"I did not know the world was so large," remarked Zora as she and Mrs.
Vanderpool flew east and northward on the New York-New Orleans limited.
For a long time the girl had given herself up to the sheer delight of
motion. Gazing from the window, she compared the lands she passed with
the lands she knew: noting the formation of the cotton; the kind and
growth of the trees; the state of the roads. Then the comparisons became
infinite, endless; the world stretched on and on until it seemed mere
distance, and she suddenly realized how vast a thing it was and spoke.
Mrs. Vanderpool was amused. "It's much smaller than one would think,"
she responded.
When they came to Atlanta Zora stared and wrinkled her brows. It was her
first large city. The other towns were replicas of Toomsville; strange
in number, not in kind; but this was different, and she could not
understand it. It seemed senseless and unreasonable, and yet so
strangely so that she was at a loss to ask questions. She was very
solemn as they rode on and night came down with dreams.
She awoke in Washington to new fairylands and wonders; the endless going
and coming of men; great piles that challenged heaven, and homes crowded
on homes till one could not believe that they were full of living
things. They rolled by Baltimore and Philadelphia, and she talked of
every-day matters: of the sky which alone stood steadfast amid whirling
change; of bits of empty earth that shook themselves here and there
loose from their burden of men, and lay naked in the cold shining
sunlight.
All the while the greater questions were beating and curling and
building themselves back in her brain, and above all she was wondering
why no one had told her before of all this mighty world. Mrs.
Vanderpool, to whom it seemed too familiar for comment, had said no
word; or, if she had spoken, Zora's ears had not been tuned to
understand; and as they flew toward the towering ramparts of New York,
she sat up big with the terror of a new thought: suppose this world were
full yet of things she did not know nor dream of? How could she find
out? She must know.
When finally they were settled in New York and sat high up on the Fifth
Avenue front of the hotel, gradually the inarticulate questioning found
words, albeit strange ones.
"It reminds me of the swamp," she said.
Mrs. Vanderpool, just returned from a shopping tour, burst into
laughter.
"It is--but I marvel at your penetration."
"I mean, it is moving--always moving."
"The swamp seemed to me unearthly still."
"Yes--yes," cried Zora, eagerly, brushing back the rumpled hair; "and so
did the city, at first, to me."
"Still! New York?"
"Yes. You see, I saw the buildings and forgot the men; and the
buildings were so tall and silent against Heaven. And then I came to see
the people, and suddenly I knew the city was like the swamp, always
restless and changing."
"And more beautiful?" suggested Mrs. Vanderpool, slipping her arms into
her lounging-robe.
"Oh, no; not nearly so beautiful. And yet--more interesting." Then with
a puzzled look: "I wonder why?"
"Perhaps because it's people and not things."
"It's people in the swamp," asserted Zora, dreamily, smoothing out the
pillows of the couch, "'little people,' I call them. The difference is,
I think, that there I know how the story will come out; everything is
changing, but I know how and why and from what and to what. Now here,
_every_thing seems to be happening; but what is it that is happening?"
"You must know what has happened, to know what may happen," said Mrs.
Vanderpool.
"But how can I know?"
"I'll get you some books to-morrow."
"I'd like to know what it means," wistfully.
"It is meaningless." The woman's cynicism was lost upon Zora, of course,
but it possessed the salutary effect of stimulating the girl's thoughts,
encouraging her to discover for herself.
"I think not; so much must mean something," she protested.
Zora gathered up the clothes and things and shaded the windows, glancing
the while down on the street.
"Everybody is going, going," she murmured. "I wonder where. Don't they
ever get there?"
"Few arrive," said Mrs. Vanderpool. Zora softly bent and passed her cool
soft hand over her forehead.
"Then why do they go?"
"The zest of the search, perhaps."
"No," said Zora as she noiselessly left the room and closed the door;
"no, they are searching for something they have lost. Perhaps they, too,
are searching for the Way," and the tears blinded her eyes.
Mrs. Vanderpool lay in the quiet darkened room with a puzzled smile on
her lips. A month ago she had not dreamed that human interest in anybody
would take so strong a hold upon her as her liking for Zora had done.
She was a woman of unusual personal charm, but her own interest and
affections were seldom stirred. Had she been compelled to earn a living
she would have made a successful teacher or manipulator of men. As it
was, she viewed the human scene with detached and cynical interest. She
had no children, few near relations, a husband who went his way and
still was a gentleman.
Essentially Mrs. Vanderpool was unmoral. She held the code of her social
set with sportsmanlike honor; but even beyond this she stooped to no
intrigue, because none interested her. She had all the elements of power
save the motive for doing anything in particular. For the first time,
perhaps, Zora gave her life a peculiar human interest. She did not love
the girl, but she was intensely interested in her; some of the interest
was selfish, for Zora was going to be a perfect maid. The girl's
language came to be more and more like Mrs. Vanderpool's; her dress and
taste in adornment had been Mrs. Vanderpool's first care, and it led to
a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now and
then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of Zora's
mind.
When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally
included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious, and noted the
girl's rapid development.
"I wonder what I shall make out of her?" queried Mrs. Vanderpool. "Do
you know, I believe I could mould her into a lady if she were not
black."