cresswell's air, and yonder Miss Williams with Zora's wistful willfulness. Bless was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his heart with sickening, hopeless weight. His hands got in the way, and he found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully furnished rooms. Once he discovered himself standing by a marble statue of a nude woman, and he edged away, then he stumbled over a rug and saved himself only to step on Miss Jones' silken train. Miss Jones' smile of pardon was wintry. When he did approach a group and listened, they seemed speaking of things foreign to him. Usually, if people he did not know, their homes, their doings, their daughters, and their fathers, they seemed to know people intimately who lived far away. You mean the smiths of Boston, asked Miss Jones? No of Cleveland. They're not related. I heard that McGee of St. Paul will be in the city next week with his daughter. Yes, in the bedlies of Chicago. Bless passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to say, of mighty matters to discuss. He felt like stopping these people and crying, oh, what of the morning? How goes the great battle for black men's rights? I have came with messages from the host to you who guard the mountain tops. Apparently, they were not discussing or caring about the problem. He grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his hostess. Is all well with you, Mr. Alwyn? She asked lightly. No, I'm not enjoying myself, said Bless truthfully. Delicious. And why not? He regarded her earnestly. There are so many things to talk about, he said. Honest things, things of importance. I think when our people, he hesitated. Our was our right, but he went on. When our people meet, we ought to talk about our situation and what to do when Miss Wind continued to smile. We're all talking of it all the time, she said. He looked incredulous. Yes, we are, she insisted. We veil it a little and laugh as lightly as we can, but there is only one thought in this room. And that's grave and serious enough to suit even you and quite your daily topic. But I don't understand. Ah, there's the rub. You haven't learned our language yet. We don't just blurt into the negro problem. That's voted bad form. We'll leave that to our white friends. We saunter to its sideways. Touch it delicately, because her face became a little graver, because you see, it hurts. Blessed to a thoughtful and abashed, I think I understand. He gravely said at last, come here, she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed group in the midst of a conversation. Thinking of sending Jesse to Bryn Maw, bless heard Miss Jones saying, could she pass? Oh, they might think of Spanish, but it's a snobbish place, and she would have to give up all her friends. Yes, Freddie could scarcely visit. The rest was lost. Which, being interpreted, whispered Miss Wind means that Bryn Maw draws the color line while we at time surmounted. They moved on to another group. Splendid droughtsmen, a man was saying, and passed at the head of the crowd. But of course, he has no chance. Why, it's civil service, isn't it? It is, but what of that? There was Watson. Miss Wind did not pause. She whispered, this is the tale of civil service reform and how this mighty government gets rid of black men who know too much. But, blessed tried to protest, hush, Miss Wind commanded, and they joined the group about the piano. Tierswell, who was speaking, affected not to notice them and continued, I tell you, it's got to come. We must act independently and not be bought by a few offices. That's all well enough for you to talk, Tierswell. You have no wife and babies depended on you. Why should we who have sacrificed the substance for the shadow? You see, the judge has got the substance. Laptierswell, still I insist, divide and conquer. Nonsense, unite and keep. Bless was puzzled. They're talking of the coming campaign, said Miss Wind. What? exclaimed Bless aloud. You don't mean that anyone can advise a black man to vote the democratic ticket? An elderly man turned to them. Thank you, sir. He said, that is just my attitude. I fought for my freedom. I know what slavery is. May I forget God when I vote for traitors and slave holders? The discussion waxed warm and Miss Wind turned away and sought Miss Jones. Come, my dear, she said. It's the problem again. They sauntered away toward a ring of laughter. The discussion thus began and Miss Wind's did not end there. It was on the eve of the great party conventions and the next night, Sam Stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly of the inner circle into which Alwyn had been so unaccountably snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavours, Stillings lingered and seemed destined to linger. But Stillings was a patient resolute man beneath his deferential exterior and he saw in Bless a stepping stone. So he began to drop in at his lodgings and tonight invited him to the Bethel literary. Was that, asked Bless? A debating club, oldest in the city, the best people all attend. Bless hesitated. He had half made up his mind that this was the proper time to call on Miss Wind. He told Stillings so and told him also of the evening and the discussion. Why, ask the subject up tonight, Stillings declared, and Miss Wind will be sure to be there. You can make your call later. Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking me when you call. Alwyn reached for his hat. When they arrived, the basement of the great church was filling with a throng of men and women. Soon the officers and the speaker of the evening appeared. The president was a brown woman who spoke easily and well and introduced the main speaker. He was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced black man, clean shaven and well-dressed, a lawyer by profession. His theme was the Democratic Party and the Negro. His argument was cool, carefully reasoned and plausible. He was evidently feeling for the sympathy of his audience, and while they were not enthusiastic, they warmed him gradually, and he certainly was strongly impressing them. Bless was thinking. He sat in the back of the hall, tense, alert, nervous. As the speaker progressed, a white man came in and sat down beside him. He was spectacled with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look, but he did not sleep. He was very observant. Oh, speaking, he asked Bless and Bless told him. Then he inquired about one or two other persons. Bless could not inform him, but stillings could and did. Stillings seemed willing to devote considerable time to him. Bless forgot the man. He was almost crouching for a spring and no sooner had the speaker with a really fine apostrophe to independence and reason in voting sat down than Bless was on his feet, walking forward. His form was commanding, his voice deep and musical, and his earnestness terribly evident. He hardly waited for recognition from the slightly astonished president, but fairly burst into speech. Ah, I am from Alabama, he began earnestly. And I know the democratic party. Then he told a government and conditions in the black belt of the lying oppression and helplessness of the sodden black masses. Then, turning, he reminded them of the history of slavery, finally he pointed to Lincoln's picture and to Sumner's and mentioned other white friends. Am I brothers, they are not all dead yet. The gentleman spoke of Senator Smith and blamed and ridiculed him. I know Senator Smith, but slightly, but I do know his sister well. Dropping to simple narrative, he told of Miss Smith and of his coming to school and of his audience felt that great death of emotion had welled beneath his quiet, almost hesitating address. It was not simply because of what he did say, but because too of the unspoken story that lay too deep for words. He spoke for nearly an hour and when he stopped, for a moment his hearer sighed and then sprang into a whirlwind of applause. They shouted, clapped and waved while he sat in blank amazement and was with difficulty forced to the rostrum to bow again and again. A spectacled white man leaned over to Stillings. Who is he? he asked. Stillings told him. The man noted the name and went quietly out. Miss Wynne sat lost in thought and tears well beside her fumed. She was not easily moved, but that speech had moved her. If he could thus stir men and not be himself swayed, she mused, he would be invincible. But tonight he was moved as greatly as his hearers had been and that was dangerous. If his intense belief happened to be popular, all right. But if not, she frowned. He was worth watching, she concluded, quite worth watching and perhaps worth guiding. When Alwynne accompanied her home that night, Miss Wynne set herself to know him better for she suspected that he might be a coming man. The best preliminary to her purpose was she knew to speak frankly of herself and that she did. She told him of her youth and training, her ambitions, her disappointments, quite unconsciously her cynicism crept to the fore until in word and tone she had almost scoffed at many things that Alwynne held true and dear. The touch was too light, the meaning too illusive for Alwynne to grasp always the point of attack, but somehow he got the distant impression that Miss Wynne had little faith in truth and goodness and love. Vaguely shocked, he grew so silent that she noticed it and concluded she had said too much, but he pursued the subject. Surely there must be many friends of our race willing to stand for the right and sacrifice for it. She laughed unpleasantly, almost mockingly. Where? Well, there's Miss Smith. She gets a salary, doesn't she? A very small one, about as large as she could earn. North, I don't doubt. But the unselfish work she does, the utter sacrifice. Oh well, we'll omit Alabama and admit the exception. Well, here in Washington, there's your friend, the judge, who has befriended you so, as you admit she laughed again. You remember our visit to