 CHAPTER XXVI Congressman Creswell The election of Harry Creswell to Congress was a very simple matter. The Colonel and his son drove to town and consulted the Judge. Together they summoned the Sheriff and the local member of the State Legislature. I think it's about time that we Creswells asked for a little of the political pie. The Colonel smilingly opened. Well, what do you want, asked the Judge. Harry wants to go to Congress. The Judge hesitated. We have promised that to Caldwell, he objected. It will be a little costly this year, too, suggested the Sheriff tentatively. About how much, asked the Colonel. At least five thousand, said the Legislator. The Colonel said nothing. He simply wrote a check and the matter was settled. In the fall Harry Creswell was declared elected. There were 472 votes cast, but the Sheriff added a cipher. He said it would look better. Early December found the Creswells domiciled in a small house in DuPont Circle, Washington. They had an automobile and four servants and the house was furnished luxuriously. Mary tailored Creswell, standing in her morning room and looking out on the flowers of the square, told herself that few people in the world had caused to be as happy as she. She was tastefully gowned in a way to set off her blonde beauty and her delicate rounded figure. She was surrounded with wealth. And above all, she was in that atmosphere of aristocracy for which she had always yearned. And already she was acquiring the poise of the head and a manner of directing the servants which showed her born to the purple. She had caused to be extremely happy, she told herself this morning. And yet she was puzzled to understand why she was not. Why was she restless and vaguely ill at ease so often these days? One matter indeed did worry her. But that would write itself in time, she was sure. She had always pictured herself as directing her husband's work. She did not plan the step and a demand to share. She knew from experience with her brother that a woman must prove her usefulness to a man before he will admit it. And even then he may be silent. She intended gradually and tactfully to relieve her husband of care connected with his public life, so that before he realized it she would be his guiding spirit and his inspiration. She had dreamed the details of doing this so long that it seemed already done, and she could imagine no obstacle to its realization. And yet she found herself today, no nearer her goal, than when first she married. Not because Mr. Cresswell did not share his work, but because apparently he had no work, no duties, no cares. At first in the dim glories of the honeymoon this seemed but part of his delicate courtesy toward her, and it pleased her, despite her thrifty New England nature. But now that they were settled in Washington the election over and Congress in session it really seemed time for work and life to begin in dead earnest, and New England merry was dreaming mighty dreams and golden futures. But Harry apparently was as content as ever with doing nothing. He rose at ten, dined at seven, and went to bed between midnight and sunrise. There were some committee meetings and much mail, but merry was admitted to knowledge of none of these. The obvious step of course would be to set him at work. But from this undertaking merry unconsciously recoiled. She had already recognized that while her tastes and her husbands were mostly alike, they were also strikingly different in many respects. They agreed in the daintiness of things, the elegance of detail, but they did not agree always as to the things themselves. Given the picture they would choose the same frame, but they would not choose the same picture. They liked the same voice, but not the same song, the same company, but not the same conversation. Of course, merry reflected, frowning at the flowers. Of course, this must always be so when two human beings are thrown into new and intimate association. In time they would grow to sweet communion. Only she hoped the communion would be on tastes nearer hers than those he sometimes manifested. She turned impatiently from the window with a feeling of loneliness, but why lonely? She idly fingered a new book on the table and then put it down sharply. There had been several attempts at reading aloud between them some evenings ago, and this book reminded her of them. She had bought Jane Adams, newer ideals of peace, and he had yawned over it, undisguisedly. Then he had brought this novel, and, well, she had balked at the second chapter, and he had kissed her and called her his little prude. She did not want to be a prude. She hated to seem so, and had, for some time, prided herself on emancipation from narrow New England prejudices. For example, she had not objected to whine at dinner. But it seemed indeed rather fine. Imparting as it did, an old-fashioned flavor. But she did not like the whisky, and hairy at times, appeared to become just a bit too lively, nothing excessive, of course, but his eyes and the smell and the color were a little too suggestive. And yet he was so kind and good, and when he came in at evenings he bent so gallantly for his kiss and laid fresh flowers before her. Could anything have been more thoughtful and knightly? Just here again she was puzzled with her folk. Hard work and inflexible duty were of prime importance. They were the rock foundation, and she somehow always counted on the courtesies of life as added to them, making them sweet and beautiful. But in this world, not perhaps so much with hairy as with others of his set, the depths beneath the gravely inclined head, the deferential smile and ceremonious action, the light, clever converse, had sound it strangely hallow once or twice when she had essayed to sound them, and a certain fear to look and see possessed her. The bell rang, and she was a little startled, at the fright that struck her heart. She did not analyze it. In reality, pride forbade her to admit she feared it was a call of some of Harry's friends, some languid assured southern ladies perilously gowned, with veiled disdained for this interloping northerner and her strong mind. Especially there was one from New Orleans, tall and dark. But it was no caller. It was simply someone named Stillings to see Mr. Cresswell. She went down to see him. He might be a constituent, and found a smirky brown man, very apologetic. You don't know me, does you, Miss Cresswell? said Stillings. He knew when it was diplomatic to forget his grammar and assume his dialect. Why, no. You remember, I worked for Mr. Harry, and served you all lunch one day. Oh yes, why yes, I remember now very well. Well, I once to see Mr. Harry very much. Did I wait in the back hall? Mary started to have him wait in the front hall, but she thought better of it, and had him shown back. Less than an hour later her husband entered and she went quickly to him. He looked worn and white and tired, but he laughed her concern lightly off. I'll be in earlier tonight, he declared. Is the Congressional business very heavy? He laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he observed. Oh no, he answered deftly not very. And as they moved toward the dining-room, Mary changed the subject. Oh, she explained, suddenly remembering. There is a man, a colored man, waiting to see you in the back hall. But I guess he can wait until after lunch. They ate leisurely. There's going to be racing out at the park this evening, said Harry. Want to go? I was going to hear an art lecture at the club Mary returned and grew thoughtful. For here walked her ghost again. Of course the club was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort. But today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of European reputation was going to lecture, and Mary preferred it to the company of the racetrack, and just as certainly her husband didn't. Don't forget the man, dear, she reminded him. But he was buried in his paper frowning. Look at that, he said finally. She glanced at the headlines. Prominent Negro politician candidate for high office at hands of new administration. B. Alwin of Alabama. Why, at bless, she said her face lightening as his darkened. An impudent Negro, he voiced with disgust. If they must appoint darkies, why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger, stillings? Stillings, she repeated. Why, he's the man that's waiting. The man is it. Used to be one of our servants, you remember. Once to borrow money, I presume. He went downstairs, after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs. Cresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. Cresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine. As an indulgence, a loved one, a regular one, but somehow, not as a reality and prose of life, unless. She started at the thought. His life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy. Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings hastened the way, he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon wing as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole southern delegation in his schemes. That night, Cresswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where, over hot whiskey and water, they talked. That damned southern upstart growled Cresswell, forgetting Stillings' birthplace. Do you mean to say he's actually slated for the place? He's sure of it unless something turns up. Well, who would have dreamed that Cresswell mixed another stiff dram? And that isn't all, came Sam Stillings' unctuous voice. Cresswell glanced at him. What else he asked, pausing, with a steaming drink poised aloft. If I'm not mistaken, Alwin intends to marry Miss Wynne. You lie, the other, suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning his tumbler and striding across the floor. Do you suppose she'd look at that black? Well, see here, said the astute Stillings, checking the details upon his fingers. They visit Senator Smith's together. He takes her home, from the treble clef. They say he talked to nobody else at her party. She recommends him for the campaign. What? Cresswell again exploded? But Stillings continued smoothly. Oh, I have ways of finding things out. She corresponds with him during the campaign. She asks Smith to make him register. And he calls on her every night. Cresswell sat down, limply. I see he groaned. It's all up. She's jilted me, and I, and I. I don't see, as it's all up yet, Stillings tried to reassure him. But didn't you say they were engaged? I think they are. But, well, you know Carrie Wynne better than I do. Suppose now, suppose he should lose the appointment. But you say that, sure. Unless something turns up. But what can turn up? We might turn up something. What? What? I tell you, man, I'd do anything to down that nigger. I hate him. If you'll help me, I'll do anything for you. Stillings arose, and carefully opening the hall door, peered out. Then he came back, and sitting himself close to Cresswell, pushed aside the whisky. Cresswell, he whispered, You know I was working to be register of the Treasury. Well now, when the scheme of making Alwyn Treasurer came up, they determined to appoint a Southern White Republican and give me a place under Alwyn. Now, if Alwyn fails to land, I've got no chance for the bigger place. But I've got a good chance to be register, according to the first plan. I help them in the campaign. I've got the Negro secret societies backing me, and I don't mind telling you the solid Southern Congressional delegation. I'm trying now, ostensibly, for a chief clerkship under bless, and I'm pretty sure of it. It pays $2,500. See here. If we can make bless do some full talking, and get it into the papers, he'll be ditched, and I'll be register. Great, shouted Treaswell. Wait, wait. Now, if I get the job, how would you like to be my assistant? Like it? Why, great Jehoshaphat, I'd marry Kerry. But how can I help you? This way. I want to be better known among influential Negroes. You introduce me, and let me make myself solid. Especially, I must get in Miss Wynn's set, so both of us can watch her and Al Wynn, and make her friends ours. I'll do it, shake, and Stillings put his oily hand in the Treaswell's nervous grip. Now here, Stillings went on, you stow all that jealousy and heavy tragedy. Treat Al Wynn well, and call on Miss Wynn as usual, see? It's a hard pill, but all right. Leave the rest to me. I'm hand in glove with Al Wynn. I'll put stuff into him that'll make him wave the bloody shirt at the next meeting of the Bethel Literary, see? Then I'll go to Treaswell and say, dangerous nigger, just as I told you. He'll begin to move things. You see, Treaswell is in with Smith. Both directors in the big cotton combine, and Smith will call Al Wynn down. Then we'll think further. Stillings, you look like a fool, but you're a genius. In tears well, fairly hug them. A few more details settled, and some more whiskey consumed, and tears well went home at midnight in high spirits. Stillings looked into the glass and scowled. Look like a fool, do I, he mused? Well, I ain't. Congressman Cresswell was stirred to his first political activity by the hint given him through Stillings. He not only had a strong personal dislike for Al Wynn, but he regarded the promise to him of high office as a menace to the south. The second speech which Al Wynn made at the Bethel Literary was, as Stillings foresaw, a reply to the stinging criticisms of certain colored papers engineered by Treaswell, who said that Al Wynn had been bribed to remain loyal to the Republicans by a six thousand dollar office. Al Wynn had been cut to the quick, and his reply was a straight out defense of Negro rights and a call to the Republican Party to redeem its pledges. Caroline Wynn, seeing the rocks for which her political craft was headed, adroitly steered several newspaper reports into the wastebasket. But Stillings saw to it that a circumstantial account was in the colored American, and that a copy of this paper was in Congressman Cresswell's hands. Cresswell lost no time in calling on Senator Smith and pointing out to him that Bliss Al Wynn was a dangerous Negro, seeking social equality, hating white people, and scheming to make trouble. He was too young and heady. It would be fatal to give such a man office and influence, fatal for the development of the south and bad for the cotton combine. Senator Smith was unconvinced. Al Wynn struck him as a well-balanced fellow. He thought he deserved the office. He would, however, warn him to make no further speeches, like that of last night. Cresswell mentioned Stillings as a good, inoffensive Negro who knew his place and could be kept track of. "'Stillings is a good man,' admitted Smith, "'but Al Wynn is better. However, I'll bear what you say in mind.'" Cresswell found Mr. Easterly in Mrs. Vanderpool's parlor, and that gentleman was annoyed at the news. I especially picked out this Al Wynn because he was southern and tractable and seemed to have sense enough to know how to say well what we wanted to say. Well, as a matter of fact, drawed Mrs. Vanderpool, he was simply honest. The south won't stand it, Cresswell decisively affirmed. "'Well, began, Mr. Easterly.'" "'See here,' interrupted Mrs. Vanderpool. "'I'm interested in Al Wynn. In fact, an honest man in politics, even if he is black, picks my curiosity. Give him a chance, and I'll warrant he'll develop all the desirable traits of a first-class office-holder.'" Mr. Easterly hesitated. We must not offend the south, and we must placate the negroes, he said. The right sort of negro, one like Stillings, appointed to a reasonable position, would do both, opined Cresswell. "'It evidently didn't,' Mrs. Vanderpool interjected. "'Cresswell arose. I tell you, Mr. Easterly, I object. It mustn't go through. He took his leave.'" Mrs. Vanderpool did not readily give up her plea for Al Wynn, and bade Zora get Mr. Smith on the telephone for discussion. "'Well,' reported Easterly, hanging up the receiver, we may land him. It seems that he is engaged to a Washington schoolteacher, and Smith says she has him well in hand. She's a pretty shrewd proposition, and understands that Al Wynn's only chance now lies in keeping his mouth shut. We may land him,' he repeated. Engaged, gasped Mrs. Vanderpool, Zora quietly closed the door. End of Chapter 26 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Rio Medina, Texas. Chapter 27 of the Quest of the Silver Fleece This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose. Chapter 27. The Vision of Zora How Zora found the little church she never knew, but somehow, in the long, dark wanderings which she had fallen into the habit of taking at nightfall, she stood one evening before it. It looked warm, and she was cold. It was full of her people, and she was very, very lonely. She sat in a back seat, and saw with unseen eye. She said again, as she had said to herself a hundred times, that it was all right, and just what she had expected. What else could she have dreamed? That he should ever marry her was beyond possibility. She had been settled long since. There, where the tall, dark pines, wane, with the shades of evening, cast their haunting shadows across the Silver Fleece, and half hid the bloodwashed west. After that, he would marry someone else, of course, some good and pure woman, who would help and uplift and serve him. She had dreamed that she would help, unknown, unseen, and perhaps she had helped a little through Mrs. Vanderpool. It was all right, and yet, why so suddenly, had the threads of life let go? Why was she drifting in vast waters, in uncharted wastes of sea? Why was the puzzle of life suddenly so intricate, when but a little week ago she was reading it, and its beauty and wisdom and power were thrilling her delighted hands? Could it be possible that all unconsciously she had dared dream a forbidden dream? No, she had always rejected it. When no one else had the right, when no one thought, when no one cared, she had hovered over his soul as some dark guardian angel. But now, now, somebody else was receiving his gratitude. It was all right, she supposed, but she, the outcast child of the swamp, what was there for her to do, in the great world? Her, the burden of whose sin? But then came the voice of the preacher. Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world. She found herself all at once, intently listening. She had been to church many times before. But under the sermons and ceremonies she had always sat coldly inert. In the south the cries, contortions, and religious frenzy, left her mind untouched. She did not laugh or mock. She simply sat and watched and wondered. At the north in the white churches she enjoyed the beauty of wall, windows, and hymn, like the voices and surplus of the preacher. But his words had no reference to anything in which she was interested. Here suddenly came an earnest voice addressed by singular chance to her of all the world. She listened, bending forward. Her eyes glued to the speaker's lips and letting no word drop. He had the build and look of the fanatic, thin to emancipation, brown, brilliant eyed. His words snapped in nervous energy and rang in awful earnestness. Life is sin and sin is sorrow. Sorrow is born of selfishness and self-seeking. Our own good, our own happiness, our own glory, as if one of us were worth a life. No, never. A single self, as an end, is, and ought to be, disappointment. It is too low, it is nothing. Only in the whole world of selves, infinite, endless, eternal world on worlds of selves, only in their vast good is true salvation. The good of others is our true good. Work for others, not for your salvation, but the salvation of the world. The audience gave a low uneasy groan, and the minister, in whose pulpit the stranger preached, stirred, uneasily. But he went on tensely, with flying words. Unselfishness is sacrifice. Jesus was supreme sacrifice. Amen, screamed the voice. In your dark lives he cried, Who is the king of glory? Sacrifice, lift up your heads, then. He gates of prejudice and hate, and let the kingdom of glory come in. Forget yourselves and your petty wants, and behold your starving people. The wail of black millions sweeps the air. East and west they cry, Help, help! Are you dumb, are you blind? Do you dance and laugh, and hear, and see not? The cry of death is in the air. They murder, burn, and maim us. Oh, oh, moan the people swaying in their seats. When we cry they mock us, they ruin our women, and debouch our children. What shall we do? Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away sin. Behold the supreme sacrifice that makes us clean. Give up your pleasures, give up your wants. Give up all to the weak and wretched of our people. Go down the pharaoh and smite him in God's name. Go down to the south, where we writhe, strive, work, Hue, lead, inspire. God calls, will you hear? Come to Jesus, the harvest is waiting. Who will cry? Here am I, send me. Zora rose and walked up the aisle. She knelt before the altar and answered the call. Here am I, send me. And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars. Around her hummed the same horse city. But within her soul sang some new song of peace. What is the matter, Zora, Mrs. Vanderpool, inquired? For she seemed to see in the girl's face and carriage some subtle change, something that seemed to tell how, out of the dream, had stepped the dreamer into the realness of things, how suddenly the seeker saw, how, to the wanderer, the way was opened. Just how she sensed this, Mrs. Vanderpool, could not have explained, nor could Zora. Was there a change? Sudden? Cataclysmic? No. There were to come in future days, all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless cry. It is all right, all right. But more and more, above the doubt and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became possible, and through it all things were possible. Thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed worshipers, the angel of resurrection rolled away the stone. What is the matter, Zora? Mrs. Vanderpool repeated. Zora looked up almost happily, standing poised on her feet as if to tell of strength and purpose. I have found the way, she cried joyously. Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long, searching look. Where have you been, she asked. I have been waiting. I'm sorry, but I've been converted, and she told her story. Shaa! Zora, Mrs. Vanderpool, uttered impatiently. He's a faker. Maybe, said Zora, serenely and quietly, but he brought the word. Zora, don't talk, can't. It isn't worthy of your intelligence. It was more than intelligent, it was true. Zora, listen, child, you were wrought up to-night, nervous, wild. You were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul. But Zora merely smiled. All you say may be true, but what does it matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible. Whereas I was blind, now I see. Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. And what shall you do, she asked. I'm going back south to work for my people. When? The old care-worn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool's features. Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other woman's neck. Not right off, she said gently. Not until I learned more. I hate to leave you, but it calls. Mrs. Vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily. You see, Zora, the more you know, the more you can do. Yes. And if you are determined, I will see that you are taught. You must know settlement work and reform movements. Not simply here, but she hesitated in England, in France. Will it take long? Zora asked, smoothing the lady's hair. Mrs. Vanderpool considered. No, five years is not long. It is all too short. Five years? It is very long. But there is a great deal to learn. Must I study five years? Mrs. Vanderpool threw back her head. Zora, I am selfish, I know. But five years, truly, is not too long. Then to Zora, we have work to do in that time. What? There is Owens' career, and Mrs. Vanderpool looked into Zora's eyes. The girl did not shrink, but she paused. Yes, she said slowly, we must help him. And after he rises, he will marry. Whom, the woman he loves, returns Zora quietly? Yes, that is best, sighed Mrs. Vanderpool. But how shall we help him? Make him treasurer of the United States without sacrificing his manhood, or betraying his people. I can do that, said Mrs. Vanderpool, slowly. It will cost something, said Zora. I will do it, was the lady's firm assurance. Zora kissed her. The next afternoon Mrs. Cresswell went down to a white social settlement, of which Congressman Todd had spoken, where a meeting of the Civic Club was to be held. She had come painfully to realize that if she was to have a career, she must make it for herself. The plain, unwelcome truth was that her husband had no great interests in life in which she could find permanent pleasure. Companionship and love there was, and she told herself always would be, but in some respects their lives must flow in two streams. Last night for the second time she had irritated him. He had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must brood or work today, and so she hunted work eagerly. She felt the atmosphere the moment she entered. There were carelessly gowned women and men, smart and shabby, but none of them were thinking of clothes, or even of one another. They had great deeds in mind. They were scanning the earth. They were toiling for men. The same grim excitement that sends smaller souls hunting for birds and rabbits and lions, had sent them hunting the enemies of mankind. And they were bent to the chase, senting the game, knowing the infinite meaning of their hunt and the glory of victory. Mary Quaswell had listened but a half hour before her world seemed so small and sore and narrow and so trivial that a sense of shame spread over her. These people were not only earnest but expert. They acknowledged the need of Mr. Todd's educational bill. But the Republicans are going to sidetrack it. I have that on the best authority, said one. True, but can't we force them to it? Only by political power, and they've just won a campaign. They won it by Negro votes, and the Negro, who secured the votes, is eager for this bill. He's a fine, honest fellow. Very well work with him, and when we can be of real service, let us know. Meantime, this child labor bill is different. It's bound the pass. Both parties are back of it, and public opinion is aroused. Now our work is to force amendments enough to make the bill effective. Discussion followed, not flamboyant and declamatory, but tense staccato pointed. Mrs. Quaswell found herself taking part. Someone mentioned her name, and one or two glances of interest and even curiosity were thrown her way. Congressmen's wives were rare at the Civic Club. Congressman Todd urged Mrs. Quaswell to stay after the discussion and attend the meeting of the managers and workers of the Washington Social Settlements. Have you many settlements, she inquired? Three in all, two white and one colored. And will they all be represented? Yes, of course, Mrs. Quaswell. If you object to meeting the colored people. Mrs. Quaswell blushed. No, indeed, she answered. I used to teach colored people. She watched this new group gather, a businessman, two fashionable ladies, three college girls, a gray-haired colored woman, and a young, spectacled brown man. And then, to her surprise, Mrs. Vanderpool and Zora. Zora was scarcely seated when that strange sixth sense of hers told her that something had happened, and it needed but a side glance for Mrs. Vanderpool to indicate what it was. She sat with folded hands and the old, dreamy look in her eyes. In one moment she lived it all again, the red cabin, the moving oak, the sewing of the fleece, and its fearful reaping. And now, when she turned her head, she would see the woman who was to marry bless Alwyn. She had often dreamed of her, and had set a high ideal. She wanted her to be handsome, well-dressed, earnest, and good. She felt a sort of personal proprietorship in her, and, when at last the quickened pulse died to its regular healthy beat, she turned and looked and knew. Caroline Wynne deemed it a part of the White World's education, to participate in meetings like this, doing so, was not pleasant, but it appealed to her cynicism and mocking sense of pleasure. She always roused hostility, and she entered. Her gown was too handsome, her gloves too spotless. Her air had hot her enough to be almost impudent in the opinion of most white people. Then gradually her intelligence, her cool wit and self-possession, would conquer, and she would go gracefully out, leaving a rather bewildered audience behind. She sat today with her dark gold profile towards Zora, and the girl looked and was glad. She was such a woman she would have blessed Mary. She was glad, and she choked back the sob had struggled and fought in her throat. The meeting never got beyond a certain constraint. The congressman made an excellent speech. There were various sets of figures read by the workers, and Miss Wynne added a touch of spice by several pertinent questions and comments. Then as the meeting broke up, and Mrs. Cresswell came forward to speak to Zora, Mrs. Vanderpool managed to find herself near Miss Wynne and to be introduced. They exchanged a few polite phrases, fencing delicately, to test the other's wrist and interest. They touched on the weather and settlement work, but Miss Wynne did not propose to be stranded on the Negro problem. I suppose the next bit of excitement will be in the inauguration, she said to Mrs. Vanderpool. I understand it will be unusually elaborate return, Mrs. Vanderpool, a little surprised at the turn. Then she added pleasantly, I think I shall see it through from speech to ball. Yes, I do usually, Miss Wynne asserted, adjusting her furs. Mrs. Vanderpool was further surprised. Did colour people attend the ball? We sorely need a national ballroom, she said. Isn't the census building wretched? I do not know, smiled Miss Wynne. Oh, I thought you said. I meant our ball. Oh! said Mrs. Vanderpool in turn. Oh! Here a thought came. Of course, the coloured people had their own ball. She remembered having heard about it. Why not send Zora? She plunged in. Miss Wynne, I have a maid, such an intelligent girl. I do wish she could attend your ball. See in her blunder she paused. Miss Wynne was coolly buttoning her gloves. Yes, she acknowledged politely. Few of us can afford maids, and therefore we do not usually arrange for them. But I think we can have your protégé look on from the gallery. Good afternoon. As Mrs. Vanderpool drove home, she related the talk to Zora. Zora was silent at first. Then she said deliberately. Miss Wynne was right. Why, Zora? Did Helen attend the ball four years ago? But Zora, must you folk ape our nonsense as well as our sense? You force us to, said Zora. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Richard Kilmer. The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 28 The Annunciation The new president had been inaugurated, beneath the creamy pile of the old capital, and facing the new library, he had stood aloft and looked down on a waving sea of faces, black-coated, jostling, eager-eyed fellow-creatures. They had watched his lips move, had scanned eagerly his dress, and the gowned and decorated dignitaries beside him. And then, with blaire of band and prancing of horses, he had been whirled down the dip and curve of that long avenue, with its medley of meanness and thrift and hurry and wealth, until, swinging sharply, the dim walls of the White House rose before him. He entered with a sigh. Then the vast welter of humanity dissolved and strained hither and thither, gapping and laughing until night, when thousands poured into the red barn of the senses shack and entered the artificial fairy land within. The president walked through, smiling. The senators protected their friends in the crush, and Harry Cresswell led his wife to a little oasis of southern ladies and gentlemen. This is democracy for you, said he, wiping his brow. From a whirling eddy, Mrs. Vanderpool waved at them, and they rescued her. I think I am ready to go, she gasped. Did you ever? Come, Cresswell invited, but just then the crowd pushed them apart and shot them along, and Mrs. Cresswell found herself clinging to her husband amid two great whirling, variegated throngs of driving white-faced people. The band crashed and blared, the people laughed and pushed, and, with rhythmic sound and swing, the mighty throng was dancing. It took much effort, but at last the Cresswell party escaped and rolled off in their carriages. They swept into the avenue and out again, then up 14th Street, where, turning for some street obstruction, they passed a throng of carriages on a cross street. It's the other ball, cried Mrs. Vanderpool, and amid laughter she added, Let's go. It was the other ball. For Washington is itself, and something else besides. Along, beside it ever runs that dark and haunting echo, the shadowy world in world, with its accusing silence, its emphatic self-sufficiency. Mrs. Cresswell at first demurred. She thought of Elspeth's cabin, the dirt, the smell, the squalor. Of course this would be different, but, well, Mrs. Cresswell had little inclination for slumming. She was interested in the underworld, but intellectually not by personal contact. She did not know that this was a side world, not an underworld, yet the imposing building did not look solid. Hired, asked someone? No, owned. Indeed. Then there was a hitch. Tickets? Where can we buy them? Not on sale, was the curt reply. Actually exclusive, sneered Cresswell, for he could not imagine anyone unwelcome at a negro ball. Then he bethought himself of Sam Stillings and sent for him. In a few minutes he had a dozen complimentary tickets in his hand. They entered the balcony and sat down. Mary Cresswell leaned forward. It was interesting. Beneath her was an ordinary, pretty ball, flowered, silked, and ribbed, with swaying, whirling figures, music and laughter, and all the human fun of gaiety and converse. And then she was impressed with the fact that this was no ordinary scene. It was, on the contrary, most extraordinary. There was a black man waltzing with a white woman. No, she was not white. For Mary caught the cream and curl of the girl, and she swept past. But there was a white man, was he white, and a black woman. The colour of the scene was wonderful. The hard human white seemed to glow and live and run a mad gamut of the spectrum, from morn till night, from white to black, through red and sombre browns, pale and brilliant yellows, dead and living blacks. Through her opera glasses Mary scanned their hair. She noted everything from the infinitely twisted, crackled, dead, and grayish black to the piled mass of red golden sunlight. Her eyes went dreaming. There, below, was the gathering of the worlds. She saw types of all nations and all lands, swirling beneath her in human brotherhood, and a great wonder shook her. They seemed so happy. Surely this was no nether world. It was upper earth, and her husband beckoned. He had been laughing incontinently. He saw nothing but a crowd of queer-looking people doing things they were not made to do, and appearing absurdly happy over it. It irritated him unreasonably. See the washer woman in red, he whispered. Look at that monkey. Come, let's go. They trooped noisily downstairs, and Creswell walked unceremoniously between a black man and his partner. Mrs. Vanderpool recognised and greeted the girl as Miss Wynn. Mrs. Creswell did not notice her, but she paused with a start of recognition at the sight of the man. Why bless, she exclaimed impetuously, starting to hold out her hand. She was sincerely pleased at seeing him. Then she remembered. She bowed and smiled, looking at him with interest and surprise. It was correctly dressed, and the white shirt set off the comeliness of his black face in compelling contrast. He carried himself like a man. And bowed with gravity and dignity. She passed on, heard her husband's petulant voice in her ear. Mary, Mary, for heaven's sakes, come on, don't shake hands with niggers. It was reoccurring flashes of temper like this, together with evidences of dubious company and a growing fondness for liquor that drove Mary Creswell more and more to find solace in the work of Congressman Todd's Civic Club. She collected statistics for several of the committee, wrote letters, interviewed a few persons, and felt herself growing in usefulness and importance. She did not mention these things to her husband. She knew he would not object, but she shrank from his ridicule. The various causes advocated by the Civic Club felt the impetus of the aggressive work of the organization. This was especially the case with the National Education Bill and the amendment to the Child Labor Bill. The movement became strong enough to call Mr. Easterly down from New York. He and the Inner Circle went over matters carefully. We need the political strength of the South, said Easterly, not only in framing national legislation in our own interests, but always in state laws. Particularly, we must get them into line to offset Todd's foolishness. The Child Labor Bill must either go through unamended or be killed. The Cotton Inspection Bill, our chief measure, must be slipped through quietly by Southern votes, while in the tariff mix-up we must take good care of Cotton. Now, on the other hand, we are offending the Southerners in three ways. Todd's revived Blair Bill is too good a thing for niggers. The South is clamoring for a first classy embassy appointment, and the President's nomination of Alwyn as treasurer will raise a howl from Virginia to Texas. There is some strong influence back of Alwyn, said Senator Smith. Not only are the Negroes enthused, but the President has daily letters from prominent whites. The strong influence is named Vanderpool, Easterly, dryly remarked. She's playing a bigger political game than I laid out for her. That's the devil with women. They can't concentrate. They get too damned many side issues. Now I offer to her, husband, the French ambassador ship, provide it she keep the Southerners feeling good towards us. She's hand in glove with the Southerners all right, but she wants not only her husband's appointment, but this darkies too. But that's been decided, hasn't it, put in Smith? Yes, grumbled Easterly, but it makes it hard already. At any rate, the Education Bill must be killed right off. No more talk. No more consideration. Kill it and kill it now. Now about this child labor bill. Todd's Civic Club is raising the mischief. Who's responsible? The silent Jackson spoke up. Congressman Cresswell's wife has been very active, and Todd thinks they've got the South with them. Congressman Cresswell's wife? Easterly's face was one great exclamation point. Now what the devil does this mean? I'm afraid, said Senator Smith, that it may mean an attempt on the part of Cresswell's friends to boost him for the French ambassador ship. He's the only Southerner with money enough to support the position, and there's been a good deal of quiet talk, I understand, in southern circles. But it's treason, Easterly shouted. It will ruin the plans of the Combine to put this amended child labor bill through. John Taylor has just written me that he's starting mills at Toonsville, and that he depends on unrestricted labor conditions, as we must throughout the South. Doesn't Cresswell know this? Of