 CHAPTER XIV LOVE The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois, recorded by A. J. Hilton. The rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. The wind screamed in the ancient Creswell Oaks and swirled across the swamp in loud wild gusts. The waters roared and gurgled in the streams and along the roadside. Then when the wind fell murmuring away, the clouds grew blacker and blacker, and rain and long, slim columns fell straight from heaven to earth, digging itself into the land and throwing back the red mud and angry flashes. So it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days bless watched it with lead and heart. He knew the Silver Fleece, his and Zora's must be ruined. It was the first great sorrow of his life. It was not so much the loss of the cotton itself, but the fantasy, the hopes, the dreams built around it. If it failed, would not they fail? Was not this angry beating rain, this dull, spiritless drizzle, this wild war, air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? But if his own despair was great, his pain at the plight of Zora made it almost unbearable. He did not see her in these seven days. He pictured her huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless, leaky cabin with worse than no companions. Ah, the swamp, the cruel swamp, it was a fearful place in the rain, its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its clinging slimy draperies, how they twined about the bones of his victims and chill their hearts. Yet here, his Zora, his poor disappointed child, was imprisoned. Child? He had always called her child. But now in the inward illumination of these dark days, he knew her as neither child nor sister nor friend, but as the one woman. The revelation of his love lighted and brightened slowly till it flamed like a sunrise over him and left him in burning wonder. He panted to know if she too knew or knew and cared not, or cared and knew not. She was so strange and human a creature. To her all things meant something, nothing was aimless, nothing merely happened. Was this rain beating down and back her love for him, or had she never loved? He walked to his room, gripping his hands, peering through the misty windows toward the swamp. Rain, rain, rain, nothing but rain, the world was water veiled in mists. Then of a sudden at midday the sun shot out, hot and still, no breath of air stirred, the sky was like blue steel, the earth steamed, bless rushed to the edge of the swamp and stood there in resolute. Perhaps if the water had but drained from the cotton it was so strong and tall, but Pasha. Where was the use of imagining? The lagoon had been level with the dykes a week ago, and now? He could almost see the beautiful silver fleece bedraggled, drowned and rolling beneath the black lake of slime. He went back to his work, but eagerly in the morning the thought of it lured him again. He must at least see the grave of his hope in Zoras, and out of it resurrect new love and strength. Perhaps she too might be there, waiting, weeping. He started at the thought. He hurried forth sadly. The raindrops were still dripping and gleaming from the trees, clashing back the heavy yellow sunlight. He splashed and stamped along farther and farther onward until he neared the rampart of the clearing, and put foot upon the tree bridge. Then he looked down. The lagoon was dry. He stood a moment bewildered, then turned and rushed upon the island. A great sheet of dazzling sunlight swept the place, and beneath lay a mighty mass of olive green, thick, tall, wet and willowy. The squares of cotton sharp edged heavy were just about to burst to bowls, and underneath the land lay carefully drained and black. For one long moment he paused, stupid, agape, with utter amazement. Then leaned dizzily against the tree. The swamp, the eternal swamp had been drained in its deepest fastness. But how? How? He gazed about, perplexed, astonished. What a field of cotton! What a marvelous field! But how had it been saved? He skirted the island slowly, stopping near Zoras' oak. Here lay the reading of the riddle. With infinite work and pain someone had dug a canal from the lagoon to the creek, into which the former had drained by a long and crooked way, thus allowing it to empty directly. The canal went straight, a hundred yards through stubborn soil, and it was oozing now with slimy waters. He sat down, weak, bewildered, and one thought was uppermost. Zora! And with a thought came a low moan of pain. He wheeled and leapt toward the dripping shelter of the tree. There she lay, wet, bedraggled, motionless, gray pallid beneath her dark-drawn skin, her burning eyes searching restlessly for some lost thing, her lips a-moaning. In dumb despair he dropped beside her and gathered her in his arms. The earth staggered beneath him as he stumbled on. The mud splashed and sunlight glistened. He saw long snakes slithering across his path, and fear struck beasts fleeing before his coming. He paused for neither path nor away but went straight for the school running in mighty strides, yet gently listening to the moans that struck death upon his heart once he fell headlong, but with a great wrench held her from harm, and minded not the pain that shot through his ribs. The yellow sunshine beat fiercely around and upon him as he stumbled into the highway, lurched across the mud-strewn road, and panted up the porch. Miss Smith! he gasped, and then darkness. The years of the days of her dying were ten. The boy that entered the darkness and the shadow of death emerged a man, a silent man, and grave, working furiously and haunting day and night, the little window above the door, at last of one gray morning when the earth was stillest, they came and told him, she will live, and he went out under the stars, lifted his long arms and sobbed, curse me, O God, if I let me lose her again! And God remembered this in after years. The hope and dream of harvest was upon the land, the cotton crop was short and poor because of the great rain, but the sun had saved the best, and the price had soared, so the world was happy, and the face of the black-belt green and luxuriant with thickening flecks of the coming foam of the cotton. Up in the sick room Zora lay on the little white bed, the net and web of endless things had been crawling and creeping around her. She had struggled in dumb, speechless terror against some mighty grasping that strove for her life, with gnarled and creeping fingers, but now at last, weekly, she opened her eyes and questioned, bless, where is he? The silver fleece, how was it? The sun, the swamp. Then finding all well, she closed her eyes and slept. After some days they let her sit by the window, and she saw blessed pass, but drew back timidly when he looked, and he saw only the flutter of her gown and waved. At last there came a day when they let her walk down to the porch, and she felt the flickering of her strength again. Yet she looked different, her buxom comeliness was spiritualized, her face looked smaller, and her masses of hair, brought low about her ears, heightened her ghostly beauty. Her skin was darkly transparent, and her eyes looked out from velvet veils of gloom. For a while she lay in her chair in happy, dreamy pleasure at sun and bird and tree. Blessed did not know yet that she was down, but soon he would come searching, for he came each hour, and she pressed her little hands against her breast to still the beating of her heart and the bursting wonder of her love. Then suddenly a panic seized her. He must not find her here, not here. There was but one place on all the earth for them to meet, and that was yonder in the silver fleece. She rose with a fleeting glance, gathered the shawl around her, then gliding forward, wavering tremulous, slipped across the road and into the swamp. The dark mystery of the swamp swept over her, the place was hers. She had been born within its borders, within its borders she had lived and grown, and within its borders she had met her love. On she hurried until sweeping down to the lagoon and the island low, the cotton lay before her. A great white foam was spread upon its brown and green. The whole field was waving and shivering in the sunlight. A low cry of pleasure burst from her lips. She forgot her weakness and picking her way across the bridge stood still amid the cotton that nestled about her shoulders, clasping it lovingly in her hands. He heard that she was downstairs and ran to meet her with beating heart. The chair was empty, but he knew. There was but one place for these two souls to meet, yet it was far, and he feared and ran with startled eyes. She stood on the island, ethereal, splendid, like some tall, dark and gorgeous flower of the story to East. The green and white of the cotton billowed and foamed about her breasts. The red scarf burned upon her neck. The dark brown velvet of her skin pulsed warm and tremulous with the uprushing blood, and in the midnight depths of her great eyes flamed the mighty fires of long-concealed and newborn love. He darted through the trees and paused, a tall man strongly but slimly made. He threw up his hands in the old way and hallowed. Happily she crooned back a low mother melody and waited. He came down to her slowly with fixed, hungry eyes, threading his way amid the fleece. She did not move, but lifted both her dark hands, white with cotton, and then, as he came, casting it suddenly to the winds, in tears and laughter she swayed and dropped, quivering in his arms, and all the world was sunshine in peace. Harry Criswell was scowling over his breakfast. It was not because his apartment in the New York Hotel was not satisfactory or his breakfast unpalatable. Possibly a rather bewildering night in Broadway was expressing its influence, but he was satisfied that his ill temper was due to a paragraph in the morning paper. It is stated on good authority that the widow of the late multimillionaire, Job Gray, will announce a large and carefully planned scheme of negro education in the South and will richly endow schools in South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and Texas. Criswell finally thrust his food away. He knew that Mrs. Gray helped Smith Smith School and supposed she would continue to do so. With that in mind he had striven to impress her, hoping that she might trust his judgment in later years. He had no idea however that she meant to endow the school or entertained wholesale plans for negro education. The knowledge made him suspicious. Why had neither Mary nor John Taylor mentioned this? Was there after all some nigger-loving conspiracy back of the cotton combine? He took his hat and started downtown. Once in John Taylor's Broadway office he opened the subject abruptly. The more so perhaps because he felt a resentment against Taylor for certain unnamed or partially voiced assumptions. Here was a place however for speech and he spoke almost roughly. Taylor, what does this mean? He thrust the clipping at him. Mean? That Mrs. Gray is going to get rid of some of her surplus cash. It's going to endow some nigger schools. Taylor dryly retorted. It must be stopped, declared Criswell. The others browsed her