Senator Smith? Yes. Well, it got the judge his reappointment to the school board. He deserved it, didn't he? I deserved it, she said luxuriously, hugging her knee and smiling. You see, his appointment meant mine. Well, what of it? Didn't listen, she cut in a little sharply. Once a young brown girl with boundless faith and white folks went to a judge's office to ask for an appointment, which she deserved. There was no one there. The benign old judge with his saintly face and white hair suggested she lay aside her wraps and spin the afternoon. Bless arose to his feet. What? What did you do? He asked. Sit down. There's a good boy. I said, Judge, a friend is expecting me at two. It was then half past one. Would I not best telephone? Step right into the booth, said the judge quite indulgently. Miss Wynne leaned back and bless felt his heart sinking. But he said nothing. And then she continued. I telephone the judge's wife that he was anxious to see her on a matter of urgent business, namely my appointment. She gazed reflectively out of the window. You should have seen his face when I told him, she concluded. I was appointed. But bless asked coldly. Why didn't you have him arrested? For what? And suppose I had. Bless threw out his arms helplessly. Oh, it isn't as bad as that all over the world, is it? It's worse, affirmed Miss Wynne, quietly positive. And you are still friendly with him? What would you have? I used the world. I did not make it. I did not choose it. He is the world. Through him I earned my bread and butter. I have shown him his place. Shall I try in addition to reform? Shall I make him an enemy? I have neither time nor inclination. Shall I resign and beg or go tilting at windmills? If he were the only one, it would be different. But they're all alike. Her face grew hard. Have I shocked you? She said as they went toward the door. No, he answered slowly. But I still believe in the world. You are young yet, my friend, she lightly replied, and besides, that good Miss Smith has gone and grafted a New England conscience on a tropical heart. And dear me, but it's a gorgeous misfit. Goodbye. Come again. She bowed him graciously out and paused to take the mail from the box. There was, among many others, a letter from Senator Smith. End of CHAPTER XXIV 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. Mr. Easterly sat in Mrs. Vanderpool's apartments in the new Willard Washington drinking tea, as hostess was saying rather carelessly, Do you know Mr. Vanderpool has developed a quite unaccountable lacking for the idea of being ambassador to France? Dear me, mildly exclaimed Mr. Easterly, helping himself liberally to cakes. I do hope the thing can be managed, but what are the difficulties? Mrs. Vanderpool interrupted. Well, first and foremost, the difficulty of electing our man. I thought that a foregone conclusion. It was, but do you know that we're encountering opposition from the most unexpected sauce? The lady was receptive and the speaker concluded, The Negroes. The Negroes? Yes. There are 500,000 or more black voters in pivotal northern states, you know, and they're in revolt. In a close election, the Negroes of New York, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois choose the president. What's the matter? Well, business interests have driven our party to make friends with the South. The South has disenfranchised Negroes and lynched a few. The darkies say we've deserted them. Mrs. Vanderpool laughed. What extraordinary penetration! she cried. At any rate, said Mr. Easterly dryly, Mr. Vanderpool's first steps out of Paris lies in getting the northern Negroes to vote the Republican ticket. After that the way is clear. Mrs. Vanderpool mused. I don't suppose you know anyone who was acquainted with any number of these northern darkies, continued Mr. Easterly. Not on my calling list, said Mrs. Vanderpool, and then she added more thoughtfully. There's a young clerk in the Treasury Department named Alwyn who has brains. He's just from the South and I happened to read of him this morning. Mr. Easterly read an account of the speech at the Bethel Literary. We'll look this young man up, he decided. He may help. Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool will probably win. We can buy these Negroes off with a little money and a few small offices, then if you'll use your influence for the part of the Southerners, I can confidently predict from four to eight years' soldiering in Paris. Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and called her maid as Mr. Easterly went. Zora! She had to call twice for Zora with widened eyes was reading the Washington Post. Meantime in the office of Senator Smith, toward which Mr. Easterly was making his way, several members of the National Republican Campaign Committee had been closeted the day before. Now about the niggers, the chairman had asked, how much more bootle do they want? That's what's bothering us, announced a member. It isn't the bootle crowd that's hollering, but a new set, and I don't understand them. I don't know what they represent, nor just how influential they are. What can I do to help you? asked Senator Smith. This. You are here in Washington with these Negro office holders at your back. Find out for us just what this revolt is, how far it goes, and what good men we can get to swing the doggies into line, see? Very good. The Senator acquiesced. He called in a spectacled man with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look. I want you to work the Negro political situation, directed the Senator, and bring me all the data you can get. Personally, I'm at sea. I don't understand the Negro of today at all. He puzzles me. He doesn't fit any of my categories, and I suspect that I don't fit his. See what you can find out. The man went out and the Senator turned to his desk, then paused and smiled. One day, not long since, he had met a colored person who personified his perplexity concerning Negroes. She was a lady, yet she was black. That is, brown. She was educated, even cultured, yet she taught Negroes. She was quiet, astute, quick, and diplomatic. Everything in fact that Negroes were not supposed to be, and yet she was a Negro. She had given him valuable information which he had sought in vain elsewhere, and the event proved it correct. Because he asked Caroline Nguyen to help him in this case, it would certainly do no harm and it might elect a Republican President. He wrote a short letter with his own hand and sent it to post. Miss Nguyen read the letter after Alwyn's departure with a distinct thrill which was something of a luxury for her. Evidently she was coming to her kingdom. The Republican boss was turning to her for confidential information. What do the colored people want, and who can best influence them in this campaign? She curled up on the ottoman and considered. The first part of the query did not bother her. Whatever they want, they won't get, she said decisively. But as to the man or men who could influence them to believe that they were getting or about to get what they wanted, there was a question. One by one she considered the men she knew and, by a process of elimination, finally arrived at Bless Alwyn. Why not take this young man in hand and make a negro leader of him, a protagonist of ten millions? It would not be unpleasant. But could she do it? Would he be amenable to her training and become worldly wise? She flattered herself that he would. And yet there was a certain steadfast look in the depths of his eyes that might prove to be sheer stubbornness. At any rate, who was better? There was a fellow, Stillings, whom Alwyn had introduced and whom she had heard of. Now he was a politician, but nothing else. She dismissed him. Of course there was the older set of office-holders and rounders, but she was determined to pick a new man. He was worth trying at any rate. She knew none other with the same build, the brains, the gifts, the adorable youth. Very good. She wrote two letters and then curled up to her novel in candy. Next day Senator Smith held Miss Wynn's letter unopened in his hand when Mr. Easterly entered. They talked of the campaign in various matters until at last Easterly said, Say, there's a negro clerk at the treasury named Alwyn. I know him. I had him appointed. Good! He may help us. Have you seen this? The senator read the clipping. I hadn't noticed it, but here's my agent. The spectacled man entered with a mass of documents. He had papers, posters, programs, and letters. The situation is this, he said. A small group of educated negroes are trying to induce the rest to punish the Republican party for not protecting them. These men are not politicians nor popular leaders, but they have influence and are using it. The old-style negro politicians are no match for them, and the crowd of office-holders are rather bewildered. Long measures are needed. Educated men of earnestness and ability might stem the tide. And I believe I know one such man. He spoke at a big meeting last night at the Metropolitan Church. His name is Alwyn. Senator Smith listened as he opened the letter from Caroline Wynn. Then he started. Well! He ejaculated, looking quickly up at Easterly. This is positively uncanny. From three separate sources the name of Alwyn pops up. Looks like a mascot. Call up the Treasury. Let's have him up when the subcommittee meets tomorrow. Bless Alwyn hurried up to Senator Smith's office hoping to hear something about the school, perhaps even about, but he stopped with a sigh and sat down in the anti-room. He was kept waiting for a few moments while Senator Smith, the chairman and one other member of the subcommittee, had a word. Now I don't know the young man, mind you, said the Senator, but he strongly recommended. What shall we offer him? Asked the chairman. Try him at twenty-five dollars a speech. If he balks, raised to fifty dollars, but no more. They summoned the young man. The chairman produced cigars. I don't