Molly Pierrepont.
"Sweet and low, sweet and low
Wind of the Western sea
Low, low, breathe and blow
Wind of the Western sea
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon and blow
Blow him again to me
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps."
This sweet old lullaby of Longfellow's, sung by a rich soprano voice
floated upon the cool October air out from a beautiful and richly
furnished suburban cottage in Wilmington. The singer sat alone at the
piano. Though vulgarly called a "Negress," her skin was almost as fair
as a Saxon's; and because of the mingling of Negro blood--more beautiful
in color. She was gowned in an evening dress of gossamer material, ashes
of rose in color. Her hair let out to its full length hung in silky
profusion down her back. There were plain old fashioned half moon rings
in her ears, and bands of gold upon her bare arms enhanced their beauty.
No one will deny that among the women of mixed blood in the South, there
are types of surpassing beauty. The inter-mixture of Negro and Saxon,
Negro and Spanish and Indian blood gives the skin a more beautiful color
than exists in the unadulterated of either race. While the mulatto and
octoroon may reveal the Saxon in the fairness of the skin, the Negro
reinforcement shows itself generally in the slight inclination of the
lips toward thickness, the lustrious black of the eye and hair which is
generally abundant and slightly woolly in texture. This is brought out
plainly in the case of the Jew. Although centuries have passed since the
Jews very extensively amalgamated with the dark races of Egypt and
Canaan, their dark complexions, lustrous black eyes, abundant woolly
hair plainly reveal their Hamatic lineage. To pass through the Bowery or
lower Broadway in the great metropolis at an hour when the shop and
factory girl is hurrying to or from her work, one is struck by the
beauty of Jewish womanhood. King David's successful campaigns placed
Solomon over large dominions of Moabitish and Canaanitish peoples; and
for the stability of his kingdom, Solomon took wives out of all of these
nationalities; and Solomon's most favored wife was his black princess,
Naamah, the mother of Rehoboam, his successor. The poet describes Naamah
as the "Rose of Sharon, the most excellent of her country." The marriage
of Solomon to his black princess was the most notable of any of his
marriages; for that wonderful poem, "Solomon's Songs," is mainly a
eulogy to this one of his many wives. "I am black but comely, O ye
daughters of Jerusalem as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of
Solomon. Look not upon me because I am black, because the sun hath
looked upon me." In the most beautiful language in the gift of the poets
of that day Solomon converses with Naamah in the following dialogue:
"Return, return O Shulamite; return, return that we may look upon thee."
Naamah, "What will you see in Shulamite?" Solomon, "As it were a company
of two armies."
We have conclusive evidence that the Southern gentleman did, and does
sing such love ditties, and talk sweet nothings to the Southern black
woman, and the woman of mixed blood, but unlike Solomon, he is too much
of a coward to publicly extol her. During the slave period in the West
Indian Islands a child born to a slave woman shared the fortunes of its
father; and if the father was free, so was the child. But the American
slave holder reversed that law so that he could humble the bond-woman
and damn her offspring with impunity. Upheld by the law the Southerner
sold his own daughter and sister into a life of shame. The pretty
Negress and the woman of mixed blood brought extortionate prices in
Southern markets. Northern sympathizers may talk of the New South, and
the Southern orator may harp upon the shortcomings of the "inferior
race," but on this line of thought and conduct, the Southern whites have
not changed one whit. Before the war, Sambo only had a quit-claim on his
black or mulatto wife, and now the laws are so framed that he cannot
defend the woman of his race against the encroachments of his white
brother, who looks at the destruction of the Negro woman as only an
indiscretion. The humble black fool is often forced away from his own
wife or sweet-heart at the point of a revolver, cowed by the feeling
that a manly stand against a white man might cause incalculable loss of
life. Yet the advocate of Lynch Law pictures this humble fellow, this
man who is afraid to attempt to defend his own home, as a reckless
dare-devil, keeping the whites in constant terror. How incompatible
these two traits of character. No; it is not the reckless dare deviltry
of the Negro that terrorizes the South, but the conscience of the white
man whose wrong treatment of a defenseless people fills him with fear
and intensifies his hatred. He is determined to fill to overflow his cup
of iniquity. Like Macbeth, he has waded in so far, that to return were
as tedious as to go over. It matters not how loud the Southerner shouts
about "the good-for-nothing Nigger," he still has the same old
anti-bellum liking for the women of that race. Bishop Turner is the only
honest and earnest advocate of Negro Emigration, the others have only a
half-hearted leaning in that direction. If it were possible for
emigration to become a reality, the Southern whites would be the hardest
kickers against the scheme. The only beneficiaries from this wonderful
enterprise would be the steamship companies; for after the hundreds of
years of transportation are over, then excursion parties would be the
order of the day for time immemorial. Our Southern gentleman will not be
deprived of the Negro woman. There is no ocean too wide for him to
cross; no wall too high for him to scale; he'd risk the fires of hell to
be in her company, intensely as he pretends to hate her. Wilmington,
North Carolina, the scene of that much regretted phenomenon--the fatal
clashing of races in November, 1898, was not, and is not without its
harems, its unholy minglings of Shem with Ham; where the soft-fingered
aristocrat embraces the lowest dusky sirene in Paddy's Hollow, and
thinks nothing of it. Molly Pierrepont whom I introduce to the reader in
this chapter, is a type of Negro women whose progress along ennobling
avenues is more hotly contested than any other woman in the South,
because of her beauty. To decide between the honor with poverty offered
by the black man and the life of ease with shame offered by the white
one is her "Gethsemine." Yet where love of honor has conquered, she has
made a devoted wife and a loving mother.