up. Why? In a surprised tone. Why? Why? Do you think the plantation system can be maintained without laborers? Do you think there's the slightest chance of cornering cotton and buying the black belt? If the niggers are unwilling to work under present conditions, do you know the man that stands ready to gobble up every inch of the cotton land on this country at a price which no trust can hope to rival? John Taylor's interest quickened. Why? No, he returned sharply. Who? The black man, whose woolly head is filled with ideas of rising, who is striving by main force to prevent this. And here come your damn northern philanthropists to plant schools. Why, Taylor, it'll knock the cotton trust the hell. Don't get excited, said Taylor judiciously. We've got things in our hands. It's the gray money, you know, that is back of us. That's just what confounds me, declared the perplexed young man. Are you men fools or rascals? Don't you see the two schemes can't mix? They're dead opposite, mutually contradictory, absolutely. Taylor checked him. It was odd to behold Harry Cresswell so disturbed. Well, wait a moment, let's see, sit down. Wish I had a cigar for you, but I don't smoke. Do you happen to have any whiskey handy? No, I don't drink. Well, what the devil? Oh well, fire away. Now see here, we control the gray millions. Of course, we've got to let her play with our income and that's considerable. Her favorite game just now is Negro education and she's planning to go in heavy. Her advisor in this line, however, is Smith and he belongs to us. What Smith? Why the man who's going to be senator from New Jersey? He has a sister teaching in the south. You know, of course, it's at your home where my sister Mary taught. Great Scott! Is that woman's brother planning to spend this money? Why, are you daft? See here, American cotton spinning supremacy is built on cheap cotton. Cheap cotton is built on cheap negros. Educating or rather trying to educate negros will make them restless and discontented. That is scarce and dear as workers. Don't you see, you're planning to cut off your noses. This Smith school particularly has nearly ruined our plantation. It's stuck almost in our front yard. You are planning to put our plow hands all to study in Greek. And at the same time, the corner of the cotton crop, rot. John Taylor caressed his lean jaw. New point of view to me. I sort of thought education would improve things in the south. He commented unmoved. It would if we ran it. We? Yes, we southerners. Um, I see. See here, let's talk to Easterly about this. They went into the next office and after a while got audience with a trust magnate. Mr. Easterly heard the matter carefully and waved it aside. Oh, that doesn't concern us, Taylor. Let Cresswell take care of the whole thing. We'll see that Smith does what Cresswell wants. But Taylor shook his head. Smith would kick. Mrs. Gray would get suspicious and the devil be to pay. This is better. Form a big committee of northern businessmen like yourself, philanthropists like Vanderpool and southerners like Cresswell. Let them be a sort of Negro education steering committee. We'll see that on such committee, you southerners get what you want. Control of Negro education. That sounds fair, but how about the Smith School? My father writes me that they are showing signs of expecting money right off. Is that true? If it is, I want it stopped. It will ruin our campaign for the farmer's league. John Taylor looked at Cresswell. He thought he saw something more than general policy or even racial prejudice, something personal in his vehemence. The Smith School was evidently a severe thorn in the flesh of this man, all the more reason for molifying him. Then, too, there was something in his argument. It was not wise to start educating these Negroes and getting them discontented just now. Ignorant labor was not ideal, but it was worth too much to employers to lose it now. Educated Negro labor might be worth more to Negroes, but not to the cotton combine. Well, then. And John Taylor went into a brown study while Cresswell popped impatiently at a cigarette. I have it, said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. First, led Mr. Easterly get Smith. Easterly turned to the telephone. Is that you, Smith? Well, this is Easterly. Yes. How about Mrs. Gray's education schemes? Yes. Hmm. Well, see here, Smith. We must go a little easy there. Oh, no, no. But to advertise just now a big scheme of Negro education would drive the Cresswells, the Farmer's League, and the whole business south dead against us. Yes, yes, indeed. They believe in education all right, but they ain't in for training lawyers and professors just yet. No, I don't suppose her school is… Well, then, see here. She'll be reasonable, won't she, and placate the Cresswells? No, I mean run the school to suit their ideas. No, no, but in general, along the lines which they could approve. Yes, I thought so. Of course. Good-bye. Inclined to be a little nasty, asked Taylor. A little sharp, but tractable. Now, Mr. Cresswell, the thing is in your hands. We'll get this committee, which Taylor suggests appointed, and send it on a junket to Alabama. You do the rest, see? Who be the committee? asked Cresswell. Name it. Mr. Cresswell smiled and left. The winter started in severely and it was easy to fill two private cars with members of the new Negro Education Board right after Thanksgiving. Cresswell had worked carefully and with caution. There was Mrs. Gray comfortable and beaming. Mr. Easterly, who thought this a good business opportunity, and his family. Mrs. Vanderpool liked the South and was amused at the trip and had induced Mr. Vanderpool to come by stories of shooting. Ah, said Mr. Vanderpool. Mr. Charles Smith and John Taylor were both too busy to go, but bronchial trouble induced the Reverend Dr. Bouldish of St. Faith's Rich Parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment, Temple Bochum, the sociologist, consented to join. Awfully busy, he said. But I've been reading up on the Negro problems, since you mentioned the matter to me last week, Mr. Cresswell, and I think I understand it thoroughly. I may be able to help out. The necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by Ms. Taylor and Ms. Cresswell, together with the silent Ms. Bouldish. They were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr. Bouldish pointed out the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones. Mr. Bochum counted them and estimated the number of hours of work lost at ten cents an hour. Do they get that? Ten cents an hour? asked Ms. Taylor. Oh, I don't know, replied Mr. Bochum. But suppose they do, for instance. That is an average wage today. They look lazy, said Mrs. Gray. They are lazy, said Mr. Cresswell. So am I, added Mrs. Vanderpool, suppressing a yawn. It is uninteresting, murmured her husband, preparing for a nap. On the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the moment they drew out of Jersey City to the afternoon when, in four carriages, they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all Toomsville and swept under the shadowed rampart of the swamp. The Christmas was coming and all the southern world was busy. Few people were busier than Bless and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully for them, heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and the trimmer thrilled all lands and seas. Everything was good. All things were happy, and these two were happiest of all. Out of the shadows and hesitations of childhood they had stepped suddenly into manhood and womanhood, with firm feet and uplifted heads. All the day that was theirs they worked, picking the silver fleece, picking it tenderly and lovingly from off the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly yielded life and beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken tendril, this white beauty of the cotton. November came and flew and still the unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit. Today seemed doubly glorious for Bless had spoken of their marriage. With twined hands and arms and lips ever and again seeking their mates, they walked the leafy way. Unconscious, wrapped, they stepped out into the big road skirting the edge of the swamp. Why not? Was it not the king's highway? And love was king. So they talked on, unknowing that far up the road the Creswell Coaches were wheeling along with precious burdens in the first carriage were Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Creswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs. Vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Gray was a little stiff with long travel and sat upright. Mr. Creswell looked clean cut and handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying of the day soothed them insensibly. Groups of dark little children passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and greeting timidly. There seems to be marrying and giving in marriage, laughed Mrs. Vanderpool. Not very much, said Mr. Creswell dryly. Well, at least plenty of children. Plenty? For where are the houses? asked Mrs. Gray. Perhaps in the swamp, said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up at the somber trees that lined the left. They live where they please and do as they please, Creswell explained to which Mrs. Vanderpool added, like other animals. Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage's four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily. Out through the wood, Bless and Zora had come to the broad red road. Playfully, he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place. You are tall and bend like grasses in the swamp, he said. And yet look up to you, she murmured. Your eyes are darkness dressed in night. To see you brighter, dear, she said. Your little hands are much too frail for work. They must grow larger then and soon. Your feet are too small to travel on. They'll travel on to you, that's far enough. Your lips, your full and purple lips, were made alone for kissing, not for words. They'll do for both. He laughed in utter joy and touched her hair with light caressing hands. It does not fly with sunlight, she said quickly, with an upper glance. No, he answered. It sits and listens to the night. But even as she nestled to him happily, there came the harsh thunder of horses' hooves beating on their ears. He drew her quickly to him in fear, and the coach lurched and turned, and left them facing four pairs of eyes. Miss Taylor reddened. Mrs. Gray looked surprised. Mrs. Vanderpool smiled. But Mr. Cresswell darkened with anger. The couple unclasped. Shame facedly, and the young man lifted his hat, starting to stammer an apology. But Cresswell interrupted him. Keep y'all, y'all fallander into the woods, or I shall have you arrested. He said slowly, his face colorless, his lips twitching with anger. Drive on, John. Miss Taylor felt that her worst suspicions had been confirmed. But Mrs. Vanderpool was curious as to the cause of Cresswell's anger. It was so genuine that it needed explanation. Ah, kiss is illegal here? She asked before the horses started, turning the battery of her eyes full upon him. But