Molly's Atonement.
A few evenings after the unpleasant interview between Molly Pierrepont
and Ben Hartright, Silas Wingate, chairman of the Republican Executive
Committee, sat alone in his office. In that morning's mail had come to
him a letter from the Governor, full of discouraging news as to the
chances of Republican success throughout the State, and advising that
for the safety of life Republican candidates be withdrawn from the
field--a request unprecedented in the history of the State. "This would
be too cowardly a backdown," he soliloquized. "The situation is not so
serious perhaps as the Governor imagines. Such bluffs the Democrats have
resorted to more than once before, but they didn't deter us in the
least. We put our ticket in the field and fought hard for its election."
But never before had the chairman of the Executive Committee seen in New
Hanover County such grim and warlike activity on the part of the
Democrats. The arming of the poor whites, the hiring of sterner
implements of war, secret house-to-house meetings, and the stern refusal
of dealers to sell a black man a deadly weapon of any description or as
much as an ounce of powder meant something more than bluff. Yet so
strong was the faith of Mr. Wingate in the integrity of the better
classes of Wilmington's white citizens that he was slow to grasp the
situation although the evidence was so overwhelming. He took the letter
from the desk and read it for the fourth time since receiving it,
riveting his eyes long and intently upon the signature affixed. Of all
the years he had known the Governor he had never known him to shrink or
show cowardice in any form whatever, although he'd passed through such
crises as would tend to test the mettle of any man, it matters not how
brave. "Surely the situation must be terrible!" finally observed Mr.
Wingate, throwing the letter upon the desk and whirling around in his
chair. "I will call a meeting and put the matter before the committee.
When that man says back down then surely doomsday is not far off."
There was a timid knock at the door. Feeling that perhaps it was one of
his colleagues dropping in for a chat upon the all-absorbing topic of
the day, Mr. Wingate did not rise or turn his face in that direction,
but simply bid the visitor enter. The latch was timidly turned, followed
by light footsteps, accompanied by the rustle of skirts, and before he
could turn his head to see who this unexpected visitor might be, the
figure had glided up to his chair and two soft hands were pressed over
his eyes. "Now, just guess who it is. I will not release my hold until
you do," was the soft command. "Now, as I was expecting only politicians
to-night and, of course, no visitor in petticoats, I should be excused
from trying to guess who you are on these grounds," answered Mr.
Wingate, trying to force the hands which were firmly pressing down upon
his eyes. "In such times as these you are likely to see even the women
in the forefront in the fray, and doing even more than merely making
calls," returned the visitor, releasing her hold and stepping in front
of Mr. Wingate. "Why, Molly Pierrepont! What brings you here?" exclaimed
Mr. Wingate, rising and staring at his visitor, who unceremoniously sank
into a chair. "I am somewhat interested in this campaign
myself--astonishing intelligence I know," calmly replied the visitor;
"yet I am going to astonish you more by saying that I have information
to impart to the chairman of the Executive Committee that will be of
great value to him in conducting this campaign." Molly's calm demeanor,
so unlike a woman of her disposition and temperament, struck Mr. Wingate
somewhat humorously. Molly Pierrepont, having chosen a life of shame
that she might--if only clandestinely--associate with and enjoy the
favors of the men of the white race, would be the last person of the
race to take a stand in its defense to give aid to the Negro in his
combat with the white man, politically or otherwise. Women of Molly's
stamp, possessing no race pride, had never been race defenders, so it
was plausible for Mr. Wingate to feel that the woman was jesting, or
that she was sent by his enemies into his camp as a spy. "In our present
dilemma the Republican Committee stands much in need of information and
advice," said Mr. Wingate, slowly. "Things are assuming quite a serious
aspect; you are in position to get a good deal of information as to the
maneuvers of the enemy. But, my dear girl, if you are here to aid us,
have you counted the cost?" Mr. Wingate knew that Molly Pierrepont was
the mistress of one of Wilmington's best citizens, a bitter Democrat,
and a reputed leader of the White Supremacy League; that she was well
cared for, that her gowns, etc., equaled in quality and construction
those of her paramour's wife, and, considering her love for such ease
and luxury, to come out and reveal the doings, and openly denounce the
schemes of the party of her paramour, was a sacrifice that a woman of
her character was not generally ready to make--in fact, such thoughts
did not find lodgment in her brain. In the flattering embrace of the
Philistine all noble aspirations ordinarily become extinct. Mr.
