The Hon. Charles Smith, Miss Sarah's brother, was walking swiftly uptown
from Mr. Easterly's Wall Street office and his face was pale. At last
the Cotton Combine was to all appearances an assured fact and he was
slated for the Senate. The price he had paid was high: he was to
represent the interests of the new trust and sundry favorable measures
were already drafted and reposing in the safe of the combine's legal
department. Among others was one relating to child labor, another that
would effect certain changes in the tariff, and a proposed law providing
for a cotton bale of a shape and dimensions different from the
customary--the last constituting a particularly clever artifice which,
under the guise of convenience in handling, would necessitate the
installation of entirely new gin and compress machinery, to be supplied,
of course, by the trust.
As Mr. Smith drew near Mrs. Grey's Murray Hill residence his face had
melted to a cynical smile. After all why should he care? He had tried
independence and philanthropy and failed. Why should he not be as other
men? He had seen many others that very day swallow the golden bait and
promise everything. They were gentlemen. Why should he pose as better
than his fellows? There was young Cresswell. Did his aristocratic air
prevent his succumbing to the lure of millions and promising the
influence of his father and the whole Farmer's League to the new
project? Mr. Smith snapped his fingers and rang the bell. The door
opened softly. The dark woodwork of the old English wainscoting glowed
with the crimson flaming of logs in the wide fireplace. There was just
the touch of early autumn chill in the air without, that made both the
fire and the table with its soft linen, gold and silver plate, and
twinkling glasses a warming, satisfying sight.
Mrs. Grey was a portly woman, inclined to think much of her dinner and
her clothes, both of which were always rich and costly. She was not
herself a notably intelligent woman; she greatly admired intelligence or
whatever looked to her like intelligence in others. Her money, too, was
to her an ever worrying mystery and surprise, which she found herself
always scheming to husband shrewdly and spend philanthropically--a
difficult combination.
As she awaited her guests she surveyed the table with both satisfaction
and disquietude, for her social functions were few, tonight there
were--she checked them off on her fingers--Sir James Creighton, the rich
English manufacturer, and Lady Creighton, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr.
Harry Cresswell and his sister, John Taylor and his sister, and Mr.
Charles Smith, whom the evening papers mentioned as likely to be United
States Senator from New Jersey--a selection of guests that had been
determined, unknown to the hostess, by the meeting of cotton interests
earlier in the day.
Mrs. Grey's chef was high-priced and efficient, and her butler was the
envy of many; consequently, she knew the dinner would be good. To her
intense satisfaction, it was far more than this. It was a most agreeable
couple of hours; all save perhaps Mr. Smith unbent, the Englishman
especially, and the Vanderpools were most gracious; but if the general
pleasure was owing to any one person particularly it was to Mr. Harry
Cresswell. Mrs. Grey had met Southerners before, but not intimately, and
she always had in mind vividly their cruelty to "poor Negroes," a
subject she made a point of introducing forthwith. She was therefore
most agreeably surprised to hear Mr. Cresswell express himself so
cordially as approving of Negro education.
"Why, I thought," said Mrs. Grey, "that you Southerners rather
disapproved--or at least--"
Mr. Cresswell inclined his head courteously.
"We Southerners, my dear Mrs. Grey, are responsible for a variety of
reputations." And he told an anecdote that set the table laughing.
"Seriously, though," he continued, "we are not as black as the blacks
paint us, although on the whole I _prefer_ that Helen should marry--a
white man."
They all glanced at Miss Cresswell, who lay softly back in her chair
like a white lily, gleaming and bejewelled, her pale face flushing under
the scrutiny; Mrs. Grey was horrified.
"Why--why the idea!" she sputtered. "Why, Mr. Cresswell, how can you
conceive of anything else--no Northerner dreams--"
Mr. Cresswell sipped his wine slowly.
"No--no--I do not think you do _mean_ that--" He paused and the
Englishman bent forward.