smoke, said bless apologetically. Well, we haven't anything to drink, said the chairman, but Senator Smith broke in, taking up at once the paramount interest. Mr. Alwyn, as you know, the Democrats are making an effort to get the Negro vote in this campaign. Now I know the disadvantages and wrongs which black men in this land are suffering. I believe the Republicans ought to do more to defend them, and I'm satisfied they will, but I doubt if the way to get Negro rights is to vote for those who took them away. I agree with you perfectly, said bless. I understand you do, and that you made an unusually fine speech on the subject the other night. Thank you, sir. This was a good deal more than bless had expected, and he was embarrassed. Well, now we think you're just the man to take the stump during September and October and convince the collared people of their real interests. I doubt if I could, sir, I'm not a speaker. In fact, that was my first public speech. So much the better. Are you willing to try? Why, yes, sir. But I could hardly afford to give up my position. We'll arrange for a leave of absence. Then I'll try, sir. What would you expect us pay? I suppose my salary would stop? I mean, in addition to that. Oh, nothing, sir. I'd be glad to do the work. The chairman nearly choked. Sitting back, he eyed the young man. Either they were dealing with a fool or else a very astute politician. If the former, how far could they trust him? If the latter, what was his game? Of course, they'll be considerable traveling, the chairman ventured, looking reflectively out of the window. Yes, sir, I suppose so. We might pay the railroad fare. Thank you, sir. When shall I begin? The chairman consulted his calendar. Suppose you hold yourself in readiness for one week from today. All right, and bless Rose. Good day, gentlemen. But the chairman was still puzzled. Now, what's his game? He asked helplessly. He may be honest, offered Senator Smith, contemplating the door almost wistfully. The campaign progressed. The National Republican Committee said little about the Negro revolt and affected to ignore it. The papers were silent. Underneath this calm, however, the activity was redoubled. The prominent Negroes were carefully catalogued, ridden to and put under personal influence. The Negro papers were quietly subsidized, and they began to ridicule and reproach the new leaders. As the fall progressed, mass meetings were held in Washington and the small towns. Larger and larger ones were projected, and more and more all one was pushed to the front. He was developing into a most effective speaker. He had the voice, the presence, the ideas, and above all, he was intensely in earnest. There were other colored orators with voice, presence, and eloquence, but their people knew their record and discounted them. Allwin was new, clear, and sincere, and the black folk hung on his words. Large and larger crowds greeted him until he was the central figure in a half dozen great Negro mass meetings in the chief cities of the country, culminating in New York the night before the election. Perhaps the secret newspaper work, the personal advice of employers and friends, and the liberal distribution of cash would have delivered a large part of the Negro vote to the Republican candidate, perhaps. But there was a doubt, with the work of Allwin, however, all doubt disappeared, and there was little reason for denying that the new president walked into the White House through the instrumentality of an unknown Georgia Negro little past his majority. This is what Senator Smith said to Mr. Easterly, what Miss Wynne said to herself, and it was what Mrs. Vanderpool remarked to Zora, as Zora was combing her hair on the Wednesday after the election. Zora murmured an indistinct response, as already something of the beauty of the world had found question and answer in her soul, and as she began to realize how the world had waxed old in thought and stature, so now in their last days a sense of the power of men, as set over against the immensity and force of their surroundings, became real to her. She had begun to read of the lives and doing of those called great, and in her mind a plan was forming. She saw herself standing dim within the shadows, directing the growing power of a man, a man who would be great as the world counted greatness, rich, high in position, powerful, wonderful, because his face was black. He would never see her, never know how she worked and planned, save perhaps at last in that supreme moment as she passed, her soul would cry to his, redeemed, and he would understand. All this she was thinking and weaving, not clearly and definitely, but in great blurred clouds of thought, of things, as she said slowly, he should have a great position for this. Why, certainly, Mrs. Vanderpool agreed, and then curiously, What? Zora considered. Negroes, she said, have been registers of the treasury, and recalled us of deeds here in Washington, and Douglas was marshal, but I won't bless. She paused and started again. Those are not great enough for Mr. Alwyn. He should have an office so important that Negroes would not think of leaving their party again. Mrs. Vanderpool took pains to repeat Zora's words to Mr. Easterly. He considered the matter. In one sense is good advice, he admitted, but there's the South to reckon with. I'll thank it over and speak to the president. Oh yes, I'm going to mention France at the same time. Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and leaned back in her carriage. She noted with considerable interest the young colored woman who was watching her from the sidewalk, a brown, well appearing young woman of notable self-possession. Caroline Wynne scrutinized Mrs. Vanderpool because she had been speaking with Mr. Easterly, and Mr. Easterly was a figure of political importance. That very morning Mrs. Wynne had telegraphed, bless Alwynne. Alwynne arrived at Washington just as the morning papers heralded the sweeping Republican victory. All about. He met new deference and new friends. Strangers greeted him familiarly on the street. Sam Stillings became his shadow, and when he reported for work his chief and fellow clerks took unusual interest in him. Have you seen Senator Smith yet? Mrs. Wynne asked after a few words of congratulation. No, what for? What for? she answered. Go to him today. Don't fail. I shall be at home at eight tonight. It seemed to bless an exceedingly silly thing to do, calling on a busy man with no errand. But he went. He decided that he would just thank the senator for his interest and get out, or if the senator was busy he would merely send in his card. Evidently the senator was busy for his waiting room and was full. Bless handed the card to the secretary with a word of apology, but the secretary detained him. Uh, Mr. Alwynne, he said affably, glad to see you. The senator will want to see you, I know. Wait just a minute. And soon bless was shaking Senator Smith's hand. Well, Mr. Alwynne said the senator heartily. You delivered the goods. Thank you, sir. I tried to. Senator Smith thoughtfully looked him over and drew out the letters. Well, friends, Mr. Alwynne, he said, adjusting his glasses, have a rather high opinion of you. Here now is Stillings who helped on the campaign. He suggests an $1800 clerkship for you. The senator glanced up keenly and omitted to state what Stillings suggested for himself. Alwynne was visibly grateful as well as surprised. Ah, I hoped, he began hesitatingly, that perhaps I might get a promotion, but I had not thought of a first-class clerkship. Hmm, Senator Smith leaned back and twiddled his thumb, staring at Alwynne, until the hot blood darkened his cheeks. Then bless sat up and stared politely but steadily back. The senator's eyes dropped and he put out his hand for the second note. Now, your friend Miss Wynne, Alwynne started, is even more ambitious. He handed her letter to the young man and pointed out the words. Of course, Senator, bless read, we expect Mr. Alwynne to be the next register of the treasury. Bless looked up in amazement, but the senator reached for a third letter. The room was very still. At last he found it. This, he announced quietly, is from a man of great power and influence who has the ear of the new president. He smoothed out the letter, paused briefly, then read aloud. It has been suggested to me by, the senator did not read the name, if he had, Mrs. Vanderpool would have meant little to Alwynne. It has been suggested to me by Blank that the future allegiance of the Negro vote to the Republican Party might be ensured by giving to some prominent Negro a high political position, for instance, treasure of the United States. Three six thousand dollars, interpolated Senator Smith and that Alwynne would be a popular and safe appointment for that position. The senator did not read the concluding sentence which ran, think this over, we can't touch political conditions in the south, perhaps this sop will do. For a long time Alwynne sat motionless while the senator said nothing. Then the young man rose unsteadily, I don't think I quite grasp all this, he said as he shook hands. I'll think it over. And he went out. When Caroline Wynne heard of that extraordinary conversation her amazement knew no bounds, yet Alwynne ventured to voice doubts. I'm not fitted for either of those high offices, there are many others who deserve more, and I don't somehow like the idea of seeming to have worked hard in the campaign, simply for money or fortune. You see, I talked against that very thing. This Wynne's eyes widened, well what else? She began and then changed. Mr. Alwynne, the line between virtue and foolishness is dim and wavering, and I should hate to see you lost in that marshy borderland. By a streak of extraordinary luck you have gained political leadership of Negroes in America. Here's your chance to lead your people, and here you stand blinking and hesitating, be a man. Alwynne straightened