Cresswell had himself well in hand. No, he said. But the girl is notorious. On the lovers the words fell like a blow. Zora shivered, and a grayish horror mottled the dark burning of her face. Bless started in anger, then paused and shivering doubt. What had happened? They knew not. Yet involuntarily their hands fell apart. They avoided each other's eyes. Ah, I must go now! Gas Zora as the carriage swept away. He did not hold her. He did not offer the farewell kiss, but stood staring at the road as she walked into the swamp. A moment she paused and looked back, then slowly, almost painfully, she took the path back to the field of the fleece, and reaching it after long, long minutes began mechanically to pick the cotton. But the cotton glowed crimson in the failing sun. Bless walked toward the school. What had happened, he kept asking, and yet he dared not question the awful shape that sat somewhere cold and still behind his soul. He heard the hooves of the horses again. It was Miss Taylor being brought back to the school to greet Miss Smith and break the news of the coming of the party. He raised his hat. She did not return the greeting, but he found her pausing at the gate. It seemed to her too awful for this foolish fellow thus to throw himself away. She faced him and he flinched as from some descending blow. Bless, she said primely, have you absolutely no shame? He braced himself and raised his head proudly. I am going to marry her. It is no crime. Then he noted the expression on her face and paused. She stepped back, scandalized. Can it be Bless all when, she said, that you don't know what sort of girl she is? He raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly as she turned to go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. The heavens flame scarlet in his eyes and he screamed. It's a lie. It's a damn lie. He wheeled about and tore into the swamp. It's a damn lie. He shouted to the trees. Is it? Is it? Chirped the birds. It's a cruel falsehood. He moaned. Is it? Is it? Whispered the devils within. It seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and faltering about him. The trees bent curiously and strange breathings were upon the breezes. He unbuttoned his collar that he might get more air. A thousand things he had forgotten surged suddenly to life. Slower and slower he ran. More and more the thoughts crowded his head. He thought of that first red night and the yelling and singing and wild dancing. He thought of Cresswell's bitter words. He thought of Zora telling how she stayed out nights. He thought of the little bower that he had built her in the cotton field. A wild fear struggled with his anger, but he kept repeating. No, no. And then, at any rate, she will tell me the truth. She had never lied to him. She would not dare. He clenched his hands, murder in his heart. Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was, where she must be, waiting. And yet as he drew near, huge hands held him back and heavy weights clogged his feet. His heart said, On, quick! She will tell the truth and all will be well. His mind said, Slow, slow, this is the end. He hurled the thought aside and crashed through the barrier. She was standing still and listening with a huge basket of the piled froth of the field upon her head. One long, brown arm, tender with curvings, balanced the cotton. The other, poised, balanced the slim, swaying body. Bending she listened, her eyes shining, her lips apart, her bosom fluttering at the well-known step, he burst into her view with the fury of a beast, rending the wood away and trampling the underbrush, reeling and muttering until he saw her. She looked at him, her hands dropped. She stood very still with drawn face, grayish-brown, both hands unconsciously outstretched and the cotton swaying. While deep down in her eyes, dimly, slowly, a horror lit and grew. He paused a moment then came slowly onward doggedly, drunkenly with torn clothes, flying collar and red eyes. Then he paused again, still beyond arm's length, looking at her with fear-struck eyes. The cotton on her head shivered and dropped in a pure mass of white and silvery snow about her limbs. Her hands fell limply and the horror flamed in her wet eyes. He struggled with his voice but it grated and came horse and hard from his quivering throat. Zora, yes, bless? You told me you were pure. She was silent but her body went all a tremble. He stepped forward until she could almost touch him. There, standing straight and tall, he glared down upon her. Answer me! He whispered in a voice hard with its tight held sobs. A misery darkened her face and the light died from her eyes. Yes, she looked at him bravely and her voice came low and full as from afar. I asked you what it meant to be pure, bless? And you told, and I told you the truth. What it meant? What it meant? He repeated in the low tense anguish. But, but bless? She faltered. There came an awful pleading in her eyes. Her hand grove toward him but he stepped slowly back. But bless, you said willingly. You said if, if she knew. He thundered back and lived in anger. No, all women know. You should have died. Sobs were rising and shaking her from head to foot. But she drove them back and gripped her breasts with her hands. No, bless. No, all girls do not know. I was a child. Not since I knew you, bless. Never, never since I saw you. Since, since, he groaned. Cressed, but before. Yes, before. My God! She knew the end had come. Yet she babbled on, tremblingly. He was our master and all the other girls that gathered there did his will. She choked and faltered and he drew farther away. I began running away and they hunted me through the swamps. And then, then I reckoned I'd have gone back and been as they all are. But you came, bless. You came. And you, you were a new great thing in my life. And, and, and yet I was afraid I was not worthy until you. You said the words I thought you knew. And I thought that the purity was just wanting to be pure. He ground his teeth in fury. Oh, he was an innocent, a blind baby. The joke and laughing stock of the country around with yokels grinning at him and pale-faced devils laughing aloud. The teachers knew. The girls knew. God knew. Everybody but he knew. Poor, blind, deaf mole. Stupid jackass that he was. He must run, run away from this world and far off in some free land beat back his pain. Then in sheer weariness the anger died within his soul leaving but ashes in despair. Slowly he turned away, but with a quick motion she stood in his path. Bless. She cried. How can I grow pure? He looked at her listlessly. Never, never again. He slowly answered her. Dark fear swept her drawn face. Never. She gasped. Pity surged and fought in his breast, but one thought held and burned him. He bent to her fiercely. Who? He demanded. She pointed toward the Creswell oaks and he turned away. She did not attempt to stop him again, but dropped her hands and stared drearily up until the clear sky with its shining whirls. Goodbye, bless. She said slowly. Thank God he gave you to me. Just a little time. She hesitated and waited. There came no word as the man moved slowly away. She stood motionless. Then slowly he turned and came back. He laid his hand a moment lightly upon her head. Goodbye, Zora. He sobbed and was gone. She did not look up, but knelt there, silent, dry-eyed, till the last rustle of his going died in the night and then like a waiting storm the torrent of her grief swept down upon her. She stretched herself upon the black and fleece-drawn earth and writhed. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 The Great Refusal 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. All night Miss Smith lay holding the quivering form of Zora close to her breast, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, thinking, thinking. In the morning the party would come. There would be Mrs. Gray and Mary Taylor, Mrs. Vanderpool who had left her so coldly in the lurch before, and some of the Creswells. They would come well fed and impressed with the charming hospitality of their hosts and rather more than willing to see through those hosts' eyes. They would be in a hurry to return to some social function and would give her work but casual attention. It seemed so dark and ending too so bright a dream. Never for her had a fall opened as gloriously. The love of this boy and girl blossoming as it had beneath her tender care had been a sacred, wonderful history that revived within her memories of long forgotten days. But above lay the vision of her school redeemed and enlarged. Its future safe, its usefulness broadened. Small wonder that to Sarah Smith the future had seemed in November almost golden. Then things began to go wrong. The transfer of the Tolliverland had not yet been affected, the money was ready but Mr. Tolliver seemed busy or hesitating. Next came this news of Mrs. Gray's probable conditions. So here it was, Christmas time and Sarah Smith's castles lay almost in ruins about her. The girl moaned in her fitful sleep and Ms. Smith soothed her, poor child, here too was work, a strange soul cruelly stricken in her youth. Could she be brought back to a useful life? How she seemed such a strong, clear-eyed helper in this crisis of her work. Would Zora make one or would this blow send her to perdition? Not if Sarah Smith could save her, she resolved, and stared out the window where the pale red dawn was sending its first rays on the white-pillared mansion of the Cresswells. Mrs. Gray saw the light on the columns too as she lay lazily in her soft white bed. There was a certain delicious langer in the late lingering fall of Alabama that suited her perfectly. Then too she liked the house and its appointments. There was not, to be sure, all the luxury that she was used to in her New York mansion, but there was a certain finish about it, an elegance, and staid old-fashioned hospitality that appealed to her tremendously. Mrs. Gray's heart warmed to the sight of Helen in her moments of spasmodic caring for the sick and afflicted on the estate. No better guardian of her philanthropies could be found than these same Cresswells. She must, of course, go over and see dear Sarah Smith, but really there was not much to say or to look at. The prospect seemed almost alluring. Later Mr. Easterly talked awhile on routine business saying as he turned away, I am more and more impressed Mrs. Gray with your wisdom in placing large investments in the south. With peaceful social conditions, the returns will be large. Mrs. Gray heard this delicate flattery complacently. She had her streak a-thrift and wanted her business capacity recognized. She listened attentively. For this reason I trust you'll handle your negro philanthropies judiciously as I know you will. There's dynamite in this race problem for amateur reformers, but fortunately you have it hand-wise and sympathetic advisors in the Cresswells. Mrs. Gray agreed entirely. Mary Taylor alone of the committee took her commission so seriously as to be anxious to begin work. We ought to visit the school this morning, you know. She reminded the others looking at her watch. I'm afraid we're late already. The remark created mild