“Let me see it. Oh, yes—he will see you in a moment.”
Bles was returning the letter to his pocket when he heard a voice almost at his ear.
“I beg your pardon—”
He turned and started. It was the lady next to him, and she was colored! Not extremely colored, but undoubtedly colored, with waving black hair, light brown skin, and the fuller facial curving of the darker world. And yet Bles was surprised, for everything else about her—her voice, her bearing, the set of her gown, her gloves and shoes, the whole impression was—Bles hesitated for a word—well, “white.”
“Yes—yes, ma’am,” he stammered, becoming suddenly conscious that the lady had now a second time asked him if he was acquainted with Senator Smith. “That is, ma’am,”—why was he saying “ma’am,” like a child or a servant?—“I know his sister and have a letter for him.”
“Do you live in Washington?” she inquired.
“No—but I want to. I’ve been trying to get in as a clerk, and I haven’t succeeded yet. That’s what I’m going to see Senator Smith about.”
“Have you had the civil-service examinations?”
“Yes. I made ninety-three in the examination for a treasury clerkship.”
“And no appointment? I see—they are not partial to us there.”
Bles was glad to hear her say “us.”
She continued after a pause:
“May I venture to ask a favor of you?”
“Certainly,” he responded.
“My name is Wynn,” lowering her voice slightly and leaning toward him. “There are so many ahead of me and I am in a hurry to get to my school; but I must see the Senator—couldn’t I go in with you? I think I might be of service in this matter of the examination, and then perhaps I’d get a chance to say a word for myself.”
“I’d be very glad to have you come,” said Bles, cordially.
The secretary hesitated a little when the two started in, but Miss Wynn’s air was so quietly assured that he yielded.
Senator Smith looked at the tall, straight black man with his smooth skin and frank eyes. And for a second time that morning a vision of his own youth dimmed his eyes. But he spoke coldly:
“Mr. Alwyn, I believe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And—”
“My friend, Miss Wynn.”
The Senator glanced at Miss Wynn and she bowed demurely. Then he turned to Alwyn.
“Well, Mr. Alwyn, Washington is a bad place to start in the world.”
Bles looked surprised and incredulous. He could conceive of no finer starting-place, but he said nothing.
“It is a grave,” continued the Senator, “of ambitions and ideals. You would far better go back to Alabama”—pausing and looking at the young man keenly—“but you won’t—you won’t—not yet, at any rate.” And Bles shook his head slowly.
“No—well, what can I do for you?”
“I want work—I’ll do anything.”
“No, you’ll do one thing—be a clerk, and then if you have the right stuff in you you will throw up that job in a year and start again.”
“I’d like at least to try it, sir.”
“Well, I can’t help you much there; that’s in civil-service, and you must take the examination.”
“I have, sir.”
“So? Where, and what mark?”
“In the Treasury Department; I got a mark of ninety-three.”
“What!—and no appointment?” The Senator was incredulous.
“No, sir; not yet.”
Here Miss Wynn interposed.
“You see, Senator,” she said, “civil-service rules are not always impervious to race prejudice.”
The Senator frowned.
“Do you mean to intimate that Mr. Alwyn’s appointment is held up because he is colored?”
“I do.”
“Well—well!” The Senator rang for a clerk.
“Get me the Treasury on the telephone.”
In a moment the bell rang.
“I want Mr. Cole. Is that you, Mr. Cole? Good-morning. Have you a young man named Alwyn on your eligible list? What? Yes?” A pause. “Indeed? Well, why has he no appointment? Of course, I know, he’s a Negro. Yes, I desire it very much—thank you.”
“You’ll get an appointment to-morrow morning,” and the Senator rose. “How is my sister?” he asked absently.
“She was looking worried, but hopeful of the new endowment when I left.” The Senator held out his hand; Bles took it and then remembered.
“Oh, I beg pardon, but Miss Wynn wanted a word on another matter.”