Such a character as Molly Pierrepont was an exclusive luxury for
gentlemen. The poor white could not afford to support a mistress who of
course went to the highest bidder. Ben Hartright left the Wigwam before
the close of the meeting in which he was so deeply interested, and
proceeded directly to Molly's cottage; but he did not notice as he
tipped lightly through the gate a cloaked and veiled form crouching down
in the bushes a few yards away. He heard not the light footsteps as it
drew nearer to be sure that there was no mistaking the visitor. Ben
Hartright entered boldly; knocking was unnecessary, he was master there.
The furniture and hangings were all his purchase, even the expensive
jewels that the woman wore. The figure on the outside drew still closer,
peered in, tip-toed upon the piazza, pressed the ear against the window
to catch as much as possible of what went on within. Only a few minutes
did it tarry however. As the door swung open, Molly arose from the piano
and advanced with outstretched arms to meet him.
"Hello, Ben! I thought you were to be here by eight to-night."
Ben Hartright sank upon a sofa and gently drew the girl down beside him
before he assayed to answer her.
"Well, Molly, you must remember that I am in politics now," he said,
kissing her fondly, "and I must attend the different meetings, business
before pleasure you know. We are in the most exciting period of the
campaign; a campaign the like of which has never before been experienced
in North Carolina. We are organized and determined to save the State to
the Democratic party and make white supremacy an established fact if we
have to kill every Nigger and Nigger-hearted white man in it. To make
assurance doubly sure, we are arming ourselves, and seeing to it that no
Nigger shall buy an ounce of powder, and every Nigger man and woman is
to be searched and what weapons they have taken away that no white man's
life may be endangered. There are some Niggers and white men who must be
killed, and they are carefully listed."
Ben Hartright unbosomed to Molly the plots of the White Supremacy
League in all its blood-curdling details, naming every man and woman who
were to be the victims of the mob's fury.
"Do you think that a very brave thing to do?" asked Molly at the
conclusion of Ben's recital.
"Oh, anything is fair in dealing with Niggers," answered Ben. But the
look of astonishment in Molly's black eyes suddenly brought Ben
Hartright to the full realization that he was revealing the secrets of
his klan to one of the race he was plotting to massacre.
"Of course we don't include such as you, Molly," he said, lightly
tapping her on the shoulder. "You are no Nigger, you are nearly as white
as I am."
"Nearly as white," echoed Molly with a sneer. "Do you mean to try to
choke it down my throat that my whiteness would save me should your
people rise up against Niggers in Wilmington? Honestly, Ben Hartright,
do you mean that?" Molly arose from the sofa and stood up before her
lover that she might the better study his face. Hartright was silent.
In Southern legislative halls white minorities in old Reconstruction
days ruled Republican majorities by appealing to the vanity of
light-skinned Negro representatives.
"You are almost white, why vote with them Niggers?" Ben Hartright was
using the old tactics; he had realized that he perhaps had been careless
with his secrets. "What I really mean, Molly, is that you are a friend
of white people--that is you are not one of those Nigger wenches who
want to be er--er--ladies--that want Nigger dudes to raise their hats to
them--want to be like white people you know."
"I understand," said Molly.
"We white gentlemen believe in having colored girl friends, and we
always stand by them no matter what happens." Molly momentarily eyed the
ceiling.
"Benny, did you ever read Uncle Tom's Cabin?"
"Yes, I have," answered Ben, but it has been too long ago to remember
very much of its contents.