consternation. It seemed that Mr. Vanderpool had gone hunting and his wife had not yet arisen. Dr. Boldish was very hoarse. Mr. Easterly was going to look over some plantations with Colonel Cresswell and Mr. Bocum was engrossed in a novel. Clever but not true to life, he said. Finally the clergymen and Mr. Bocum, Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Vanderpool and Ms. Taylor started for the school with Harry Cresswell about an hour after lunch. The delay and suppressed excitement among the little folks had upset things considerably there, but at the sight of the visitors at the gate Ms. Smith rang the bell. The party came in laughing and chatting. They greeted Ms. Smith cordially. Dr. Boldish was beginning to tell a good story when a silence fell. The children had gathered quietly almost timidly and before the distinguished company realized it they turned to meet that battery of four hundred eyes. A human eye is a wonderful thing when it simply waits and watches. Not one of these little things alone would have been worth more than a glance, but together they became mighty and portentous. Mr. Bocum got out his notebook and wrote furiously therein. Dr. Boldish, naturally the appointed spokesman, looked helplessly about and whispered to Mrs. Vanderpool, What on earth shall we talk about? The brotherhood of man, suggested the lady. Hardly advisable, returned Dr. Boldish seriously in our friend's presence with a glance toward Cresswell. Then he arose. My friends, he said, touching his fingertips and using blank verse in A Minor. This is an auspicious day. You should be thankful for the gifts of the Lord. His bounty surrounds you, the trees, the fields, the glorious sun. He gives cotton to clothe you, corn to eat, devoted friends to teach you. Be joyful, be good, above all be thrifty and save your money and do not complain and whine at your apparent disadvantages. Remember that God did not create men equal but unequal and set mates and bounds. It is not for us to question the wisdom of the Almighty but to bow humbly to his will. Remember that the slavery of your people was not necessarily a crime. It was a school of work and love. It gave you noble friends like Mr. Cresswell here. A restless stirring in the battery of eyes was turned upon the imperturbable gentleman as if he were some strange animal. Love and serve them. Remember that we can get after all little education from books rather in the fields, at the plow and in the kitchen. Let your ambition be to serve rather than rule. To be humble followers of the lowly Jesus. With an upward glance the Reverend Dr. Bouldish sat down amid a silence a shade more intense than that which had greeted him. Then slowly from the far corner rose a thin voice, termulously. It wavered on the air and almost broke, then swelled in sweet low music. Other and stronger voices gathered themselves to it until two hundred were singing a soft minor wail that gripped the hearts and tingled in the ears of the hearers. Mr. Bochum groped with a puzzled expression to find the pocket for his notebook. Harry Cresswell dropped his eyes and on Mrs. Vanderpool's lips the smile died. Mary Taylor flushed and Mrs. Gray cried frankly. Poor things, she whispered. Now, said Mrs. Gray, turning about, we haven't but just a moment and we want to take a little look at your work. She smiled graciously upon Miss Smith. Mrs. Gray thought the cooking school very nice. I suppose, she said, that you furnish cooks for the county. Largely, said Miss Smith. Mrs. Vanderpool looked surprised, but Miss Smith added, this county you know is mostly black. Mrs. Gray did not catch the point. The dormitories were neat and the ladies expressed great pleasure in them. It is certainly nice for them to know what a clean place is, commented Mrs. Gray. Mr. Cresswell, however, looked at the bathroom and smiled. How practical, he said. Can you not stop and see some of the classes? Sarah Smith knew in her heart that the visit was a failure. Still, she would do her part to the end. I doubt if we shall have time. Mrs. Gray returned as they walked on. Mr. Cresswell expects friends to dinner. What a magnificent intelligence office, remarked Mr. Bochum, for furnishing servants to the nation. I saw splendid material for cooks and maids. And plow boys, added Cresswell. And singers, said Mary Taylor. Well now, that's just my idea, said Mrs. Gray, that these schools should furnish trained servants and laborers for the South. Isn't that your idea, Mrs. Smith? Not exactly, the lady replied, or at least I shouldn't put it just that way. My idea is that this school should furnish men and women who can work and earn an honest living, train up families aright, and perform their duties as fathers, mothers, and citizens. Yes, yes, precisely, said Mrs. Gray. That's what I meant. I think the whites can attend to the duties of citizenship without help, observed Mr. Cresswell. Don't let the blacks meddle in politics, said Dr. Bouldish. I want to make these children full-fledged men and women strong, self-reliant, honest without any ifs and ands to their development, insisted Mrs. Smith. Of course, and that is just what Mr. Cresswell wants. Isn't it, Mr. Cresswell? asked Mrs. Gray. I think I may say yes, Mr. Cresswell agreed. I certainly want these people to develop as far as they can, although Ms. Smith and I would differ as to their possibilities, but it is not so much in the general theory of Negro education, as in its particular applications where our chief differences would lie. I may agree that a boy should learn higher arithmetic, yet object to his loafing in plow time. I might want to educate some girls, but not girls like Zora. Mrs. Vanderpool glanced at Mr. Cresswell smiling to herself. Mrs. Gray broke in, beaming. That's just it, dear Ms. Smith. Just it. Your heart is good, but you need strong practical advice. You know we weak women are so impractical, as my poor Job so often said. Now I'm going to arrange to endow this school with at least, at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One condition is that my friend Mr. Cresswell here, and these other gentlemen, including sound northern businessman, like Mr. Easterly, shall hold this money in trust, and expend it for your school as they think best. Mr. Cresswell would be their local representative, asked Ms. Smith slowly with white face. Why yes, yes, of course. There was a long tense silence, then the firm reply. Mrs. Gray, I thank you, but I cannot accept your offer. Sarah Smith's voice was strong. The trimmer had left her hands. She had expected something like this, of course, yet, when it came, somehow, it failed to stun. She would not turn over the direction of the school or the direction of the education of these people, to those who were most opposed to their education. Therefore there was no need to hesitate. There was no need to think the thing over. She had thought it over, and she looked into Mrs. Gray's eyes and with gathering tears and her own said, Again, I thank you very much, Mrs. Gray. Mrs. Gray was a picture of the most emphatic surprise, and Mr. Cresswell moved to the window. Mrs. Gray looked helplessly at her companions. But I, I don't understand. Mrs. Smith, why can't you accept my offer? Because you ask me to put my school in control of those who do not wish for the best interests of black folk, and in particular, I object to Mr. Cresswell, said Mrs. Smith, slowly but very distinctly. Because his relation to the forces of evil in this community has been such that he can direct no school of mine, Mrs. Vanderpool moved toward the door and Mr. Cresswell, bowing slightly, followed. Dr. Bouldish looked indignant and Mr. Bocum dove after his notebook. Mary Taylor, her head in a whirl came forward. She felt that in some way she was responsible for this dreadful situation, and she wanted desperately to save matters from final disaster. Come, she said. Mrs. Gray, we'll talk this matter over again later. I'm sure Mrs. Smith does not mean quite all she says. She is tired and nervous. You can join the others and don't wait for me. I will be along directly. Mrs. Gray was only too glad to escape, and Mr. Bocum got a chance to talk. He drew out his notebook. Awfully interesting, he said. Awfully. Now, uh, let's see. Oh yes, did you notice how unhealthy the children looked? Race is undoubtedly dying out. Fact. No hope. Weak. No spontaneity either, rather languid. Did you notice? Yes, and their heads small and narrow. No brain capacity. They can't concentrate. Notice how some slept when Dr. Bouldish was speaking? Mr. Cresswell says they own almost no land here. Think of it. This land was worth only $10 an acre a decade ago, he says. Negroes might have bought all and been rich. Very shiftless. And that's singing. Now, I wonder where they got the music. Imitation, of course. And so he rattled on, noting not the silence of the others. As the carriage drove off, Mary turned to Miss Smith. Now, Miss Smith, she began. But Miss Smith looked at her and said sternly, Sit down. Mary Taylor sat down. She had been so used to lecturing the older woman that the sudden summoning of her well-known sternness against herself took her breath, and she sat awkwardly like the school girl that she was waiting for Ms. Smith to speak. She felt suddenly very young and very helpless. She, who had so jauntily set out to solve this mighty problem by a waving of her wand, she saw with a swelling of pity the drawn and stricken face of her old friend, and she started up. Sit down. Repeated Miss Smith harshly, Mary Taylor, you are a fool. You are not foolish, for the foolish learn. You are simply a fool. You will never learn. You have blundered into this life work of mine and well now I ruined it. Whether I can save it, God only knows. You have blundered into the lives of two loving children and sent one wandering aimless on the face of the earth, and the other moaning in yonder chamber with death in her heart. You are going to marry the man that sought Zora's ruin when she was yet a child because you think of his aristocratic pose and pretensions built on the poverty, crime, and exploitation of six generations of serfs. You'll marry him, and but Miss Taylor left to her feet with blazing cheeks. How dare you! she screamed beside herself. But God in heaven help you if you do, finished Miss Smith calmly. CHAPTER XII THE RAPE OF THE FLEECE THE QUEST OF THE SILVER FLEECE by W. E. B. Du Bois recorded by A. J. Hilton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. When slowly from the torpor of ether one wakens to the misty sense of eternal loss, and there comes the exquisite prick of pain, then one feels in part the horror of the ache when Zora wakened to the world again. The awakening was the work of days and weeks. At first in sheer exhaustion, physical and mental, she lay and moaned. The sense of loss, of utter loss, lay heavy upon her, something of herself, something dearer than self was gone from her forever, and an infinite loneliness and silence as of endless years settled on her soul. She wished neither food nor words, only to be alone. Then gradually the pain of injury stung her when the blood flowed