"Really, now, you do not mean to say that there is a danger of--of
amalgamation, do you?" he sang.
Mr. Cresswell explained. No, of course there was no immediate danger;
but when people were suddenly thrust beyond their natural station,
filled with wild ideas and impossible ambitions, it meant terrible
danger to Southern white women.
"But you believe in some education?" asked Mary Taylor.
"I believe in the training of people to their highest capacity." The
Englishman here heartily seconded him.
"But," Cresswell added significantly, "capacity differs enormously
between races."
The Vanderpools were sure of this and the Englishman, instancing India,
became quite eloquent. Mrs. Grey was mystified, but hardly dared admit
it. The general trend of the conversation seemed to be that most
individuals needed to be submitted to the sharpest scrutiny before being
allowed much education, and as for the "lower races" it was simply
criminal to open such useless opportunities to them.
"Why, I had a colored servant-girl once," laughed Mrs. Vanderpool by way
of climax, "who spent half her wages in piano lessons."
Then Mary Taylor, whose conscience was uncomfortable, said:
"But, Mr. Cresswell, you surely believe in schools like Miss Smith's?"
"Decidedly," returned Mr. Cresswell, with enthusiasm, "it has done great
good."
Mrs. Grey was gratified and murmured something of Miss Smith's
"sacrifice."
"Positively heroic," added Cresswell, avoiding his sister's eyes.
"Of course," Mary Taylor hastened to encourage this turn of the
conversation, "there are many points on which Miss Smith and I disagree,
but I think everybody admires her work."
Mrs. Grey wanted particulars. "What did you disagree about?" she asked
bluntly.
"I may be responsible for some of the disagreement," interrupted Mr.
Cresswell, hesitatingly; "I'm afraid Miss Smith does not approve of us
white Southerners."
"But you mean to say you can't even advise her?"
"Oh, no; we can. But--we're not--er--exactly welcomed. In fact," said
Cresswell gravely, "the chief criticism I have against your Northerners'
schools for Negroes is, that they not only fail to enlist the sympathy
and aid of the _best_ Southerners, but even repel it."
"That is very wrong--very wrong," commented the Englishman warmly, a
sentiment in which Mrs. Grey hastened to agree.
"Of course," continued Cresswell, "I am free to confess that I have no
personal desire to dabble in philanthropy, or conduct schools of any
kind; my hands are full of other matters."
"But it's precisely the advice of such disinterested men that
philanthropic work needs," Mr. Vanderpool urged.
"Well, I volunteered advice once in this case and I sha'n't repeat the
experiment soon," said Cresswell laughing. Mrs. Grey wanted to hear the
incident, but the young man was politely reluctant. Mary Taylor,
however, related the tale of Zora to Mrs. Grey's private ear later.
"Fortunately," said Mr. Vanderpool, "Northerners and Southerners are
arriving at a better mutual understanding on most of these matters."
"Yes, indeed," Cresswell agreed. "After all, they never were far apart,
even in slavery days; both sides were honest and sincere."
All through the dinner Mr. Smith had been preoccupied and taciturn. Now
he abruptly shot a glance at Cresswell.
"I suppose that one was right and one was wrong."
"No," said Cresswell, "both were right."
"I thought the only excuse for fighting was a great Right; if Right is
on neither side or simultaneously on both, then War is not only Hell but
Damnation."
Mrs. Grey looked shocked and Mrs. Vanderpool smiled.
"How about fighting for exercise?" she suggested.
"At any rate," said Cresswell, "we can all agree on helping these poor
victims of our quarrel as far as their limited capacity will allow--and
no farther, for that is impossible."
Very soon after dinner Charles Smith excused himself. He was not yet
inured to the ways of high finance, and the programme of the cotton
barons, as unfolded that day, lay heavy on his mind, despite all his
philosophy.
"I have had a--full day," he explained to Mrs. Grey.
_Fourteen_