IT seemed to Kenneth he had just fallen into a troubled slumber when
he was aroused by the tinkling of the telephone bell at the side of
his bed. It was Hiram Tucker.
"Doc, I reck'n you won't have to go t' Atlanty today, after all. My
wife, she tol' me to tell you she's changed her min' ‘bout that
op'ration. … What's dat? … Naw, suh, she's kinder skeered she won'
wake up from dat chlo'form. … Yas, suh, yas, suh, I knows
‘rangements been made but, Doc, you ain't married, so you don't know
nuthin' ‘tall 'bout wimmenfolks. … Some day you'll learn dat when
dey says dey ain't gwine do somethin' dey's done sot dere minds on
not doing, dey ain't gwine t' do it. … Hello. … Hello. … Hello!"
But Kenneth had hung up. He telephoned the local telegraph office to
send a wire to the hospital in Atlanta to cancel the arrangements he
had made for the operation on the following day, and tumbled back in
bed to sleep like a log until late in the morning. He was awakened
by Bob, who informed him that the reception room was half filled
with patients who were no longer patient at being kept waiting so
long. He arose reluctantly, his eyes still filled with sleep. Bob
leaned against the wall, hands in pockets, and looked at his brother
with a smile of amusement. Kenneth, not thoroughly awakened as yet,
paid no attention to him for a time, but at last noticed Bob's
smile.
"Why this early morning humour? I've seen many 'possums with a more
engaging smile then the one that distorts your face now!" he
half-grumblingly, half-cheerfully observed.
Bob but grinned the more at Kenneth's remark.
"I was just thinking that if Jane could only get one glimpse of you
in the morning before breakfast, your chances would be mighty slim
with her."
"Jane? What have my looks to do with her?" Kenneth retorted with
some heat, in a vain attempt to spar for time.
Bob addressed the world in general, calling on it for some aid in
understanding this brother of his.
"Jane?" he mimicked Kenneth's tone of surprise. "You talk like a
ten-year-old boy with his first love affair. Isn't he the innocent
one, though? Why, you poor maligned creature, everybody in Central
City who isn't blind knows that you are head over heels in love with
Jane Phillips. And," he added as an afterthought, "those who are
blind have been told it. But to return to my original observation,
if there was some means by which, with all propriety, all the girls
in the world who are in love could see, and be seen by, the poor
boobs with whom they are so infatuated, marriage-licence bureaus
would be closed that day, never to open again." This last with an
omniscient air of worldly wisdom that caused Kenneth to burst into a
roar of laughter, while Bob watched him, somewhat discomfited.
"What're you laughing at?" he demanded in an aggrieved tone. Kenneth
laughed all the harder. "Why, you poor little innocent, you haven't
gotten rid of your pin feathers, and yet you are talking as though
you were a philosopher like Schopenhauer. You'd better wait until
you finish school and see something of the world. Then you can talk
a little—though only a little as you did just now. By the way, it's
about time for you to be planning for school this fall. Still
thinking about going back to Atlanta?"
"I don't know what I want to do," was Bob's troubled rejoinder.
"I've seen too much of what's going on around this town since papa
died to be satisfied with school again. I've probably seen more of
the real sordidness and meanness and deviltry of this place since
I've been settling up papa's affairs than you'll see in five years.
At any rate, I hope you don't," he finished somewhat doubtfully.
"Bob"—Kenneth walked over and put his arm around his brother's
shoulders—the trouble with you is that you're too darned sensitive.
I know things aren't all they ought to be around here, but we've got
to buckle down and make them that way. And perhaps I've seen more of
this deviltry than you think."
He told Bob of what had happened to Nancy Ware the night before. A
long whistle of surprise escaped from Bob's lips.
"And this happened right here in the coloured section?" he asked in
surprise. Kenneth nodded in assent.
"I felt they were planning some mischief but I didn't think they
would have the nerve to come right here in ‘Darktown' and do it. I
wonder," he said musingly, "if that dirty little Jim Archer who said
those filthy things to Minnie Baxter that day is a member of the
Klan. I passed him on Lee Street this morning and he grinned at me
like a cat that has just eaten a fat mouse."
"He may be," Kenneth replied. "Nancy Ware told me last night she
recognized the voices of Sheriff Parker and Henry Lane and George
Parker and two or three other prominent white people here."