fuller. As Miss Smith knelt beside her one night to make her simple prayer, Zora sat suddenly upright, white-swathed, disheveled, with fury in her midnight eyes. I want no prayers, she cried. I will not pray. He is no God of mine. He isn't fair. He knows and won't tell. He takes advantage of us. He works and fools us. All night Miss Smith heard mutterings of this bitterness, and the next day the girl walked her room like a Tigris, to and fro, to and fro, all the long day. Toward night a dumb despair settled upon her. Miss Smith found her sitting by the window gazing blankly toward the swamp. She came to Miss Smith slowly, and put her hands upon her shoulders with almost a caress. You must forgive me, she pleaded plaintively. I reckon I've been mighty bad with you, and you always so good to me, but, but you see, it hurts so. I know it hurts, dear. I know it does. But men and women must learn to bear their hurts in this world. Not hurts like this. They couldn't. Yes, even hurts like this. Bear and stand straight. Be brave. After all, Zora, no man is quite worth a woman's soul. No love is worth a whole life. Zora turned away with a gesture of impatience. You were born in ice, she retorted, adding a bit more tenderly. In clear, strong ice, but I was born in fire. I live. I love. That's all. And she sat down again despairingly and stared at the dull swamp. Miss Smith stood for a moment and closed her eyes upon a vision. Ice, she whispered, my God. Then at length she said to Zora, Zora, there's only one way. Do something. If you sit thus brooding, you'll go crazy. Do crazy folks forget? Nonsense, Zora. Miss Smith ridiculed the girl's fantastic vagaries. Her sound common sense rallied to her aid. They are the people who remember. Sane folk forget. Work is the only cure for such pain. But there's nothing to do. Nothing I want to do. Nothing worth doing. Now. The silver fleece. The girl sat upright. The silver fleece. She murmured. Without further words slowly she arose and walked down the stairs and out into the swamp. Miss Smith watched her go. She knew that every step must be the keen prickle of awakening flesh, yet the girl walked steadily on. It was the Christmas, not Christmas tide of the North and West, but Christmas of the Southern South. It was not the festival of the Christ child, but a time of noise and frolic and license. The great payday of the year when black men lifted their heads from the years toiling in the earth and, had in hand, asked anxiously, Master, what have I earned? Have I paid my old debts to you? Have I made my clothes and food? Have I got a little of the year's wage coming to me? Or more carelessly and cringingly. Master, give me a Christmas gift. The lords of the soil stood round, gauging their cotton measuring their men. Their stores were crowded. Their scales groaned. Their gins sang. In the long run public opinion determines all wage, but in more primitive times and places private opinion, personal judgment of some man in power determines. The black belt is primitive and the landlord wields the power. What about Johnson? calls the head clerk. Well, he's a faithful nigger and needs encouragement. Cancel his debt and give him ten dollars for Christmas. Colonel Cresswell glowed as if he were full of the seasoned spirit. And Saunders? How's his cotton? Good and a lot of it. He's trying to get away. Keep him in debt, but let him draw what he wants. Aunt Rachel? Hmm, they're way behind, aren't they? Give a couple of dollars, not a cent more. Jim Sykes? Say Harry, how about that dark-ass Sykes? Called out the Colonel? Excusing himself from his guests, Harry Cresswell came into the office. To them this peculiar spectacle of the marketplace was of unusual interest. They saw its humor and its crowding, its bizarre effects and unwanted pageantry. Black giants and pygmies were there, kerchiefed aunties, giggling black girls, saffron beauties, and loafing white men. There were mules and horses and oxen, wagons and buggies and carts, but above all, and in all, rushing through, hiled and flying, bound and bailed, was cotton. Cotton was currency, cotton was merchandise, cotton was conversation. All this was beautiful to Mrs. Gray, and unusually interesting to Mrs. Vanderpool. To Mary Taylor it had the fascination of a puzzle whose other side she had already been partially studying. She was particularly impressed with the joy and abandon of the scene. Light laughter, huge gaffaws, handshakes and gossipings. At all advance, she concluded, this is no oppressed people. And sauntering away from the rest she noted the smiles of an undersized, smirking yellow man who hurried by with a handful of dollar bills. At a side entrance liquor was evidently on sale. Men were drinking and women too. Some were staggering, others cursing and yet others singing. Then suddenly a man swung around the corner swearing in bitter rage. The damn thieves! They stole a year's work, the white! But someone called. Hush up, Saunders! There's a white woman, there's a white woman! And he threw a startled look at Mary and hurried by. She was perplexed and upset, and stood hesitating a moment when she heard a well-known voice. Why, Miss Taylor, how was alarm fire? You really must be careful about trusting yourself with these half-drunken nagras. Wouldn't it be better not to give them drink, Mr. Cresswell? And let your neighbor sell them poison at all hours? No, Miss Taylor. They joined the others and all were turning toward the carriage when a figure coming down the road attracted them. Quiet, picturesque! Observed Mrs. Vanderpool, looking at the tall, slim girl swaying toward them with a piled basket of white cotton poised lightly on her head, in abrupt recognition. It is our Venus of the roadside, is it not? Mary saw it was Zora, just then too Zora caught sight of them, and for a moment hesitated. Then came on. The carriage was in front of the store and she was bound for the store. A moment Mary hesitated to and then turned resolutely to greet her. But Zora's eyes did not see her. After one look at that sorrow-stricken face, Mary turned away. Colonel Cresswell stood by the door, his hat on, his hands in his pockets. Well, Zora, what have you there? He asked. Cotton, sir? Harry Cresswell bent over it. Great heavens! Look at this cotton! He ejaculated. His father approached. The cotton lay in silken handfuls clean and shimmering with threads full two inches long. The idlers, black and white, clustered round, gazing at it and fingering it with repeated exclamations of astonishment. Where did this come from? Asked the Colonel sharply. He and Harry were both eyeing the girl intently. I raised it in the swamp. Zora replied quietly, in a dead voice. There was no pride of achievement in her manner, no gladness. All that had flown. Is that all? No, sir. I think there's two bales. Two bales? Where is it? How, the devil? The Colonel was forgetting his guests, but Harry intervened. You'll need to get it picked right off. He suggested. It's all picked, sir. But where is it? If you send a wagon, sir. But the Colonel hardly waited. Hell you, Jim! Take the big mules and drive like, where's that winch? But Zora was already striding on ahead and was far up the red road when the great mules galloped into sight and the long whip snapped above their backs. The Colonel was still excited. That cotton must be ours, Harry. All of it. And see that none is stolen. We've got no contract with the winch. So don't dally with her. But Harry said firmly, quietly, It's fine cotton, and she raised it. She must be paid well for it. Colonel Creswell glanced at him with something between contempt and astonishment on his face. You go along with the ladies, Harry added. I'll see to this cotton. Mary Taylor's smile had rewarded him. Now he must get rid of his company before Zora returned. It was dark when the cotton came. Such a load as Creswell's store had never seen before. Zora watched it wade, received the cotton-checks, and entered the store. Only the clerk was there and he was closing. He pointed her carelessly to the office in the back part. She went into the small, dim room and laying the cotton-check on the desk stood waiting. Slowly the hopelessness and bitterness of it all came back in a great, whelming flood. What was the use of trying for anything? She was lost forever. The world was against her and again she saw the fingers of Elspeth, the long black claw-like talons that clutched and dragged her down, down. She did not struggle. She dropped her hands listlessly, warily and stood but half-conscious as the door opened and Mr. Harry Creswell entered the dimly-lighted room. She opened her eyes. She had expected his father. Somewhere way down in the depths of her nature the primal tiger awoke and snarled. She was suddenly alive from hair to fingertip. Harry Creswell paused a second and swept her full length with his eye, her profile, the long supple line of bosom in hip, the little foot. Then he closed the door softly and walked slowly toward her. She stood like stone without a quiver. Only her eye followed the crooked line of the Creswell blue blood on his marble forehead as she looked down from her greater height. Her hand closed almost caressingly on a rusty poker lying on the stove nearby, and as she sensed the hot breath of him she felt herself purring in a half-herd whisper, I should not like to kill you. He looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk. Slowly he lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and compared the cotton check with it. Three thousand pounds, he announced in a careless tone. Yes, that will make about two bales of lint. It's extra cotton, save fifteen cents a pound, one hundred and fifty dollars, seventy-five dollars to you. Hmm. He took a notebook out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head and paused to relight his cigarette. Let's see. Yo rent and rations. Al spent days no rent, she said slowly, but he did not seem to hear. Yo rent and rations, with the five years back debt, he made a hasty calculation. We'll be one hundred dollars. That leaves you twenty-five in our debt. Here's your receipt. The blow had fallen. She did not wince nor cry out. She took the receipt calmly and walked out into the darkness. They had stolen the silver fleece. What should she do? She never thought of appeal to courts, for Colonel Cresswell was justice of the peace and his son was bailiff. Why had they stolen from her? She knew. She was now penniless and, in a sense, helpless. She was now a peon bound to a master's bidding. If Elspeth chose to sign a contract of work for her tomorrow, it would mean slavery, jail or hounded running away. What would Elspeth do? One never knew. Zora walked on. An hour ago it seemed that this last blow must have killed her, but now it was different. Into her first despair had crept in one fierce moment grim determination. Somewhere in the world sat a great dim injustice that had veiled the light before her young eyes, just as she raised them to the morning. With the veiling death had come into her heart, and yet they should not kill her. They should not enslave her. A desperate resolve to find some way up toward