course. I think it's just a bluff. If he gets the appointment, he'll let the bill drop. I see. Everybody is raising his price, is he? Pretty soon the darkie will be holding us up. We'll see Cresswell, and put it to him strong. I must go. Wire me. Senator Smith presented the matter bluntly to Cresswell as soon as he saw him. Which would the South prefer, Todd's education bill, or Alwyn's appointment? It was characteristic of Cresswell that the smaller matters of Stilling's intrigue should interest him more than Todd's measure, of which he knew nothing. What is Todd's bill? asked Harry Cresswell, darkening. Smith, surprised, got out a copy and explained. Cresswell interrupted before he was half through. Don't you see, he said angrily, that that will ruin our plans for the Cotton Combine. Yes, I do, replied Smith, but it will not do the immediate harm that the amended child labor bill will do. What's that? demanded Cresswell, frowning again. Senator Smith regarded him again. Was Cresswell playing a shrewd game? Why, he said at length, aren't you promoting it? No, was the reply, never heard of it. But Senator Smith began and paused. He turned and took up a circular issued by the Civic Club, giving a careful account of their endeavors to amend and pass the child labor bill. Cresswell read it, then threw it aside. Nonsense, he indignantly repudiated the measure. That will never do. It's as bad as the education bill. But your wife is encouraging it, and we thought you were back of it. Cresswell stared in blank amazement. My wife, he gasped. Then he bethought himself. It's a mistake, he supplemented. Mrs. Cresswell gave them no authority to sign her name. She's been very active, Smith persisted, and naturally, we were all anxious. Cresswell bit his lip. I shall speak to her. She does not realize what use they are making of her passing interest. He hurried away and Senator Smith felt a bit sorry for Mrs. Cresswell when he recalled the expression on her husband's face. Mary Cresswell did not get home until nearly dinner time. Then she came in, glowing with enthusiasm. Her work had received special commendation that afternoon, and she'd been asked to take the chairmanship of the committee on publicity. Finding that her husband was at home, she determined to tell him it was so good to be doing something worthwhile. Perhaps, too, he might be made to show some interest. She thought of Mr. and Mrs. Todd, and the old dream glowed faintly again. Cresswell looked at her as she entered the library where he was waiting and smoking. She was rumpled and muddy, with flying hair and thick walking shoes, and the air of bustle and vigor which had crept into her blood this last month. Truly her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes bright. But he disapproved. Softness and daintiness, silk and lace, and glimmering flesh, belonged to women in his mind, and he despised Amazons and business women. He received her kiss coldly, and Mary's heart sank. She essayed, some gay greeting, but he interrupted her. What's this stuff about the Civic Club? He began sharply. Stuff, she queried blankly? That's what I said. I'm sure I don't know, she answered stiffly. I belong to the Civic Club and have been working with it. Why didn't you tell me? His resentment grew as he proceeded. I did not think you were interested. Did you not know that this child labor business was opposed to my interests? Dear, I did not dream it. It's a Republican bill to be sure, but you seemed very friendly with Senator Smith, who introduced it. We were simply trying to improve it. Suppose we didn't want it improved. That's what some said, but I did not believe such deception. The blood rushed to Cresswell's face. Well, you will drop this bill in the Civic Club from now on. Why? Because I say so, he retorted explosively, too angry to explain further. She looked at him, a long, fixed, penetrating look, which revealed more than she had ever seen before, then turned away and went slowly upstairs. She did not come down the dinner and in the evening the doctor was called. Cresswell drooped a bit after eating, hesitated and reflected. He had acted too cavalierly in this Civic Club mess, he concluded, and yet he would not back down. He'd go see her and pet her a bit, but be firm. He opened her boudoir door gently, and she stood before him, radiant, clothed in silk and lace. Her hair loosened. He paused, astonished, but she threw herself upon his neck with a joyful, half hysterical cry. I will give it all up, everything, willingly, willingly, her voice dropped abruptly, to a tremulous whisper. Oh, Harry, I am to be the mother of a child. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 29 A Master of Fate There is not the slightest doubt, Miss Wynne, Senator Smith was saying, but that the schools of the district will be reorganized. And the Board of Education abolished, she added? Yes, the power will be delegated to a single white superintendent. The vertical line in Caroline Wynne's forehead became pronounced. Whose work is this, Senator? she asked. Well, there are, of course, various parties back of the change, the outs, the reformers, the whole tendency to concentrate responsibility, and so on. But, frankly, the deciding factor was the demand of the South. Is there anything in Washington that the South does not already own? Senator Smith smiled thinly. Not much, dryly, but we own the South. And part of the price is putting the colored schools of the district in the hands of a Southern man and depriving us of all voice in their control. Precisely, Miss Wynne, but you'd be surprised to know that it was the Negroes themselves who stirred the South to this demand. Not at all. You mean the colored newspapers, I presume? The same, with Tierswell's clever articles, Venice partner Stillings worked the impudent Negro teacher argument on Creswell until Creswell was wild to get the South in control of the schools. But what do Tierswell and Stillings want? They want Bless Alwynne to make a fool of himself. That is a trifle cryptic, Miss Wynne mused, the Senator amplified. We are giving the South the Washington schools and killing the Education Bill in return for their support of some of our measures and their assent to Alwynne's appointment. You see, I speak frankly. I can stand at Senator. I believe you can. Well, now, if Alwynne should act unwisely and offend the South, somebody else stands in line for the appointment. As treasurer, she asked in surprise. Oh, no, they're true shrewd to ask for that. It would offend their backers, or shall I say, their tools, the Southerners. No, they ask only to be register an assistant register of the Treasury. This is an office colored men have held for years, and it is quite ambitious enough for them, so Stillings assures Creswell and his friends. I see, Miss Wynne slowly acknowledged, but how do they hope to make Mr. Alwynne blunder? Too easily, I fear, unless you are very careful. Alwynne has been working like a beaver for the National Education Bill. He's been in the CME several times, as you probably know. His heart is set on it. He regards its passage as a sort of indication of his defense of the party. Yes. Now the party has dropped the bill for good, and Alwynne doesn't like it, if he should attack the party. But he wouldn't, cried Miss Wynne, with a start that belied her conviction. Do you know that he is to be invited to make the principal address to the graduates of the colored high school? But she objected. They have selected Bishop Johnson, I. I know you did, laughed the senator, but the judge got orders from higher up. Shrewd Mr. Tearswell remarked Miss Wynne sagely. Shrewd Mr. Stillings, the senator corrected, but perhaps too shrewd. Suppose Mr. Alwynne should take this occasion to make a thorough defense of the party. But will he? That's where you come in, Senator Smith pointed out rising, and the real reason for this interview. We're depending upon you to pull the party out of an awkward hole, and he shook hands with his caller. Miss Wynne walked slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue with a smile on her face. I did not give him credit, she declared, repeating it. I did not give him the credit. Here I was playing an alluring game on the side, and my dear Tom transforms it into a struggle for bread and butter. For, of course, if the Board of Education goes, I lose my place. She lifted her head and stared along the avenue. A bitterness dawned in her eyes. The whole street was a living insult to her. Here she was, an American girl by birth and breeding, a daughter of citizens who had fought and bled and worked for a dozen generations on the soil. Yet, if she stepped into this hotel to rest, even with full purse, she would be politely refused accommodation. Should she attempt to go into this picture show, she would be denied entrance. She was thirsty with the walk, but at Yonder Fountain the clerk would roughly refuse to serve her. It was lunchtime. There was no place within a mile where she was allowed to eat. The revolt deepened within her. Beyond these known and definite discriminations lay the unknown and the hovering. In Yonder's store nothing hindered the clerk from being exceptionally pert. On the under-street car the conductor might reserve his politeness for white folk. This policeman's business was to keep black and brown people in their places. All this Caroline Wynn thought of, and then smiled. This was the thing poor, blind, bless, was trying to attack by appeals for justice. Nonsense. Does one appeal to the red-eyed beast that throttles him? No, he composes himself, looks death in the eye, and speaks softly on the chance. Whereupon Miss Wynn composed herself, waved gaily at a passing acquaintance, and matched some ribbons in a department store. The clerk was new and anxious to sell. Meantime her brain was busy. She had a hard task before