"That settles it," Bob answered determinedly. "When you first came
back here I thought you were foolish to do so after having been in
France. I said I was going to get out of this country as soon as I
could and live in France or Brazil or any old place where a man
isn't judged by the colour of his skin. But I've decided that I'd be
a coward if I did run away like that. Ken," he said in voice that
showed he had passed in spite of his years from childhood into the
more serious things of manhood, "I'm going to Harvard this fall. I'm
going to take whatever course I need to get into the law school. I'm
going to make myself the best lawyer they can turn out. And then I'm
coming back here to the South like you did and give my time to
fighting for my people!"
Bob's eyes flashed. In them was a light of high resolve such a look
as might have shone in the eyes of Garibaldi or of Joan of Arc.
Kenneth said nothing, but he gripped Bob's hand in his and there
passed between the two brothers a look of mutual understanding and
sympathy that was more potent and meaningful than words.
Kenneth went down to attend to his patients and nothing more was
said of the incident between them. Bob took on a new interest in
life. His moodiness, his brooding over the constant irritations and
insults he had to suffer in his dealings as a coloured man with the
whites of the town, his resentment at the attitude of condescension
on the part of the poor and ignorant whites who had neither his
intelligence, his education, nor his wealth—all these disappeared in
his eager preparations for the new life he had mapped out for
himself. He already saw himself a powerful champion of his race and
he gloried in that vision with all of the impetuosity and idealistic
fervour of youth.
As for Kenneth, he divided his time between his practice, Jane, and
the formation of more branches of the N.N.F.C.P.L.
Kenneth knew there was nothing to be done towards the punishment of
the men who had so brutally beaten Nancy Ware. He knew that it would
even be unwise for him to talk too much about it. If Sheriff Parker
was himself a member of the Klan, reporting the outrage to him would
be in effect a serving of notice that he was meddling in the affairs
of the Klan which might bring disastrous results at a time when
Kenneth was most anxious to avoid such a complication, certainly
until the co-operative societies were well under way and actively
functioning. Much as he chafed under the restraint and at his own
impotence in the situation, Kenneth knew that his interference would
be a useless and foolhardy butting of his head against a stone wall.
It occurred to him to tell what had happened to Judge. Stevenson. He
could be trusted and was as much opposed to the outlawry of the Klan
as Kenneth himself. The judge listened gravely to the end without
comment other than a question here and there. "That looks worse than
I thought," he said half to himself. "A few mo' cracks like that and
there'll be hell to pay ‘round here. But 'twon't do no good for you
t' meddle in it," he observed in answer to Kenneth's question as to
what he could do. "If Nancy's right about Bob Parker being in it,
your sayin' anything will only set them on you. You'd better go
ahead and get your societies on their feet and then you'll have
somethin' behin' you. Then you won't be playin' a lone hand."
As for the coloured people, there were several days of excited
gossip over what had happened to Nancy Ware. There was not much to
go on, as she had been so frightened by her terrible experience that
she refused for once to talk. The only tangible effect was that
mysterious parcels marked with the names of household implements
began to arrive at the homes of the coloured people, but which
contained fire-arms and ammunition. There was also a noticeable
tightening of the lips and the development of a less cordial
relationship between white and black. Negroes, feeling that there
was no help they could expect from the law, felt that their backs
were being slowly pressed against the wall. Within a few hours the
old _esprit cordial_ between white and black had been wiped out.
Negroes who had been happy-go-lucky, care-free, and kindly in manner
began to talk among themselves of "dying fighting" if forced to the
limit.
July came with all its heat. August passed with yet more heat. With
the coming of September there had been formed in Smith County alone
seven branch societies of the Co-operative and Protective League
with a membership of more than twelve hundred. Kenneth worked as one
inspired, one who knew neither heat nor cold, fatigue nor hunger.
During the day he was busy with his practice, but it mattered not
how busy he had been, he was always ready and willing to drive five,
ten, fifteen miles at night to aid in establishing new branches or
directing and guiding and advising those already established.
The Ashland Branch, through the hard work of Hiram Tucker and Tom
Tracy, had enrolled three hundred and fifteen members. In its
treasury it had $657.85, to which it was constantly adding as new
members were enrolled. At a meeting held during the latter part of
August the members decided that they would forgo the purchasing of
their supplies in bulk that year but would use the money raised
towards prosecuting one of the cases of dishonest settlements when
the time came for such settlements, usually in December or January.
This step was decided upon after due and lengthy deliberation, as it
was felt that if they could end the cheating of the farmers through
court action, then these same farmers would have more money through
the settlement of their accounts for the present season and could
then begin the co-operative buying and distribution the following
year.