The Senator turned to Miss Wynn.
“I am a school-teacher, Senator Smith, and like all the rest of us I am deeply interested in the appointment of the new school-board.”
“But you know the district committee attends to those things,” said the Senator hastily. “And then, too, I believe there is talk of abolishing the school-board and concentrating power in the hands of the superintendent.”
“Precisely,” said Miss Wynn. “And I came to tell you, Senator Smith, that the interests which are back of this attack upon the schools are no friends of yours.” Miss Wynn extracted from her reticule a typewritten paper.
He took the paper and read it intently. Then he keenly scrutinized the young woman, and she steadily returned his regard.
“How am I to know this is true?”
“Follow it up and see.”
He mused.
“Where did you get these facts?” he asked suddenly.
She smiled.
“It is hardly necessary to say.”
“And yet,” he persisted, “if I were sure of its source I would know my ground better and—my obligation to you would be greater.”
She laughed and glanced toward Alwyn. He had moved out of earshot and was waiting by the window.
“I am a teacher in the M Street High School,” she said, “and we have some intelligent boys there who work their way through.”
“Yes,” said the Senator.
“Some,” continued Miss Wynn, tapping her boot on the carpet, “some—wait on table.”
The Senator slowly put the paper in his pocket.
“And now,” he said, “Miss Wynn, what can I do for you?”
She looked at him.
“If Judge Haynes is reappointed to the school-board I shall probably continue to teach in the M Street High School,” she said slowly.
The Senator made a memorandum and said:
“I shall not forget Miss Wynn—nor her friends.” And he bowed, glancing at Alwyn.
The woman contemplated Bles in momentary perplexity, then bowing in turn, left. Bles followed, debating just what he ought to say, how far he might venture to accompany her, what—but she easily settled it all.
“I thank you—good-bye,” she said briefly at the door, and was gone. Bles did not know whether to feel relieved or provoked, or disappointed, and by way of compromise felt something of all three.
The next morning he received notice of his appointment to a clerkship in the Treasury Department, at a salary of nine hundred dollars. The sum seemed fabulous and he was in the seventh heaven. For many days the consciousness of wealth, the new duties, the street scenes, and the city life kept him more than busy. He planned to study, and arranged with a professor at Howard University to guide him. He bought an armful of books and a desk, and plunged desperately to work.
Gradually as he became used to the office routine, and in the hours when he was weary of study, he began to find time hanging a little heavily on his hands; indeed—although he would not acknowledge it—he was getting lonesome, homesick, amid the myriad men of a busy city. He argued to himself that this was absurd, and yet he knew that he was longing for human companionship. When he looked about him for fellowship he found himself in a strange dilemma: those black folk in whom he recognized the old sweet-tempered Negro traits, had also looser, uglier manners than he was accustomed to, from which he shrank. The upper classes of
Negroes, on the other hand, he still observed from afar; they were strangers not only in acquaintance but because of a curious coldness and aloofness that made them cease to seem his own kind; they seemed almost at times like black white people—strangers in way and thought.
He tried to shake off this feeling but it clung, and at last in sheer desperation, he promised to go out of a night with a fellow clerk who rather boasted of the “people” he knew. He was soon tired of the strange company, and had turned to go home, when he met a newcomer in the doorway.
“Why, hello, Sam! Sam Stillings!” he exclaimed delightedly, and was soon grasping the hand of a slim, well-dressed man of perhaps thirty, with yellow face, curling hair, and shifting eyes.
“Well, of all things, Bles—er—ah—Mr. Alwyn! Thought you were hoeing cotton.”
Bles laughed and continued shaking his head. He was foolishly glad to see the former Cresswell butler, whom he had known but slightly. His face brought back unuttered things that made his heart beat faster and a yearning surge within him.
“I thought you went to Chicago,” cried Bles.
“I did, but goin’ into politics—having entered the political field, I came here. And you graduated, I suppose, and all that?”