her. All Wynn's absurd, conscious, and quixotic ideas were difficult to cope with. After his last indiscreet talk she had ventured deftly to remonstrate, and she well remembered the conversation. Wasn't what I said true, he had asked? Perfectly. Is that an excuse for saying it? The facts ought to be known. Yes, but ought you to tell them? If not I, who? Someone who is less useful elsewhere, and whom I like less. Carrie, he had been intensely earnest. I want to do the best thing, but I'm puzzled. I wonder if I'm selling my birthright for six thousand dollars. In case of doubt, do it. But there's a doubt. I may convert. I may open the eyes of the blind. I may start a crusade for Negro rights. Don't believe it, it's useless. We'll never get our rights in this land. You don't believe that, he ejaculated, shocked. Well, she must begin again. As she had hoped, he was waiting for her when she reached home. She welcomed him cordially, and made a little music for him, and served tea. Bless, she said. The opposition has been laying a pretty shrewd trap for you. You? What he asked absently. They're going to have you chosen as High School Commencement orator. Me? Stuff. You, and not stuff, but education will be your natural theme. Indeed, they have so engineered it, that the party chiefs expect from you the defense of their dropping of the education bill. What? Yes, and probably your nomination will come before the speech and confirmation after. Bless walked the floor excitedly for a while, and then sat down and smiled. It was a shrewd move, he said. But I think I thank them for it. I don't, but still. It is the sport to see the engineer hoist by his own pitar. Bless mused, and she watched him covertly. Suddenly she leaned over. Moreover she said, About that same date, I'm liable to lose my position as teacher. He looked at her quickly, and she explained the coming revolution in school management. He did not discuss the matter, and she was equally recitant. But when he entered the doors of his lodging-place, and gathering his mail, slowly mounted the stairs, there came the battle of his life. He knew it, and he tried to wage it coolly and with method. He arrayed the arguments side by side, on this side lay success, the greatest office ever held by a Negro in America. Greater than Douglas or Bruce or Lynch had held. A landmark, a living example, an inspiration. A man owed the world success. There were plenty who could fail and stumble and give multiple excuses. Should he be one? He viewed the other side. What must he pay for success? I face it boldly. What? Mechanically he searched for his mail, and undid the latest number of the colored American. He was sure the answer stood there, in Tearswell's biting vulgar English. And there it was, with a cartoon. His master's voice. All when his ordered to eat his words, or get out, watch him do it gracefully, the Republican leaders, etc. He threw down his paper, and the hot blood sang in his ears. The sickening thought was that it was true. If he did make the speech demanded, it would be like a dog obedient to his master's voice. The cold sweat oozed on his face, throwing up the window, he drank in the spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had thought so alluring. Somehow it looked like the swamp, only less beautiful. He stretched his arms, and his lips breathed. Zora. He turned hastily to his desk, and looked at the other piece of mail, a single sealed note, carefully written on heavy paper. He did not recognize the handwriting. Then his mind flew off again. What would they say if he failed to get the office? How they would silently hoot and jeer at the upstart, who suddenly climbed so high and fell. And Carrie Wynn, poor Carrie, with her pride and position, dragged down in his ruin. How would she take it? He writhed in soul. And yet, to be a man, to say calmly, no, to stand in that great audience and say, My people first and last, to take Carrie's hand and together face the world and struggle again to newer, finer triumphs. All this would be very close to attainment of the ideal. He found himself staring at the little letter. Would she go? Would she, could she, lay aside her pride in cynicism, her dainty ways and little extravagances? An odd fancy came to him. Perhaps the answer to the riddle lay sealed within the envelope. He fingered. He opened it. Within lay four lines of writing. No more, no address, no signature. Simply the words. It matters now how straight the gate. How charged with punishment the scroll. I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul. He stared at the lines. The eleven o'clock, twelve, one, chimed the deep, voiced clock without, before Alwyn went to bed. Miss Wynn had kept the vigil almost as long. She knew that bless had influential friends who had urged his preferment. It might be wise to enlist them. Before she fell asleep, she had determined to have a talk with Mrs. Vanderpool. She had learned from Senator Smith that the lady took special interests in Alwyn. Mrs. Vanderpool heard Miss Wynn's story next day with some inward dismay. Really the breadth and depth of intrigue in this city almost frightened her as she walked deeper into the mire. She had promised Zora that bless should receive his reward on terms which would not wound his manhood. It seemed an easy, almost an obvious thing to promise at the time. Yet here was this rather unusual young woman asking Mrs. Vanderpool to use her influence in making Alwyn bow to the yoke. She fenced for time. But I do not know, Mr. Alwyn. I thought you did. You recommended him highly. I knew of him slightly in the south and I have watched his career here. It would be too bad to have that career spoiled now. But is it necessary? Suppose he should defend at the Education Bill. And criticise the party, asked Miss Wynn. It would take strong influence to pull him through. And if that strong influence were found, said Mrs. Vanderpool thoughtfully, it would surely involve some other important concessions to the south. Mrs. Vanderpool looked up, and an interjection hovered on her lips. Was it possible that the price of Alwyn's manhood would be her husband's appointment to Paris, and if it were? I'll do what I can, she said graciously, but I'm afraid that will not be much. This Wynn hesitated. She had not succeeded in even guessing the source of Mrs. Vanderpool's interest in Alwyn. And without that her appeal was but blind groping. She stopped on her way to the door to admire a bronze statuette and find time to think. You're interested in bronzes, asked Mrs. Vanderpool? Oh no, I'm far too poor, but I've dabbled a bit in sculptor. Indeed, Mrs. Vanderpool revealed a mild interest, and Miss Wynn was compelled to depart with little enlightenment. On the way uptown she concluded that there was but one chance of success. She must write Alwyn's speech. With characteristic decision she began her plans at once. What were you saying your speech, she asked him that night, as he rose to go? He looked at her, and she wavered slightly under his black eyes. The fight was becoming a little too desperate even for her steady nerves. You would not like me to act this honestly, would you, he asked? No, she involuntarily replied, regretting the word the moment she had uttered it. He gave her one of his rare sweet smiles and rising, before she realized his intent. He had kissed her hands and was gone. She asked herself why she had been so foolish, and yet somehow, sitting there alone in the firelight, she felt glad for once that she had risen above intrigue. Then she sighed and smiled, and began to plot anew. Tears well dropped in later, and brought his friends stillings. They found their hostess gay and entertaining. Miss Wynn gathered books about her, and in the days of April and May she and Alwyn read up on education. He marveled at the subtlety of her mind, and she, at the relentlessness of his. They were very near each other during these days, and yet there was ever something between them, a vision, to him of dark and pleading eyes that he constantly saw beside her cool keen glance. And he to her was always two men, one man above men, whom she could respect but would not marry, and one man like all men, whom she would marry but could not respect. His devotion to an ideal which she thought so utterly unpractical aroused keen curiosity and admiration. She was sure he would fail in the end, and she wanted him to fail. And somehow, somewhere, back beyond herself, her better self longed to find herself defeated, to see his mind stand firm on principle under circumstances where she believed men never stood. Deep within her she discovered at times a passionate longing to believe in somebody, yet she found herself bending every energy to pull this man down to the level of time-servers, and even as she failed, feeling something like contempt for his stubbornness. The great day came. He had her notes, her suggestion, her hints, but she had no intimation of what he would finally say. Will you come to hear me, he asked? No, she murmured. That is best, he said, and then he added slowly. I would not like you ever to despise me. She answered sharply. I want to despise you. Did he understand? She was not sure. She was sorry she had said it, but she meant it fiercely. Then he left her, for it was already four in the afternoon, and he spoke at eight. In the morning she came down early, despite some dawdling over her toilet. She brought the morning paper into the dining room and sat down with it, sipping her coffee. She leaned back and looked leisurely at the headings. There was nothing on the front page, but a divorce, a revolution, and a new trust. She took another sip of her coffee and turned the page. There it was. Coloured high school's clothes, vicious attack on Republican Party by Negro orator. She laid the paper aside and slowly finished her coffee. A few minutes