News of the new society that was going to end the unsatisfactory
relations share-croppers had with their landlords spread rapidly
throughout the surrounding counties. Letters, crudely and
cumbersomely worded and with atrocious spelling, came to Kenneth and
often individuals came in person to ask that he come to their
counties to organize societies there. Kenneth was elated at this
sign of interest. He had expected a great deal of opposition from
the coloured farmers. Bickering and carping criticism there was
aplenty, but most of them regarded him as a new Moses to lead them
into the promised land of economic independence. Minor disputes over
authority in the local societies there were in abundance. But none
of them was hard to settle, for the members themselves were too
eager to get out of bondage to tolerate much petty politics and
selfishness on the part of their officers.
As a loyal ally Kenneth learned to rely on Jane more and more. Often
she went with him to attend meetings and to talk to groups not yet
organized. While Kenneth talked to the men, Jane circulated among
the women, who were subtly flattered that one so daintily clad and
well educated should spend so much of her time and energy talking to
lowly ones like themselves.
Her mother's health had not been of the best during the summer. That
had been throughout the summer her only worry. In August her mother
had suffered an attack of paralysis, her second one. Jane decided to
remain at home instead of going to Oberlin to resume her music.
Dr. Bennett had been dismissed and Kenneth was now treating
Mrs. Phillips. During her more serious illness in August, Jane often
sat on one side of her mother's bed until late in the night while
Kenneth sat on the other, ministering to the aged woman's wants.
There came a new and stronger feeling of companionship between the
two. Often Kenneth would look up suddenly and catch in Jane's eyes a
new tenderness. Without knowing what it meant, he felt a subtly
conveyed encouragement in them.
He had, however, spoken no word of love to her, preferring to bide
his time until a propitious occasion arose. He had told her that he
loved her—had he not done so, she would have known—he was content to
wait until she could decide what she wanted to do. At times the task
was hard not to tell her again and again of his love. Often as she
sat by his side and talked of inconsequential things, he would again
be seized by that consuming impulse to sweep away all her objections
and demolish by the very violence of his love the obstacles that
held him back from possessing her. He found himself more and more
filled with a wonderment that bordered on dismay as he tried to
suppress this devastating longing with less success every time this
feeling came over him. He tried staying away from Jane. At first he
had seen her but once a week and that on Sunday evenings. Then he
began dropping by to see her on Wednesdays. Of late his visits had
numbered three and four a week. On those nights when he was away, he
was restless and irritable. This became so noticeable that Mamie
threatened jokingly one night to go over and beg Jane to marry
Kenneth or throw him down hard or anything that would make him less
like a bear around the house. She and Jane had become fast
friends—which pleased Kenneth not a little, as it meant that Jane
would be more frequently in the house than otherwise would have been
the case.
As for Jane, in spite of herself, she found herself more and more
interested in Kenneth and the things he was doing. She found herself
eagerly looking forward to the evenings when he called. She wondered
if she were entirely honest in seeing so much of him.
Why didn't Kenneth say something now? She felt rather annoyed at him
for being so considerate. With a woman's prerogative of
inconsistency, she resented his obeying so implicitly her demand
that he wait until she had made up her mind. Men were so silly—you
told them to do a thing and they went like fools and did it. Why
didn't he talk about something else besides his old co-operative
societies and the Ku Klux Klan and his old hospital and what that
old Judge Stevenson had said to him that day? Life is such a funny
thing.
But Kenneth went along his way, not even suspecting what was going
on in Jane's mind. He was like the majority of men—wise in their own
minds but amazingly naïve and ignorant when they left the beaten
paths of everyday affairs.
The end of the first week in September came. Bob had completed all
arrangements to leave the following week for Cambridge, there to
take his entrance examinations, after studying for them all summer.
Kenneth had written to an old friend there who had made the
necessary negotiations. Bob was an entirely new individual from the
one he had been when Kenneth had returned to Central City. His air
of moody resentment had been replaced by an eager earnestness to
begin the course he had planned for himself. The bond had grown
closer between him and Kenneth, and many hours they spent together
discussing and planning for the years to come. Often the two
brothers and Mamie, sometimes Mrs. Harper also, sat until far in the
night talking of the future. If Mamie felt saddened by the broader
and more active life her brothers were planning which she, as a
woman, was denied, it never showed on her face or in her voice. She
might have been married long before in fact, there had been three or
four men who wanted to marry her. None of them would she have.