“No,” Bless admitted a little sadly, as he told of his coming north, and of Senator Smith’s influence. “But—but how are—all?”
Abruptly Sam hooked his arm into Alwyn’s and pulled him with him down the street. Stillings was a type. Up from servility and menial service he was struggling to climb to money and power. He was shrewd, willing to stoop to anything in order to win. The very slights and humiliations of prejudice he turned to his advantage. When he learned all the particulars of Alwyn’s visit to Senator Smith and his cordial reception he judged it best to keep in touch with this young man, and he forthwith invited Bles to accompany him the next night to the Fifteenth Street Presbyterian Church.
“You’ll find the best people there,” he said; “the aristocracy. The Treble Clef gives a concert, and everybody that’s anybody will be there.”
They met again the following evening and proceeded to the church. It was a simple but pleasant auditorium, nearly filled with well-dressed people. During the programme Bles applauded vociferously every number that pleased him, which is to say, every one—and stamped his feet, until he realized that he was attracting considerable attention to himself. Then the entertainment straightway lost all its charm; he grew painfully embarrassed, and for the remainder of the evening was awkwardly self-conscious. When all was over, the audience rose leisurely and stood in little knots and eddies, laughing and talking; many moved forward to say a word to the singers and players. Stillings stepped aside to a group of men, and Bles was left miserably alone. A man came to him, a white-faced man, with slightly curling close gray hair, and high-bred ascetic countenance.
“You are a stranger?” he asked pleasantly, and Bles liked him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, and they fell to talking. He discovered that this was the pastor of the church.
“Do you know no one in town?”
“One or two of my fellow clerks and Mr. Stillings. Oh, yes, I’ve met Miss Wynn.”
“Why, here is Miss Wynn now.”
Bles turned. She was right behind him, the centre of a group. She turned, slowly, and smiled.
“Oh!” she uttered twice, but with difference cadence. Then something like amusement lurked a moment in her eye, and she quietly presented Bles to her friends, while Stillings hovered unnoticed in the offing:
“Miss Jones—Mr. Alwyn of—” she paused a second—“Alabama. Miss Taylor—Mr. Alwyn—and,” with a backward curving of her neck, “Mr. Teerswell,” and so on. Mr. Teerswell was handsome and indolent, with indecision in his face and a cynical voice. In a moment Bles felt the subtle antagonism of the group. He was an intruder. Mr. Teerswell nodded easily and turned away, continuing his conversation with the ladies.
But Miss Wynn was perverse and interrupted. “I saw you enjoyed the concert, Mr. Alwyn,” she said, and one of the young ladies rippled audibly. Bles darkened painfully, realizing that these people must have been just behind him. But he answered frankly:
“Yes, I did immensely—I hope I didn’t disturb you; you see, I’m not used to hearing such singing.”
Mr. Teerswell, compelled to listen, laughed drily.
“Plantation melodies, I suppose, are more your specialty,” he said with a slight cadence.
“Yes,” said Bles simply. A slight pause ensued.
Then came the surprise of the evening for Bles Alwyn. Even his inexperienced eye could discern that Miss Wynn was very popular, and that most of the men were rivals for her attentions.
“Mr. Alwyn,” she said graciously, rising. “I’m going to trouble you to see me to my door; it’s only a block. Good-night, all!” she called, but she bowed to Mr. Teerswell.
Miss Wynn placed her hand lightly on Bles’s arm, and for a moment he paused. A thrill ran through him as he felt again the weight of a little hand and saw beside him the dark beautiful eyes of a girl. He felt again the warm quiver of her body. Then he awoke to the lighted church and the moving, well-dressed throng. The hand on his arm was not so small; but it was well-gloved, and somehow the fancy struck him that it was a cold hand and not always sympathetic in its touch.
Twenty-three
THE TRAINING OF ZORA
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, everything 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.
The Quest of the Silver Fleece Page 20