Wingate's interrogation was followed by a brief pause, which caused
Molly to move uneasily in her chair. "I see, Silas Wingate, that you
question my sincerity," she said, slowly. "I can't blame you, though. It
is perfectly natural for such as I to be arrayed with the whites or be
neutral, stifling all thoughts of being of service to my wronged people,
because my life belies it. But I am sincere, Silas; believe me," and
Molly reached over and laid her hand upon the arm of Mr. Wingate, whose
look betrayed his incredulity. "In spite of the lowliness of my birth,
and the life I have chosen, some good remains in me." She went on: "My
fair complexion and life of ease have not made me forget that I am
identified with the oppressed and despised." "Thank God! thank God!"
said Mr. Wingate, his face brightening. "There is a ring of sincerity in
your voice, my dear, that banishes doubt." "I come to-night to warn you,
Silas," continued Molly. "Before many moons Wilmington will be the scene
of a bloody race war. Ben Hartright is my medium of information. He came
to my house last evening, and, imbued with the feeling that I was in
sympathy with the white element, revealed to me the dastardly plot in
all its blood-curdling details." Mr. Wingate trembled and shook like an
aspen leaf as Molly named the men and women singled out as victims.
"These people have ample time now to make good their escape. Tell them,
Silas, that the best whites are in this move, and they are determined to
carry it to the bitter end, and their only safety is in flight. Ben
tells me that the plans are well laid, that men will be here to assist
in the dirty work from as far South as Texas. I listened patiently to
Hartright's recital and then denounced him and his cohorts as infamous
cowards!" "Did you dare?" exclaimed Mr. Wingate, gazing eagerly into
Molly's face. "I drove him from my presence." Mr. Wingate drew nigh and
laid his hand caressingly upon Molly's head. "You have risked much," he
said, eagerly. "I fully realize that," returned Molly. "When he had left
me, what I had said and done came home with its full force, but, like
Jephthah, I had sworn, and will not go back; and here now, as I did
then, I swear with uplifted hand to renounce forever my life of shame,
and will be no longer a Magdalene!" "Angels record thy vow in heaven,"
said Mr. Wingate. "You can, with God's help, be true to your vow, for
Magdalene, who became one of the faithful, was a greater sinner than
you, Molly." "But Magdalene perhaps never threw away the opportunities
for good that I have," answered Molly, who had arisen and begun to pace
the floor. "Magdalene is not charged with having spurned the love and
sent to a premature grave a man who offered to honor and protect her
through life." "Don't brood over the past, Molly," said Mr. Wingate, a
grass-covered mound in Pine Forest Cemetery rising before him. "Let the
dead past be gone." "I will not! I cannot!" said Molly, pausing. "The
past will spur me to higher aims in the future. I never can forget the
time that Harold came to make a last plea to me to be his wife,
expressing his willingness to make every sacrifice for my happiness. He
had bright hopes of success in his profession. Yet I spurned his offer
to live a life of shame with a white man. You know he went to Macon
afterwards, and there as a physician built up quite a lucrative
practice. He wrote me often; he spoke of his prosperity and his
unhappiness without me to share it. He could not forget me. I tried to
forget him by plunging deeper into sin. It's some three years ago now
since the last letter came, in which he said, 'I am dying! dying! dying
for you!' I tried to make light of it as perhaps merely a jest. But,
Silas, you know that it's quite two years now since they buried the
heart which I had broken in Pine Forest Cemetery. Harold! Harold! If I
could only call you back with those sunny days of innocence. No one
knows but God what anguish I have suffered since you left me. But I was
unworthy of you, Harold, unworthy!" The woman had bowed her head upon
the desk and was sobbing convulsively. "Oh, that you could come back to
me, Harold! Harold, tender and true. How gladly would I accept your
offer now, Harold. You would forgive me, unworthy me." Her voice sank
into an incoherent murmur. Mr. Wingate was deeply moved. He arose and
bent over her.
"Courage, my child, courage," he whispered, soothingly. "You have just
started out to do the noblest work of your life. There are many years
before you to live nobly and amend for the past."
"'Up, faint heart, up! Immortal life
Is lodged within thy frame.
Then let no recreant tho't or deed
Divert thy upward aim.
Shall earth's brief ills appall the brave?
Shall manly hearts despond?
Up, faint heart, up! The blackest cloud
But veils the heavens beyond.'"
These inspired lines caused Molly to raise her head. "I must command
myself," she said, firmly, "for what I have to do requires courage." She
arose and laid her hand caressingly upon Mr. Wingate's shoulder. "You
will warn them, won't you, Silas? Keep the men from the polls. Surrender
everything. Better to lose a vote than lose a life." She moved toward
the door, Mr. Wingate following. Laying her hand upon the knob, she
paused and faced him. "Coming events cast their shadows before," she
said. "I fear that our days of freedom are at an end in Wilmington.
Good night," and Molly Pierrepont was gone. "Poor girl, poor girl," said
Mr. Wingate, as he locked the door. "She might have been a queen, but,
like the base Judean, she threw a pearl away richer than all her tribe.
"'Of all the sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'
"Harold Carlyle's youthful life was blighted because he could not give
up this woman who was unworthy of him. But at last repentance has come.
God forgive her."