"Why? Everybody should read that book it seems to me; read and read
again Cassie's story of her love for the man who after promising to
protect and defend her, sneaked away and sold her. Cassie was almost
white. Cassie was a white man's friend, and to that man she was true;
but Cassie's story of betrayal, disappointment, misery at the hands of
that long haired brute who afterwards became her master, would make the
strongest heart weep. _You will stand by your colored girl friend._
Perhaps you think you would, but I doubt it, Ben Hartright. When that
time comes that the two races are arrayed against each other, my fair
complexion will be of no avail. I am a Nigger, and will be dealt with as
such, even by the man who now promises me protection."
Ben Hartright quailed under Molly's biting sarcasm. He was unprepared
for this change of front on the part of his mistress. His pretention of
love were not sufficient to create in Molly a feeling of security.
"Then d'm it all! you as good as tell a gentleman to his teeth that he
lies then?" said he doggedly.
"No; I don't mean to say that you lie. What you say to me _now_, you may
earnestly mean, but under circumstances just mentioned, you would deny
that you ever knew me. What you have revealed tonight concerning your
aims and plots, portrays to my mind just who and what you are, and just
who and what I am. Samson has revealed his secret to his Delilah, and
its Delilah's duty to warn her people of the dangers that await them.
Men whose lives are threatened must be warned; women who are in danger
of being ignominiously dealt with must be put upon their guard; must
know that these defenders of virtue, these Southern gentlemen who are
thirsting for the blood of a slanderer (?) of white women are
hypocrites, who strain out a gnat and swallow a camel."
"By the thunder, what do you mean by such language?" and Ben Hartright
arose from the sofa and glared at the girl, his eyes flashing. "Do you
know that you are talking to a gentleman?"
"Be careful," said Molly, "You wouldn't have the women for whom you
would be so chivalrous know who Ben Hartright _really is_, would you?"
"Why, what's the matter Molly?" said Hartright in a more subdued voice.
"Have you joined the sanctified band?"
"No; but I realize as never before just who and what I am, and your
trying to flatter me into the belief that I am better than black women
who try to be pure, is a revelation to me who and what _you are_. There
are men whom you have named to be killed whose only offense is that they
are respectable and independent; and women who are hated because they
are not easy victims such as I am--women who will live honestly upon
bread and water. These are colored people who have so much confidence in
the better class of white people, that they would not believe that such
a plot is being laid for their destruction."
Ben Hartright put his arms around Molly's waist. "I thought you were a
true friend of white people, Molly; but I find that you are not, so
let's drop the unpleasant subject. If the Niggers keep away from the
polls, and don't attempt to run a ticket, there will be no trouble; but
if they persist in defying the whites, there'll be hell. But all pretty
Nigger gals such as you will be all right."
"Unhand me!" said Molly, twisting herself from his grasp. "Go tell your
hypocritical associates in crime that the deed they are about to commit
will recoil upon their own heads, and upon the heads of their children."
"But--er--now Molly--"
"Go!" hissed Molly, pointing to the door.
Ben Hartright walked slowly to the door paused and wistfully eyed Molly
who stood with uplifted hand pointing in that direction. "Oh, you are
quite full of race pride just now, but when it comes to deciding between
the easy life that a white man pays for and Nigger drudgery, you'll
doubtless change your tune. I leave you to reflect."
Hartright walked out. Molly sank upon the sofa and buried her face in
her hands. "How true!" she sobbed. "What have I done?" but she rose and
her anguish was gone in a twinkling. "Easy life! Drudgery! But _here I
swear from this hour Molly Pierrepont will live no longer such a life_."
Ben Hartright reached his home in Orange street about three o'clock,
noiselessly opened the door and strode up to his apartments, thinking he
would get to bed without disturbing his young wife; but she was not
there. The bed remained as it was when the chambermaid left it that
morning, after giving it its finishing touches. Ben Hartright looked
about the room in wild amazement. He drew out his watch, scanned its
face eagerly. "By ginger!" he exclaimed, "it's past three o'clock.
Wonder where is Emily? This is indeed something unusual." Thinking
perhaps that his child might have taken ill during the night and that
his wife had remained in the nurse's room with it, he crossed the hall
and rapped upon the door; a second rap brought the nurse to the door
rubbing her eyes. "What's the matter, Fannie; is the baby sick?"
"No, sah!" answered the girl.
"Isn't Miss Emily in there?"
"No, sah; Mr. Benny she aint in heah, sah."
"_Where in the thunder is she then?_" roared Ben Hartright, now beside
himself with rage. "_Is this the way you look after your mistress?_" and
he seized the already frightened girl by the shoulders and shook her
vigorously, turned away before she could utter a word of excuse, and
bounded down to his mother's apartments.
Mrs. Hartright, aroused by the noise above, was just emerging from her
door to learn the cause of it all. "Why, what's the matter, son?" she
questioned gently, as Ben, both angry and frightened, strode up to where
she stood.