Decent enough men they were. But she was unwilling to settle down to
the humdrum life of marriage with a man so far beneath her in
intelligence, in ideals, in education. Being a normal, warmhearted
human being, naturally she often pictured to herself what marriage
in Central City would be like. But, keenly sensitive and ambitious,
she shrank from marrying the type of men available, farmers, small
merchants, and the like—she shuddered when she visualized herself
bearing children to such a man to be brought up in a place like
Central City. She yearned for love and as steadfastly put it from
her. There are thousands of tragedies—for tragedy it is—like Mamie's
in the South, and the world knows it not. When Kenneth or Bob teased
her about marrying, she answered him with a brave and all-concealing
smile-all-concealing, that is, to masculine eyes. Only her mother
and Jane knew her secret, and their lips were sealed in the bond
which women seldom, if ever, break. …
That night Jane looked better than Kenneth had ever seen her look
before. They seldom went out except for a short ride in his car. For
there was no place to which they could go. Central City boasted one
place of public amusement—the Idle Hour Moving Picture Palace. And
to that no Negro could go. Once they had admitted Negroes to the
gallery. None of the better element ever went, as they had to go
through a dark and foul-smelling alleyway to reach the entrance they
had to use. The type of Negroes whose pride permitted them to go
were so boisterous and laughed so loud that even they were soon
barred.
As usual they sat on the vine-covered porch where a breath of cool
air was more likely to be had than in the parlour. That day he had
had one of his more frequently recurring spells when he felt that he
could not keep his promise a day longer to wait until Jane had made
up her mind. At first he had thought of telephoning her and saying
that he was ill or busy—any old excuse to stay away. But he wanted
to see her too much for that patent evasion. He would go over to see
her but would talk of nothing but business or co-operative
societies. That's it, he would keep in "safe" territory. But Jane
had never looked more lovely than on that particular night.
Kenneth's heart jumped as he greeted her after she had kept him
waiting just the right length of time. He likened her instinctively
to a flame-coloured flower of rare beauty. All of the suppressed
passion surged upward in him. He felt himself slipping. He turned
away to gain control of himself. Had he not done so, he would have
seen the swift look of disappointment on her face at his restraint.
Keeping his eyes resolutely in front of him, he talked wearily and
wearisomely of the meeting he had attended the night before, of how
troublesome and irritating Mrs. Amos had been that day with her
rheumatism, of his having at last persuaded Mrs. Hiram Tucker to go
to Atlanta to have the operation she had so many times postponed.
Jane answered him abstractedly and in monosyllables. At last she
moved, almost with obvious meaning, to the canvas porch swing and
there rested against the pillows piled in one corner. And yet
Kenneth talked drearily on and on and on. He spoke at length of a
conversation he had had with Bob that morning—of how glad he was
that Bob was going away to school. Jane swung gently back and
forth—and said nothing. Mr. Phillips came out on the porch and
offered Kenneth a cigar, which he accepted and lighted. Mr. Phillips
sat down and talked garrulously while the two men smoked. Jane felt
that she could hardly keep from screaming. After what seemed an
hour, Mr. Phillips, his topics of conversation exhausted, and at a
sign from Jane that was not to be disregarded, rose heavily and
lumbered into the house again.
Kenneth threw away the stump of his cigar. It had suddenly occurred
to him that Jane hadn't said very much for the past hour. He rose to
go.
Jane sat silent as though unmindful of his having risen. He looked
closely at her. Tears of he knew not what stood in her eyes. He
dropped to the seat beside her, wondering what he had done to hurt
her so. "Jane, what's the matter?" he asked in a troubled voice.
"What have I done?" She looked at him. … He didn't know what
happened next. Suddenly he found her in his arms. He strained her to
him with all the passion he had been restraining for the months that
seemed like years. He kissed her hair. He mumbled incoherently, yet
with perfect understanding, to Jane, tender endearments. At length
she raised her face from where it had been buried on his chest,
gazed straight into his eyes. Their lips met in a long, clinging,
rapturous kiss. …
"How long have you known?" he asked her. Men are such idiots—they
are never satisfied to take what comes to them—they must ask silly
and nonsensical questions.
She told him. Of her long struggle, of her decision, of her
annoyance at his blindness. They talked eagerly until long past the
hour of ten. He heard Mr. Phillips moving chairs and dropping his
shoes—obvious hints that the time to go had long since passed. They
paid no attention to these danger signals but laughed softly to
themselves.
Everything must end eventually. Kenneth walked homewards through the
soft light of the September moon. Amusedly, the phrase "walking on
air" occurred to him. He laughed aloud. "Walking on air" was as the
rheumatic stumping along of old Mrs. Amos compared to the way he
felt. …