Harry Cresswell 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 Grey, 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."
Cresswell finally thrust his food away. He knew that Mrs. Grey helped
Miss Smith's 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 down-town.
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. Grey is going to get rid of some of her surplus
cash--is going to endow some nigger schools," Taylor drily retorted.
"It must be stopped," declared Cresswell.
The other's brows drew 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 cotton land in 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. We're
striving by main force to prevent this, and here come your damned
Northern philanthropists to plant schools. Why, Taylor, it'll knock the
cotton trust to hell."
"Don't get excited," said Taylor, judicially. "We've got things in our
hands; it's the Grey 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 Grey millions. Of course, we've got to
let her play with her income, and that's considerable. Her favorite game
just now is Negro education, and she's planning to go in heavy. Her
adviser 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 going 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 niggers. Educating, or
rather _trying_ to educate niggers, 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 plough-hands all to studying Greek, and at the
same time to corner 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--there's light. See here, let's talk to Easterly about
this." They went into the next office, and after a while got audience
with the 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. Grey would get suspicious, and the devil be to
pay. This is better. Form a big committee of Northern business men 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 Farmers'
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 mollifying 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. "H'm--well, then--" and John Taylor went into a brown study,
while Cresswell puffed impatiently at a cigarette.
"I have it," said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. "First, let Mr. Easterly get
Smith." Easterly turned to the telephone.
"Is that you, Smith?"
"Well, this is Easterly.... Yes--how about Mrs. Grey's education
schemes?... Yes.... h'm--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 Farmers' 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'll 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. Grey,
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 Rev. Dr. Boldish of St. Faith's rich
parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment Temple Bocombe,
the sociologist, consented to join.
"Awfully busy," he said, "but I've been reading up on the Negro problem
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 Miss
Taylor and Miss Cresswell, together with the silent Miss Boldish. They
were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr. Boldish pointed out
the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones; Mr. Bocombe
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 Miss Taylor.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Mr. Bocombe; "but suppose they do, for
instance. That is an average wage today."
"They look lazy," said Mrs. Grey.
"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 Bles and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully for them,
heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and
the tremor 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 Bles had spoken of their marriage;
with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again seeking their mates,
they walked the leafy way.
Unconscious, rapt, 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 Cresswell coaches
were wheeling along with precious burdens. In the first carriage were
Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Cresswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs.
Vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Grey was a little stiff
from long travel and sat upright. Mr. Cresswell looked clean-cut and
handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying
of the day soothed them all 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. Cresswell drily.
"Well, at least plenty of children."
"Plenty."
"But where are the houses?" asked Mrs. Grey.
"Perhaps in the swamp," said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up at the
sombre trees that lined the left.
"They live where they please and do as they please," Cresswell
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 Bles 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 on 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 far 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 upward
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' hoofs, 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. Grey looked surprised; Mrs.
Vanderpool smiled; but Mr. Cresswell darkened with anger. The couple
unclasped shamefacedly, and the young man, lifting his hat, started to
stammer an apology; but Cresswell interrupted him:
"Keep your--your philandering to 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.
"Are kisses 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. Bles started in anger, then
paused in shivering doubt. What had happened? They knew not; yet
involuntarily their hands fell apart; they avoided each other's eyes.
"I--I must go now," gasped 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.
Bles 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 hoofs of 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.
"Bles," she said primly, "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, Bles Alwyn," she said, "that you don't know the 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 flamed scarlet
in his eyes and he screamed.
"It's a lie! It's a damned lie!" He wheeled about and tore into the
swamp.
"It's a damned 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 out-stretched, 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 hoarse and hard from his quivering throat.
"Zora!"
"Yes, Bles."
"You--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, yet she
looked at him bravely and her voice came low and full as from afar.
"I asked you what it meant to be pure, Bles, and--and you told--and I
told you the truth."
"What it meant!--what it meant!" he repeated in the low, tense anguish.
"But--but, Bles--" She faltered; there came an awful pleading in her
eyes; her hand groped toward him; but he stepped slowly back--"But,
Bles--you said--willingly--you said--if--if she knew--"
He thundered back in livid anger:
"Knew! 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, Bles--no--all girls do not know. I was a child. Not since I knew
you, Bles--never, never since I saw you."
"Since--since," he groaned--"Christ! 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; I--I--" she choked and faltered, and he drew farther away--"I
began running away, and they hunted me through the swamps. And
then--then I reckon I'd have gone back and been--as they all are--but
you came, Bles--you came, and you--you were a new great thing in my
life, and--and--yet, I was afraid I was not worthy until you--you said
the words. I thought you knew, and I thought that--that 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 this pain.
Then in sheer weariness the anger died within his soul, leaving but
ashes and despair. Slowly he turned away, but with a quick motion she
stood in his path.
"Bles," 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 Cresswell Oaks, and he turned away. She did not
attempt to stop him again, but dropped her hands and stared drearily up
into the clear sky with its shining worlds.
"Good-bye, Bles," she said slowly. "I 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.
"Good-bye--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-strewn earth, and writhed.
_Sixteen_