"Didn't you hear me asking Fannie where Emily is? Didn't you know that
she hasn't been in her room, and here it is nearly four o'clock in the
morning!"
"Emily went out just after tea, and I thought she had returned,"
answered the mother. "Perhaps she went walking with some of her girl
friends, was taken ill and had to stop at one of their homes. Wait
Benny, I'll dress and help you to look for her."
Ben Hartright turned and walked slowly to the door and paused to wait
for his mother. There was a turn of the door latch, a vigorous twist of
a key in the lock; the door flew open and Emily Hartright walked in. She
apparently did not see her husband who stood and eyed her angrily as she
entered and began to ascend the steps to her room.
"Emily," said Ben, following and seizing his wife by the arm. "Are you
mad, if not explain this extraordinary conduct of yours. Where have you
been?" She turned, gazed into her husband's eyes for a moment, then with
one vigorous tug, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and proceeded up
the steps. The mother by this time had joined her son, and they both
followed the young lady who had entered her room and was removing her
wraps.
"What's the matter my darling?" said Mrs. Hartright, throwing her arms
around her daughter's waist. "I was so troubled about you. What kept you
out so late, Emily?"
"Wait, mother, until I have rested and composed myself, then I will
explain," answered Emily, softly.
Ben had sank into a chair and sat with his chin resting upon the palm of
his hand. Emily sat upon the side of the bed.
"Men go night after night," she said, "stay as long as they please, and
return in whatever condition they please; and to queries of their wives,
they are evasive in their answers; but when a woman takes the privilege
of exercising her rights--"
"_Her rights_," roared Ben, jumping to his feet. "A lady goes out of her
residence, leaves her servant and relatives in ignorance of her
destination, returns at four o' clock in the morning to tell anxious
husband and mother about _her rights_! We'll have a direct explanation
from you, Mrs. Hartright, without preambling."
"I'll not be bullied, Ben Hartright," answered the young wife calmly.
"Remember that when you married _me_, you didn't marry a chambermaid or
housekeeper, but a lady of one of the first families of Virginia, and
such people brook _no bullying_," and Emily arose and glared at her
husband like a tigress.
Ben Hartright quailed. Never had he seen his little wife in such a state
of anger and defiance.
"If you are man enough to reveal your whereabouts until the small hours
of the morning, you can tell where your wife was."
Ben Hartright raised his eyes from the floor and looked at his wife in
amazement.
"When you entered the house of your mistress, Molly Pierrepont,
to-night, I saw you. I, your _wife_, whom _you_ swore to honor and
protect, saw you. She saw you embrace and kiss a Negro woman, the woman
of a race whom you pretend to despise, and whom you and your pals are
secretly scheming to cold bloodedly murder and drive from their homes.
Take care! God knows your hypocrisy and the deeds you commit will recoil
upon your own heads."
"Emily, are you mad?" gasped the elder lady who stood as if transfixed
to the floor.
"Ask him," returned the young lady, "he knows whether or not I utter the
truth, or whether I am a victim of a beclouded brain. He knows that he
has wronged me; he knows that he has lied to me. I care not for your
frowns. _You_ a gentleman? You hate Niggers, yet you can embrace one so
fondly. I will no longer live with such a gentleman, who night after
night under the excuse of 'clubs' and 'business' spends his time away
from his wife, and in company of a Negro woman. I am going home to my
people."
"Now, Emily," said the elder Mrs. Hartright, "don't start a scandal;
remember that you are a Southerner. Southern people do not countenance
the airing of unpleasant family matters!"
"Yes," replied the young lady, "this fear of airing family troubles on
the part of our women, has made us slaves, while the men are licensed to
indulge in all manner of indecencies with impunity. I will be the first
Southern woman to sever the chain of 'formality,' and cry aloud to the
world that I leave my husband because of his unfaithfulness. It is my
right, and I will exercise that right."
Ben who had again sank into his seat arose and advanced toward his wife
to sue for forgiveness.
"Don't touch me!" she cried, with uplifted hand. "The cup is full. Go
back to her who has monopolized the best portion of your time since you
have married me."
Ben Hartright sank again into his chair and buried his face into his
hands.
"Now, my darlings, let mother be the daysman between you," said the
elder Mrs. Hartright, coming near carressing the young wife. "Benny
knows just to what extent he has wronged you my dear, and I believe him
honest enough and manly enough to acknowledge it, and sue for
forgiveness. I leave you to yourselves. God grant that you may be
enabled to peacably settle your difficulties satisfactorily to you both,
without giving license to Madame Gossip. God bless you." Kissing Emily,
Mrs. Hartright descended to her room.
Ben Hartright succeeded in patching up matters with his wife by
promising to live a more honest life, only to break it, which caused her
to make good her threat and leave him.