the light, if not to it, formed itself within her. She would not fall into the pit opening before her. Somehow, somewhere lay the way. She must never fall lower, never be utterly despicable in the eyes of the man she had loved. There was no dream of forgiveness, of purification, of rekindled love. All these she placed sadly and gently into the dead past, but in awful earnestness she turned toward the future, struggling blindly, groping in half-formed plans for a way. She came thus into the room where sat Miss Smith, strangely pallid beneath her dusky skin, but there lay a light in her eyes. All over the land the cotton had foamed in great white flakes under the winter sun. The silver fleece lay like a mighty mantle across the earth. Black men and mules had staggered beneath its burden, while deep songs welled in the hearts of men, for the fleece was goodly and gleaming and soft, and men dreamed of the gold it would buy. All the roads in the country had been lined with wagons, a million wagon speeding to and fro, with straining mules and laughing black men, bearing bubbling masses of piled white fleece. The gins were still roaring and spitting flames and smoke, fifty thousand of them in town and veil. Then horse iron throats were filled with fifteen billion pounds of white fleeced black specked cotton, for the whirling saws to tear out the seed and fling five thousand million pounds of the silken fiber to the press, and there again the black men sang like dark earth spirits flitting in twilight. The presses creaked and groaned closer and closer they pressed the silken fleece, it quivered, trembled, and then lay cramped, dead, and still in massive hard square bundles tied with iron strings, out fell the heavy bales thousand upon thousand million upon million, until they settled over the south like some vast dull white swarm of birds. Colonel Creswell and his son in these days had a long and earnest conversation, perforated here and there by explosions of the Colonel's wrath. The Colonel could not understand some things. They want us to revive the farmer's league, he fiercely demanded. Yes, Harry calmly replied, and throw the rest of our capital after the fifty thousand dollars we've already lost? Yes, and you were fool enough to consent. Wait, father, and don't get excited. Listen, cotton is going up. Of course it's going up. Short crop in big demand. Cotton is going up, and then it's going to fall. I don't believe it. I know it. The trust has got money and credit enough to force it down. Well, what then? The Colonel glared. Then somebody will corner it. The farmer's league won't stand. Precisely. The farmer's league can do the cornering and hold it for higher prices. Lord son, if we only could. Grown the Colonel. We can. We'll have unlimited credit, but stuttered the bewildered Colonel. I don't understand. Why should the trust nonsense, father? What's the use of understanding? Our advantage is plain, and John Taylor guarantees the thing. Who's John Taylor? Snorted the Colonel. Why should we trust him? Well, said Harry slowly. He wants to marry Helen. His father grew apoplectic. I'm not saying he will, father. I'm only saying that he wants to. Harry made haste to placate the rising tide of wrath. No, southern gentleman, began the Colonel, but Harry shrugged his shoulders. Which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at their expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted assumptions on the part of one of them. I tell you, father, the cold of the southern gentleman won't work on Wall Street. And I'll tell you why. There are no southern gentlemen, growled his father. The silver fleece was golden for its prices were flying aloft. Mr. Caldwell told Colonel Cresswell that he confidently expected twelve-cent cotton. The crop is excellent and small. Scarce left ten million bales, he declared. The price is bound to go up. Colonel Cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful. The demand for cotton at high prices usually fell off rapidly, and he had heard rumors of curtailed mill production. While then he hoped for high prices, he advised the farmer's league to be on guard. Mr. Caldwell seemed to be right, for cotton rose to ten cents a pound, ten and a half, eleven, and then the south began to see visions and to dream dreams. Yes, my dear, said Mr. Maxwell, whose lands lay next to the Cresswells on the northwest. Yes, if Cotton goes to twelve or thirteen cents, as seems probable, I think we can begin the new house. For Mrs. Maxwell's cherished dream was a pillared mansion like the Cresswells. Mr. Tolliver looked at his house and barns. Well, daughter, if this crop sells at twelve cents, I'll be on my feet again, and I won't have to sell that land to the nigger school after all. One side of the clutch of the Cresswells? Well, I think we can have a coat of paint. And he laughed, as he had not laughed in ten years. Down in the bottoms west of the swamp, a man and woman were figuring painfully on an old slate. He was light brown, and she was yellow. Honey, he said tremblingly, I believe we can do it. If Cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay the mortgage. Two miles north of the school, an old black woman was shouting and waving her arms. If Cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay out and be free. And she threw her apron over her head and wept, gathering her children in her arms. But even as she cried, a flash and tremor shook the south. Far away to the north, a great spider sat weaving his web. The office looked down from the clouds on lower Broadway, and was soft with velvet and leather. Swift silent messengers hurried in and out, and Mr. Easterly, deciding the time was ripe, called his henchmen to him. Taylor, we're ready. Go south. And John Taylor rose, shook hands silently, and went. As he entered Cresswell's plantation store three days later, a colored woman and a little boy turned sadly away from the counter. No, auntie. The clerk was telling her. Calico was too high. Can't let you have any till we see how your cotton comes out. I just wanted a bed. I promised the boy. Gone, gone. Why, Mr. Taylor. And the little boy burst into tears while he was hurried out, tightening up on the tenants. Asked Taylor. Yes, these niggers are mad extravagant. The sass cotton fell a little today, eleven to ten and three false. Just a flurry, I reckon. Had you heard? Mr. Taylor said he had heard, and he hurried on. Next morning the long shining wires of that great Broadway web trembled and flashed again, and cotton went to ten cents. No house this year, I fear. Quoth Mr. Maxwell bitterly. The next day nine and a half was the quotation, and men began to look at each other and asked questions. Paper says the crop is larger than the government estimate, said Tolliver, and added, There'll be no paint in this year. He looked toward the Smith School and thought of the five thousand dollars waiting, but he hesitated. John Taylor had carefully mentioned seven thousand dollars as a price he was willing to pay and, perhaps, more. Was Cresswell back of Taylor? Tolliver was suspicious and moved to Delay Matters. It's manipulation and speculation in New York, said Colonel Cresswell, and the farmer's league most began operations. The local paper soon had an editorial on our distinguished fellow citizen, Colonel Cresswell, and his efforts to revive the farmer's league. It was understood that Colonel Cresswell was risking his whole private fortune to hold the price of cotton and some effort seemed to be needed for cotton dropped to nine cents within a week. Swift negotiations ensued and a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Farmer's League was held in Montgomery. A system of warehouses and warehouse certificates was proposed. But that will cost money, responded each of the dozen big landlords who composed the committee, whereupon Harry Cresswell introduced John Taylor, who represented thirty millions of southern bank stock. I promise you credit at any reasonable amount, said Mr. Taylor. I believe in cotton. The present price is abnormal. And Mr. Taylor knew whereof he spoke, for when he sent a cipher dispatch north, cotton dropped to eight and a half. The farmer's league leased three warehouses at Savannah, Montgomery, and New Orleans. Then silently the South gripped itself and prepared for battle. Men stopped spending, businesses grew dull, and millions of eyes were glued to the blackboards of the cotton exchange. Tighter and tighter the reins grew on the backs of the black tenants. Miss Smith, is your just got a draper call for the limit? Mr. Cresswell won't give me nothing to stole, and I just stole them for some, said Aunt Rachel from over the hill. We won't get free this year, Miss Smith. Not this year, she concluded plaintively. Cotton fell to seven and a half cents, and the muttered protest became angry denunciation. Why was it? Who was doing it? Harry Cresswell went to Montgomery. He was getting nervous. The thing was too vast. He could not grasp it. It set his head in a whirl. Harry Cresswell was not a bad man. Are there any bad men? He was a man who from the day he first wheedled his black mammy into submission, down to his thirty-six year, had seldom known what it was voluntarily to deny himself, or curb a desire, to rise when he would, eat what he craved and do what the passing fancy suggested had long been his day's program. Such emptiness of life and aim had to be filled, and it was filled. He helped his father sometimes with the plantations, but he helped spasmodically and played at work. The unregulated fire of energy and delicacy of nervous poise within him continually hounded him to the verge of excess and sometimes beyond. Cool, quiet and gentlemanly as he was by rule of his clan, the ice was thin and underneath raged, unappeased fires. He craved the madness of alcohol in his veins till his delicate hands trembled of mornings. The women whom he bent above in languid, veiled-eyed homage, feared lest they love him, and what work was to others, gambling was to him. The cotton combine then appealed to him overpoweringly, to his passion for wealth, to his passion for gambling. But once entered upon the game, it drove him to fear and frenzy. First, it was a long game, and Harry Cresswell was not trained to waiting, and secondly, it was a game whose intricacies he did not know. In vain did he try to study the matter through. He ordered books from the North. He subscribed for financial journals. He received special telegraphic reports only to toss them away, curse his valet, and call for another brandy. After all, he kept saying to himself, what guarantee, what knowledge had he that this was not a damned Yankee trick? Now that the web was weaving its last mesh in early January, he haunted Montgomery, and on this day, when it seemed that things must culminate, or he would go mad, he hastened again down to the planter's hotel, and was quickly ushered to John Taylor's room. The place was filled with tobacco smoke, an electric ticker was drumming away in one corner, a telephone ringing on the desk, and messenger boys hovered outside the door and raced to and fro. Well, asked