up and felt his doubts going, the evening passed very pleasantly. I'm going to have a little dinner for you, said Miss Wynne finally, and Alwynne grew hot with pleasure. He turned to her suddenly and said, Why, I'm rather— Black. She expressed no surprise, but said reflectively, You are dark, and I've been given to understand that Miss Wynne and her set rather—well—prefer the lighter shades of colored folk. Miss Wynne laughed lightly. My parents did, she said simply, No dark men ever entered their house, they were simply copying the white world. Now I, as a matter of aesthetic beauty, prefer your brown velvet color to a jaundiced yellow or even an uncertain cream, but the world doesn't. The world? Yes, the world, and especially America. One may be Chinese, Spaniard, even Indian, anything white or dirty white in this land, and demand decent treatment, but to be negro or darkening toward it unmistakably means perpetual handicap and crucifixion. Why not then admit that you draw the color line? Because I don't. But the world does, I am not prejudiced as my parents were, and I am foresighted—indeed, it is a deep ethical query, is it not? How far one has the right to bear black children to the world, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, is it fair to the children? Yes, it is, he cried vehemently, the more to take up the fight, the sureer the victory, she laughed at his earnestness. You are refreshing, she said, Well, we'll die next Tuesday, and we'll have the cream of our world to meet you. He knew that this was a great triumph. It flattered his vanity. After all, he was entering this higher, dark world whose existence had peaked and puzzled him so long. He glanced at Miss Wynn beside him there in the dimly-lighted parlor. She looked so aloof and unapproachable, so handsome and so elegant. He thought how she would complete a house. Such a home as his perspective four or six thousand dollars a year could easily purchase. She saw him surveying her and she smiled at him. I find but one fault with you, she said. He stammered for a pretty speech, but did not find it before she continued. Yes, you are so delightfully primitive. You will not use the world as it is but insist on acting as if it were something else. I'm not sure I understand. Well there is the wife of my judge. She is a fact in my world. In yours she is a problem to be stated, straightened and solved. If she had come to you, as she did to me yesterday, with her theory that all Southern Negroes needed was to learn how to make good servants and lay brick, I should have shown her. Blessed try to interject, nothing of the sort. You would have tried to show her and would have failed miserably. She hasn't learned anything in twenty years. But surely you didn't join her in advocating that ten million people be menials. Oh no, I simply listened. Well, there's no harm in that. I believe in silence at times. Ah, but I did not listen like a log, but positively and eloquently, with a nod, a half-formed word, a comment begun, which she finished. Bless frowned. As a result, continued Miss Wynn, I have a check for five hundred dollars to finish our cooking school and buy a cast of Minerva for the assembly room. More than that, I have now a wealthy friend. She thinks me an unusually clever person who, by a process of thought, not unlike her own, has arrived at very similar conclusions. But, but, objected bless. If the time spent cajoling fools were used in convincing the honest and upright, think how much we would gain. Very little. The honest and upright are a sad minority. Most of these white folk, believe me, boy, she said caressingly, are fools and knaves. They don't want truth or progress. They want to keep niggers down. I don't believe it. They are scores, thousands, perhaps millions such, I admit. But the average American loves justice and right, and he is the one to whom I appeal with frankness and truth. Great heavens, don't you love to be frank and open? She narrowed her eyelids. Yeah, sometimes I do, once I was. But it's a luxury few of us negroes can afford. Then, too, I insist that it's jolly to fool them. Don't you hate the deception? She chuckled and put her head to one side. At first I did, but do you know now I believe I prefer it. He looked so horrified that she burst out laughing. He laughed, too. She was a puzzle to him. He kept thinking what a mistress of a mansion she would make. Why do you say these things? He asked suddenly, because I want you to do well here in Washington. General Philanthropy? No, special. Her eyes were bright with meaning. Then you care? For me? Yes. He bent forward and cast the die. Enough to marry me? She answered very calmly and certainly. Yes. He leaned toward her. And then between him and her lips a dark and shadowy face. Two great storm-swept eyes looked into his out of a world of infinite pain, and he dropped his head in hesitation and shame. And kissed her hand. Miss Wynne thought him delightfully bashful.