later she went to her desk and sat there so long that she started at hearing the clock strike nine. The day passed. When she came home from school, she bought an evening paper. She was not surprised to learn that the Senate had rejected Alwyn's nomination. That Samuel Stillings had been nominated and confirmed as register of the Treasury, and that Mr. Tom Tearswell was to be his assistant. Also the bill, reorganising the school board had passed. She wrote two notes and posted them as she went out to walk. When she reached home, Stillings was there and they talked earnestly. The bell rang violently. Tearswell rushed in. Well, Gary, he cried eagerly. Well, Tom, she responded, giving him a languid hand. Stillings rose and departed. Tearswell nodded and said, Well, what do you think of last night? A great speech I hear. A full speech. That speech cost him. I calculate between twenty-four and forty-eight thousand dollars. Possibly he's satisfied with his bargain. Possibly, are you? With his bargain? Quickly, yes. No, he pressed her, with your bargain. What bargain, she parried? To marry him. Oh, no, that's off. Is it off, cried Tearswell delightedly? Good, it was foolish from the first. That black country? Gently, Miss Wynn checked him. I'm not yet over the habit. Come, see what I've bought. You know I have a salary now. He produced a ring with a small diamond cluster. How pretty, she said, taking it and looking at it. Then she handed it back. He laughed gaily. It's yours, Carrie. You're going to marry me. She looked at him queerly. Am I? But I've got another ring already, she said. Oh, send all ones back. I have. This is still another. And, uncovering her hand, she showed a ring with a large, beautiful diamond. He rose. Who's is that? He demanded apprehensively. Mine, her eyes met his. But who gave it to you? Mr. Stillings was a soft reply. He stared at her helplessly. I don't understand, he stammered. Well, to be brief, I'm engaged to Mr. Stillings. What, to that flat-headed? No, she coolly interrupted, to the register of the treasury. The man was too dumbfounded, too overwhelmed for coherent speech. But, but come, why in God's name will you throw yourself away on, on such a, you're joking, you? She motioned him to a chair. He obeyed like one in a trance. Now, Tom, be calm. When I was a baby, I loved you. But that is long ago. Today, Tom, you're an insufferable cad. And I, well, I'm too much like you, to have two of us in the same family. But Stillings, he burst forth, almost in tears. That snake, what is he? Nearly as bad as you, I'll admit. But he is four thousand a year, and sense enough to keep it. In truth, I need it. For thanks to your political activity, my own position is gone. But he's a damned rascal. Wounded self-conceit was now getting the upper hand. She laughed. I think he is. But he's such an exceptional rascal. He appeals to me. You know, Tom, we're all more or less rascally, except one. Except who, he asked quickly. Bless Alwyn. The fool? Yes, she slowly agreed. Bless Alwyn the fool, and the man. But by grace of the Negro problem, I cannot afford to marry a man. Hark! Someone is on the steps. I'm sure it's bless. You'd better go now. Don't attempt the fight with him. He's very strong. Good night. Alwyn entered. He didn't notice tear well as he passed out. He went straight to miss Wynn, holding a crumpled note, and his voice faltered a little. Do you mean it? Yes, bless. Why? Because I'm selfish and small. No, you are not. You want to be. But give it up, Carrie. It isn't worth the cost. Come, let's be honest and poor and free. She regarded him a moment searchingly. Then a look half quizzical, half sorrowful came into her eyes. She put both her hands on his shoulders, and said as she kissed his lips, bless, almost thou persuadest me to be a fool. Now go. End of Chapter 29 Recording by Richard Kilmer, Real Medina, Texas Chapter 30 Of the Quest of the Silver Fleece This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Dubose Chapter 30 The Return of Zora I never realized before just what a lie meant, said Zora. The paper in Mrs. Vanderpool's hands fell quickly to her lap, and she gazed across the toilet table. As she gazed, that odd mirage of other days haunted her again. She did not seem to see her maid, nor the white and satin morning-room. She saw, with some long inner sight, a vast hall with mighty pillars, a smooth marbled floor, and a great throng, who, silent eyes, looked curiously upon her. Strange, carven beasts gazed on from a setting of rich barbaric splendor, and she herself, the liar, lay in rags before the golden ivory of that lofty throne whereon sat Zora. The foolish fantasy passed with the second of a time that brought it, and Mrs. Vanderpool's eyes dropped again to her paper, to those lines. The President has sent the following nominations to the Senate, to be Ambassador to France, John Vanderpool, Esquire. The first feeling of triumph thrilled faintly again until the low voice of Zora startled her. It was so low and calm, it came as though journeying from great distances, and weary with travel. I used to think a lie, a little thing, a convenience, but now I see. It is a great no, and it kills things. You remember that day when Mr. Easterly called? Yes, replied Mrs. Vanderpool faintly. I heard all he said. I could not help it. My transom was open. And then, too, after he mentioned Mr. Alwyn's name, I wanted to hear. I knew that his appointment would cost you the Embassy, unless bless was tempted and should fall. So I came to you to say, to say, you mustn't pay the price. And I lied, said Mrs. Vanderpool. I told you that he should be appointed and remain a man. I meant to make him see that he could yield without great cost. But I let you think I was giving up the Embassy when I never intended to. She spoke coldly, yet Zora knew. She reached out and took the white, still hands in hers, and over the lady's face again flitted that stricken look of age. I do not blame you, said Zora gently. I blame the world. I am the world, Mrs. Vanderpool uttered harshly, then suddenly laughed. But Zora went on. It bewildered me when I first read the news early this morning. The world, everything seemed wrong. You see, my plan was also splendid. Just as I turned away from him back to my people, I was to help him to the highest. I was so afraid he would miss it and think that right didn't win in life. That I wrote him. You wrote him? So did I. Zora glanced at her quickly. Yes, said Mrs. Vanderpool. I thought I knew him. He seemed an ordinary, rather priggish, opinionated country boy. And I wrote and said, oh, I said, that the world is the world. Take it as it is. You wrote differently, and he obeyed you. No, he did not know it was I. I was just a voice from nowhere, calling to him. I thought I was right. I wrote each day, sometimes twice, sending bits of verse, quotations, references, all saying the same thing. Right always triumphs. But it doesn't, does it? No, it never does. Save my accident. I do not think that is quite so, Zora pondered aloud, and I am a little puzzled. I do not belong in this world where right and wrong get so mixed. With us, yonder, there is wrong, but we call it wrong, mostly. Oh, I don't know. Even there, things are mixed. She looked sadly at Mrs. Vanderpool, and the fear that had been hovering behind her mistress's eyes became visible. It was so beautiful, said Zora. I expected a great thing of you, a sacrifice. I do not blame you, because you could not do it. And yet, yet, after this, don't you see, I cannot stay here. Mrs. Vanderpool arose and walked over to her. She stood above her in her silken morning gown. Her brown and gray sprinkled hair rising above the pale, strong, lined face. Zora, she faltered, will you leave me? Zora answered, yes. It was a soft yes, a yes, full of pity and regret, but a yes that Mrs. Vanderpool knew in her soul to be final. She sat down again on the lounge, and her fingers crept along the cushions. Ambassador's ships come high, she said, with a catch in her voice. Then, after a pause, when will you go, Zora? When you leave for the summer? Mrs. Vanderpool looked out upon the beautiful city. She was a little surprised at herself. She had found herself willing to sacrifice almost anything for Zora. No living soul had ever raised in her so deep an affection, and yet she knew now that, although the cost was great, she was willing to sacrifice Zora for Paris. After all, it was not too late. A rapid ride, even now, might secure high office for Alwyn, and make Creswell Ambassador. It would be difficult, but possible. But she had not the slightest inclination to attempt it, and she said aloud, half mockingly, you are right, Zora, I promised, and I lied. Liars have no place in heaven, and I have no place in heaven, and heaven is doubtless a beautiful place. But, oh, Zora, you haven't seen Paris. Two months later they parted simply, knowing well it was forever. Mrs. Vanderpool wrote a check. Use this in your work, she said. Miss Smith asked for it long ago. It is my campaign contribution. Zora smiled and thanked her. As she put the sealed envelope in her trunk, her hand came in contact with a long untouched package. Zora took it out silently and opened it, and the beauty of it lightened the room. It's the silver fleece, said Zora, and Mrs. Vanderpool kissed her and went. Zora walked alone to the vaulted station. She did not try to buy a Pullman ticket, although the journey was thirty-six hours. She knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, and she preferred to share the lot of her people. Once on the foremost car she leaned back and looked. The car seemed clean and comfortable, but strangely short. Then she realized that half of it was cut off for the white smokers, and as the door swung whiffs of the smoke came in. But she was content, for she was almost alone. It was eighteen little