Cresswell, maintaining his composure by an effort, how are things? Great, returned Taylor. League holds three million bells and controls five. Is the biggest corner in years, but how's Cotton? Ticker says six and three-fourths. Cresswell sat down appropriately opposite Taylor, looking at him fixedly. That last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us. Exactly, Taylor blandly admitted. Beads of sweat gathered on Cresswell's forehead. He looked at the scrawny Iron Man opposite who had already forgotten his presence. He ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began to figure, drinking as he figured. Slowly, the blood crept out of his white face, leaving it whiter, and went surging and pounding in his heart. Poverty. That was what those figures spelled. Poverty. Unclothed, wine-less poverty. To dig and toil like a nigger from morning until night, and to give up horses and carriages and women. That was what they spelled. How much farther will it drop? He asked harshly. Taylor did not look up. Can't tell, he said. Freight not much, though. He glanced through a telegram. No, damn it. Outside meals are low. They'll stampede soon. Meantime, we'll buy. But, Taylor, here are 100,000 offered at six and three false. I tell you, Taylor. Cresswell half arose. Done, cried Taylor. Six and one half, clicked the machine. Cresswell arose from his chair by the window and came slowly to the wide, flat desk where Taylor was working feverishly. He sat down heavily in the chair opposite, and tried quietly to regain his self-control. The liabilities of the Cresswells already amounted to half the value of their property at a fair market valuation. The cotton for which they had made debts was still falling in value. Every fourth of a cent fall meant, he figured it again tremblingly, meant 100,000 more of liabilities. If cotton fell to six, he had an ascent on earth. If it stayed there, my God, he felt a faintness stealing over him. But he beat it back and gulped down another glass of fiery liquor. Then the one protecting instinct of his clan gripped him. Slowly, quietly, his hand moved back until it grasped the hilt of the big Colt's revolver that was ever with him. His thin, white hand became suddenly steady as it slipped the weapon beneath the shadow of the desk. If it goes to six, he kept murmuring, well, ruined. If it goes to six, if took sounded the wheel and the sound reverberated like sudden thunder in his ears. His hand was iron, and he raised it slightly. Six said the wheel. His finger quivered and a half. Hail, yelled Taylor. She's turned. There'll be the devil to pay now. A messenger burst in and Taylor scowled. She's loose in New York, a regular mob in New Orleans, and, and hawk. My God, there's something doing here. Damn it, I wish we got another million bales. Let's see. We've got, he figured why the wheel whirred. Seven, seven and a half, eight, eight and a half. Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson, and his hair wild. My God, Taylor, he gasped. I'm, I'm a half a million ahead, great heavens. The ticker whirred, eight and three fourths. Nine, nine and a half, 10. Then it stopped dead. Exchange closed, said Taylor. We've cornered the market, all right? Cornered it. Do you hear Cresswell? We got over half the crop, and we can send prices to the North Star. You, why, I figure you Cresswells are worth at least 750,000 above liabilities this minute. And John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big black cigar. I've made a million or so myself, he added reflectively. Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white again, and he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice. I've gambled before. I've gambled on cards and on horses. I've gambled for money and women, but not on cotton, eh? Well, I don't know about cards and such, but they can't beat cotton. And say, John Taylor, you're my friend! Cresswell stretched his hand across the desk, and as he bent forward the pistol crashed to the floor. End of Chapter 18. CHAPTER 19 The Dying of Elspeth 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. Rich! That was the thought that awakened Harry Cresswell to a sense of endless well-being. Rich! No longer the mirage and semblance of wealth, the memory of opulence, the shadow of homage without the substance of power. No! The wealth was real, cold, hard dollars, and in piles. How much? He laughed aloud as he turned on his pillow. What did he care? Enough! Enough! Not less than half a million, perhaps three-quarters of a million. Perhaps was not cotton still rising? A whole round million! That would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a year! Great heavens! And he'd been starving on a bare couple of thousand and trying to keep up appearances. Today the Cresswells were almost millionaires. Aye, and he might be married to more millions. He sat up with a start. Today Mary was going north. He had quite forgotten it in the wild excitement of the cotton corner. He had neglected her. Of course there was always the hovering doubt as to whether he really wanted her or not. She had the form and carriage. Her beauty, while not startling, was young and fresh and firm. On the other hand, there was about her a certain independence that he did not like to associate with women. She had thoughts and notions of the world which were, to his southern training, hardly feminine. And yet, even they peaked him and spurred him like the sight of an untrained cult. He had not seen her falter yet beneath his glances or tremble at his touch. All this he desired, ardently desired. But did he desire her as a wife? He rather thought that he did, and if so he must speak today. There was his father, too, to reckon with. Colonel Cresswell, with the perversity of the simple-minded, had taken the sudden bettering of their fortunes as his own doing. He had foreseen. He had stuck it out. His credit had pulled the thing through, and the trust had learned a thing or two about southern gentlemen. Toward John Taylor he perceptibly warmed. His business methods were such as a Cresswell could never stoop to. But he was a man of his word, and Colonel Cresswell's correspondence with Mr. Easterly opened his eyes to the beneficent ideals of northern capital. At the same time he could not consider the Easterlies in the Taylors and such folk as the social equals of the Cresswells, and his prejudice on the score must still be reckoned with. Colonel Mary Taylor lingered on the porch in strange uncertainty. Harry Cresswell would soon be coming downstairs. Did she want him to find her? She liked him, frankly, undisguisedly. But from the love she knew to be so near her heart she recoiled in perturbation. He wooed her, whether consciously or not, she was always uncertain, with every quiet attention and subtle difference, with a devotion seemingly quite too delicate for words. He not only fetched her flowers, but flowers that chimed with day and gown and season, almost with mood. He had a woman's premonitions in fulfilling her wishes. His hands, if they touched her, were soft and tender, and yet he gave a curious impression of strength and poise and will. Indeed in all things he was in her eyes a gentleman in the fine old-fashioned aristocracy of the term. Her own heart voiced all he did not say, and pleaded for him to her own confusion. And yet in her heart lay the awful doubt, and the words kept ringing in her ears. You will marry this man, but heaven help you if you do. So it was that on this day when she somehow felt he would speak. His footsteps on the stairs filled her with sudden panic. Without a word she slipped behind the pillars and ran down among the oaks and sauntered out upon the big road. He caught the white flutter of her dress and smiled indulgently as he watched and waited and lightly puffed his cigarette. The morning was splendid with that first delicious langer of the spring which breathes over the Southland in February. Mary Taylor filled her lungs, lifted her arms aloft and turning, stepped into the deep shadow of the swamp. Abruptly the air, the day the scene about her subtly changed. She felt a closeness and a tremor, a certain brooding terror in the languid somber winds, the gold of the sunlight faded to a sickly green, and the earth was black and burned. A moment she paused and looked back, she caught the man's silhouette against the tall white pillars of the mansion and she fled deeper into the forest, with the hush of death about her, and the silence which is one great voice. Slowly and mysteriously it loomed before her, that squad in dark some cabin which seemed to fitly set in the center of the wilderness, beside its crawling slime. She paused in sudden certainty that there lay the answer to her doubts and mistrust. She felt impelled to go forward and ask, what? She did not know but something to still this war in her bosom. She had seldom seen Elspeth. She had never been in her cabin. She had felt an incongruable aversion for the evil hag, she felt it now, and shivered in the warm breeze. As she came in full view of the door she paused. On the step of the cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood Zora, measured by the squat cabin she seemed in height colossal, slim, straight as a pine, motionless with one long outstretched arm, pointing to where the path swept onward toward the town. It was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and sharp-cut in the green mystery of the sunlight, before that motionless fateful figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, disheveled, clutching her breast. She bent and rose, hesitated, seemed to plead. Then turning, clasped in passionate embrace, the child whose head was hid in Zora's gown. Next instant she was staggering along the path with her Zora pointed. Slowly the sun was darkened and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the wood. The oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in Mary Taylor. Zora gave no sign of having seen her. She stood tall and still, and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. Mary Taylor looked up into Zora's face, then paused in awe. It was a face she did not know. It was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. It was a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely, clothed in a mighty calm. But subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt, all this lay in its darkness. The monomist Taylor, Mary who was want to teach this woman, so lately a child, searched in vain for words to address her now. She stood bare-haired, and hesitating in the pale green light of the darkened morning. It seemed fit that a deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. But it brought Mary Taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden impulse she spoke. Is—is anything the matter? She asked nervously. Ailsbeth is sick, replied Zora. Is she very sick? Yes. She has been called. Solemnly returned the dark young woman. Mary was puzzled, called, she repeated vaguely. She heard the great cry in the night, and Ailsbeth says, it is the end. It did not occur to Mary Taylor to question this mysticism. She all at once understood, perhaps read the riddle in the dark, melancholy eyes, that so steadily regarded her. Then you can leave the place, Zora? She exclaimed gladly. Yes, I could leave, and you will. I—I don't know. But the place looks evil. It is evil. And yet you will stay? Zora's eyes were now fixed far above the woman's head, and she saw a human face forming itself in the vast rafters of the forest. Its eyes were wet with pain and anger. Perhaps, she answered, the child furtively uncovered her face and looked at the stranger. She was blue-eyed and golden-haired. Whose child is this? queried Mary curiously. Zora looked coldly down upon the child. It is birdies. Her mother's bang. She's gone. I sent her. She and the others lack her. But where have you sent them? To hell. Mary Taylor started under the shock. Impulsively, she moved forward with hands that wanted to stretch themselves in appeal. Zora, Zora, you mustn't go, too. But the black girl drew proudly back. I am there. She returned with unmistakable simplicity of absolute conviction. The white woman shrank back. Her heart was rung. She wanted to say more, to explain, to ask to help. There came welling to her lips a flood of things that she would know. But Zora's face again was masked. I must go, she said before Mary could speak. Goodbye. And the dark, groaning depths of the cabin swallowed her. With a satisfied smile, Harry Cresswell had seen the northern girl disappear toward the swamp, for it is significant when maidens run from lovers. But maidens should also come back. And when, after the lapse of many minutes, Mary did not reappear, he followed her footsteps to the swamp. He frowned as he noted the footprints pointing to Elspeth's. What did Mary Taylor want there? A fear started within him and something else. He was suddenly aware that he wanted this woman intensely. At the moment he would have turned heaven and earth to get her. He strode forward, and the wood rose darkly green above him. A long, low, distant moan seemed to sound upon the breeze. And after it came Mary Taylor. He met her with tender solicitude, and she was glad to feel his arm beneath hers. I've been searching for you, he said after a silence. You should not wander here alone. It is dangerous. Why dangerous, she asked. Wandering negras and even wild beasts in the forest depths and malaria. See, you tremble now, but not from malaria. She slowly returned. He caught an unfamiliar note in his voice and a wild desire to justify himself before this woman clamored in his heart. With it too came a cooler calculating intuition that frankness alone would win her now. And all hazards he must win, and he cast the die. Miss Taylor, he said, I want to talk to you. I have wanted to for a year. He glanced at her. She was white and silent, but she did not tremble. He went on. I have hesitated because I do not know that I have a right to speak or explain to a good woman. He felt her arm tighten on his and continued, You have been to Elspeth's cabin. It is an evil place and has meant evil for this community and for me. Elspeth was my mother's favorite servant and my own mammy. My mother died when I was ten and left me to her tender mercies. She let me have my way and encouraged the bad in me. It's a wonder I escaped total ruin. Her cabin became a rendezvous for drinking and carousing. I told my father, but he, in laser indifference, declared the place no worse than all Negro cabins and did nothing. I ceased my visits. Still she tried every law and set false stories going among Negroes, even when I sought to rescue Zora. I tell you this because I know you have heard evil rumors. I have not been a good man, Mary, but I love you and you can make me good. Perhaps no other appeal would have stirred Mary Taylor. She was in many respects an inexperienced girl, but she thought she knew the world. She knew that Harry Cresswell was not all he should be, and she knew too that many other men were not. Moreover, she argued, he had not had a fair chance. All the school mam and her leap to his teaching, what he needed was a superior person like herself. She loved him, and she deliberately put her arms about his neck and lifted her face to be kissed. Back by the place of the silver fleece, they wandered across the big road up to the mansion. On the steps stood John Taylor and Helen Cresswell hand in hand, and they all smiled at each other. The colonel came out smiling too with the paper in his hands. Aestel is right! He beamed. The stalk of the cotton-comb band. He paused at the silence and looked up. The smile faded slowly, and the red blood mounted to his forehead. Hunger struggled back of surprise, but before it burst forth silently the colonel turned, and muttering some unintelligible word went slowly into the house and slammed the door. So for Harry Cresswell the day burst, flamed and waned, and then suddenly went out, leaving him dull and gray. For Mary and her brother had gone north, Helen had gone to bed, and the colonel was in town. Outside the weather was gusty and lowering with a chill in the air. He paced the room fitfully. Well, was he happy, or was he happy? He nodded his mustache, for already his quick changeable nature was feeling the rebound from glory to misery. He was a little ashamed of his exaltation, a bit doubtful and uncertain. He had stooped low to this Yankee school, ma'am, lower than he had ever stooped to a woman. Usually while he played at loving, women groveled. For was he not a Cresswell? Did this woman recognize that fact and respect him accordingly? Then there was Zora, what has she said, and hinted to Mary. The winch was always eluding and mocking him, the black devil, but pasha. He poured himself a glass of brandy. Was he not rich and young? The world was his. His valet knocked. Gentlemen is asking if you forget Saturday night, sir, said Sam. Cresswell walked thoughtfully to the window, swept back the curtain, and looked toward the darkness and the swamp. It lowered threateningly, behind it the night sky was tinged with blood. Nall, he said, am not going, and he shut out the glow. Yet he grew more and more restless. The devil danced in his veins and burned in his forehead. His hand shook. He heard a rustle of departing feet beneath his window, then a pause and a faint halloo. All right, he called, and in a moment went downstairs and out into the night. As he closed the front door, there seemed to come faintly up from the swamp a low allulation, like the prolonged cry of some wild bird or the wail of one's mourning for his dead. Within the cabin Elspeth heard, trembling she swayed to her feet, a haggard awful sight. She motioned Zora away and stretching her hands, palms upward to the sky, cried with dry and fear-struck gasp. As cold, as cold! On the bed the child smiled in its dreaming. The red flame of the firelight set the gold to dancing in her hair. Zora shrank back into the shadows and listened. Then it came. She heard the heavy footsteps crashing through the underbrush, coming, coming, as from the end of the world she shrank still farther back, and a shadow swept the door. He was a mighty man, black and white-haired, and his eyes were the eyes of death. He bent to enter the door and then uplifting himself and stretching his great arms. His palms touched the blackened rafters. Zora started forward. Thick memories of some forgotten past came piling in upon her. Where had she known him? What was he to her? Only Elspeth, with quivering hands, unwound the black and snake-like object that always guarded her breast. Without a word he took it, and again his hands flew heavenward. With a low and fearful moan the old woman lured sideways, then crashed like a fallen pine upon the hearthstone. She lay still. Dead. Three times the man passed his hands waved like above the dead. Three times he murmured and his eyes burned into the shadows where the girl trembled. Then he turned and went as he had come, his heavy feet crashing through the underbrush on and on, fainter and fainter, as to the end of the world. Zora shook herself in the trance like horror and passed her hands across her eyes to drive out the nightmare. But no, there lay the dead upon the hearth with the firelight flashing over her, a bloated, hideous, twisted thing distorted in the rigor of death. A moment Zora looked down upon her mother, she felt the cold body wince the wandering, wrecked soul had passed. She sat down and stared death in the face for the first time. A mighty questioning arose within, a questioning and a yearning. Was Elspeth now at peace? Was death the way, the wide, dark way? She had never thought of it before, and as she thought she crept forward and looked into the fearful face pityingly. Mammy? She whispered with bated breath. Mammy, Elspeth? Out of the night came a whispered answer. Elspeth, Elspeth? Zora sprang to her feet, alert, fearful. With a swing of her arm she pulled the great oaken door to and dropped the bar into its place. Over the dead she spread a clean white sheet. Into the fire she thrust pine knots. They glared in vague red and shadowy brilliance, waving and quivering and throwing up thin swirling columns of black smoke. Then standing beside the fireplace with the white, still corpse between her and the door, she took up her awful vigil. There came a low knocking at the door, then silence and footsteps wandering furtively about. The night seemed all footsteps and whispers. There came a louder knocking and a voice. Elspeth? Elspeth, open the door, it's me. Then muttering and wandering noises and silence again. The child on the bed turned itself murmuring uneasily in its dreams, and then they came. Zora froze, watching the door wide-eyed, while the fire flamed redder. A loud quick knock at the door, a pause, an oath and a cry. Elspeth, open this door, damn you. A moment of waiting and then the knocking came again, furious and long continued. Outside there was much trampling and swearing. Zora did not move. The child slept on, a tugging and dragging, a dull blow that set the cabin quivering. Then, bang, crash, crash. The door wavered, splintered and dropped upon the floor. With a snarl, a crowd of some half dozen white faces rushed forward, wavered and stopped. The awakened child sat up and stared with wide blue eyes. Slowly, with no word, the intruders turned and went silently away, leaving but one latecomer who pressed forward. What damn murmur is this? He cried, and snatching at the sheet, dragged it from the black, distorted countenance of the corpse. He shuddered, but for a moment he could not stir. He felt the midnight eyes of the girl. He saw the twisted, oozing mouth of the hag, blue, black and hideous. Suddenly, back behind there in the darkness, a shriek split the night like a sudden flash of flame, a great ringing scream that cracked and swelled and stopped. With one wild effort, the man hurled himself out the door and plunged through the darkness. Panting and cursing, he flashed his huge revolver. Bang, bang, bang. It cracked into the night. The sweat poured from his forehead. The terror of the swamp was upon him, with a struggling and tearing in his throat, he tripped and fell, fainting under the silent oaks. End of chapter 19.