months ago that she had ridden up to the world with wide denies. In that time what had happened, everything, how well she remembered her coming, the first reflection of younger gilded dome, and the soaring of the capital, the swelling of her heart with inarticulate wonder, the pain of the thirst to know and understand. She did not know much now, but she had learned how to find things out. She did not understand all, but some things she— Ticket? The tone was harsh and abrupt. Zora started. She had always noted how polite conductors were to her and Mrs. Vanderpool. Was it simply because Mrs. Vanderpool was evidently a great and rich lady? She held up her ticket, and he snatched it from her, muttering some direction. I beg your pardon, she said. Changed at Charlotte, he snapped, as he went on. It seemed to Zora that his discurtecy was almost forced, that he was afraid he might be betrayed in the sum show of consideration for a black woman. She felt no anger. She simply wondered what he feared. The increasing smell of tobacco smoke started her coughing. She turned, to be sure. Not only was the door to the smoker standing open, but a white passenger was in her car, sitting by the conductor and puffing heartily. As the black porter passed her, she said gently, Is smoking allowed in here? It ain't none of my business. He flung back at her and moved away. All day white men passed back and forward through the car, as through a thoroughfare. They talked loudly and laughed and joked, and if they did not smoke, they carried their lighted cigars. At her they stared and made comments, and one of them came and lounged almost over her seat, inquiring where she was going. She did not reply. She neither looked nor stirred, but kept whispering to herself, with something like awe. This is what they must endure, my poor people. At Lynchburg a newsboy boarded the train with his wares. The conductor had already appropriated two seats for himself, and the newsboy routed out two colored passengers, and usurped two other seats. Then he began to be especially annoying. He joked and wrestled with the porter, and on every occasion pushed his wares at Zora, insisting on her buying. Ain't you got no money, he asked? Where are you going? Say, he whispered another time. Don't you want to buy these gold spectacles? I found them, and I dastin' sell them open, see? They're worth ten dollars. Take them for a dollar. Zora sat still, keeping her eyes on the window, but her hands worked nervously, and when he threw a book with a picture of a man and half dressed woman directly under her eyes, she took it and dropped it out the window. The boy started the storm and demanded pay, while the conductor glared at her. But a white man in the conductor's seat whispered something, and the row suddenly stopped. A gang of colored section hands got on, dirty and loud. They sprawled about and smoked, drank, and bought candy and cheap gigaws. They eyed her respectfully, and, with one of them, she talked a little as he awkwardly fingered his cap. As the day wore on, Zora found herself strangely weary. It was not simply the unpleasant things that kept happening, but the continued apprehension of unknown possibilities. Then, too, she began to realize that she had had nothing to eat. Traveling with Mrs. Vanderpool, there was always a dainty lunch to be had at call. She did not expect this, but she asked the porter. Do you know where I can get a lunch? Searched me, he answered, lounging into his seat. Ain't no chance, betwixt here and Danville as I know on. Zora viewed her plight with a certain dismay, twelve hours without food. How foolish of her not to have thought of this. The hours passed. She turned desperately to the gruff conductor. Could I buy a lunch from the dining-car, she inquired? No, was the curt reply. She made herself as comfortable as she could, and tried to put the matter from her mind. She remembered how, forgotten years ago, she had often gone a day without eating and thought little of it. Night came slowly, and she fell to dreaming, until the cry came, Charlotte, change cars. She scrambled out. There was no step to the platform. Her bag was heavy, and the porter was busy helping the white folks to a light. She saw a dingy lunchroom marked colored, but she had no time to go to it, for her train was ready. There was another colored porter on this, and he was very polite and affable. Yes, Miss, certainly I'll fetch you a lunch, plenty of time. And he did. He did not look clean, but Zora was ravenous. The white smoker now had few occupants, but the white train crew proceeded to use the colored coach as a lounging-room and sleeping-car. There was no passenger except Zora. They took off their coats, stretched themselves on the seats, and exchanged jokes. But Zora was too tired to notice much, and she was dozing wearily when she fell to touch on the arm and found the porter in the seat beside her, with his arm thrown familiarly behind her, along the top of the back. She rose abruptly to her feet, and he started up. I beg pardon, he said, grinning. Zora sat slowly down as he got up and left. She determined to sleep no more. Yet a vast vision sank on her weary spirit, the vision of a dark cloud that dropped and dropped upon her, and lay, as led, along her straining shoulders. She must lift it, she knew. Though it were big as a world, and she put her strength to it and groaned as the porter cried in the ghostly morning light. Atlanta all changed. Away under at the school near Toomesville, Miss Smith sat waiting for the coming of Zora, absently attending to the duties of the office. Dark little heads and hands bobbed by, and soft voices called. Miss Smith, I want the penny pencil. Miss Smith, is you got a speller for ten cents? Miss Smith, Mammy says, please let me come to school this week, and she'll soar pay Saturday. Yet the little voices that summoned her back to earth were less clamorous than in other years. For the school was far from full, and Miss Smith observed the falling off with gray eyes. The condition was patently the result of the cotton corner, and the subsequent manipulation. When cotton rose, the tenants had already sold their cotton. When cotton fell, the landlords squeezed the rations and lowered the wages. When cotton rose again, up went the new spring rent contracts. So it was that the bewildered black surf dwindled in listless inability to understand. The Creswells in their new wealth, the Maxwells and Tollibers, in the new pinch of poverty, stretched long arms to gather in the tenants and their children. Excuse after excuse came to the school. I can't send the children's this term, Miss Smith. They has to work. Mr. Creswell won't allow Will to go to school this term. Mr. Tolliver done put Sam in the field, and so Miss Smith contemplated many empty desks. Slowly a sort of fatal inaction seized her. The school went on. Daily the dark little clouds of scholars rose up from hill and vale and settled in the white buildings. The hum of voices and the busy movements of industrious teachers filled the day. The office work went on methodically. But back of it all Miss Smith sat half hopeless. It cost five thousand a year to run the school. And this sum she raised with increasingly greater difficulty. Extra and heart straining effort had been needed to raise the eight hundred dollars additional for interest money on the mortgage last year. Next year it might have to come out of the regular income and thus cut off to teachers. Beyond all this the raising of ten thousand dollars to satisfy the mortgage seemed simply impossible. And Miss Smith sat in fatal resignation awaiting the coming day. It's the Lord's work. I've done what I could. I guess if he wants it to go on he'll find a way. And if he doesn't she looked off across the swamp and was silent. Then came Zora's letter simple and brief but breathing youth and strength of purpose. Miss Smith seized upon it as an omen of salvation. In vain her shrewd New England reason asked what can a half taught black girl do in this wilderness. Her heart answered back. What is impossible to youth and resolution? Let the shabbiness increase. Let the debts pile up. Let the boarders complain and the teachers gossip. Zora was coming. And somehow she and Zora would find a way. And Zora came just as the sun, through its last crimson, through the black swamp. Came and gathered the frail and white-haired woman in her arms and they wept together. Long and low they talked, far into the soft southern night. Sitting shaded beneath the stars, while nearby, blinked the drowsy lights of the girl's dormitory. At last Miss Smith said, rising stiffly, I forgot to ask about Mrs. Vanderpool. How is she and where? Zora murmured some answer. But as she went to bed in her little white room, she sat wandering sadly. Where was the poor spoiled woman? Who was putting her to bed and smoothing the pillow? Who was carrying for her? And what was she doing? And Zora strained her eyes northward through the night. At this moment Mrs. Vanderpool, rising from a gala dinner in the brilliant drawing-room of her Lake George mansion, was reading the evening paper, which her husband had put into her hands. With startled eyes she caught the impudent headlines. Vanderpool dropped. Senate refused to confirm. Todd insurgents muster enough votes to defeat. Confirmation of President's nominee. Rumored revenge for a machine's defeat of child labor. Bill amendment. The paper trembled in her jeweled hands. She glanced down the column. Todd asks, who is Vanderpool anyhow? What did he ever do? He is known only as a selfish millionaire, who thinks more of horses than of men. Carelessly Mrs. Vanderpool threw the paper to the floor, and bit her lips as the angry blood died her face. They shall confirm him, she whispered, if I have to mortgage my immortal soul, and she rang up long distance on the telephone.