The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  “But that’s been decided, hasn’t it?” put in Smith.

  “Yes,” grumbled Easterly; “but it makes it hard already. At any rate, the Educational Bill must be killed right off. No more talk; no more consideration—kill it, and kill it now. Now about this Child Labor Bill: Todd’s Civic Club is raising the mischief. Who’s responsible?”

  The silent Jackson spoke up. “Congressman Cresswell’s wife has been very active, and Todd thinks they’ve got the South with them.”

  “Congressman Cresswell’s wife!” Easterly’s face was one great exclamation point. “Now what the devil does this mean?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Senator Smith, “that it may mean an attempt on the part of Cresswell’s friends to boost him for the French ambassadorship. He’s the only Southerner with money enough to support the position, and there’s been a good deal of quiet talk, I understand, in Southern circles.”

  “But it’s treason!” Easterly shouted. “It will ruin the plans of the Combine to put this amended Child Labor Bill through. John Taylor has just written me that he’s starting mills at Toomsville, and that he depends on unrestricted labor conditions, as we must throughout the South. Doesn’t Cresswell know this?”

  “Of course. I think it’s just a bluff. If he gets the appointment he’ll let the bill drop.”

  “I see—everybody is raising his price, is he? Pretty soon the darky will be holding us up. Well, see Cresswell, and put it to him strong. I must go. Wire me.”

  Senator Smith presented the matter bluntly to Cresswell as soon as he saw him. “Which would the South prefer—Todd’s Education Bill, or Alwyn’s appointment?”

  It was characteristic of Cresswell that the smaller matter of Stillings’ intrigue should interest him more than Todd’s measure, of which he knew nothing.

  “What is Todd’s bill?” asked Harry Cresswell, darkening.

  Smith, surprised, got out a copy and explained. Cresswell interrupted before he was half through.

  “Don’t you see,” he said angrily, “that that will ruin our plans for the Cotton Combine?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied Smith; “but it will not do the immediate harm that the amended Child Labor Bill will do.”

  “What’s that?” demanded Cresswell, frowning again.

  Senator Smith regarded him again: was Cresswell playing a shrewd game?

  “Why,” he said at length, “aren’t you promoting it?”

  “No,” was the reply. “Never heard of it.”

  “But,” Senator Smith began, and paused. He turned and took up a circular issued by the Civic Club, giving a careful account of their endeavors to amend and pass the Child Labor Bill. Cresswell read it, then threw it aside.

  “Nonsense!” he indignantly repudiated the measure. “That will never do; it’s as bad as the Education Bill.”

  “But your wife is encouraging it and we thought you were back of it.”

  Cresswell stared in blank amazement.

  “My wife!” he gasped. Then he bethought himself. “It’s a mistake,” he supplemented; “Mrs. Cresswell gave them no authority to sign her name.”

  “She’s been very active,” Smith persisted, “and naturally we were all anxious.”

  Cresswell bit his lip. “I shall speak to her; she does not realize what use they are making of her passing interest.”

  He hurried away, and Senator Smith felt a bit sorry for Mrs. Cresswell when he recalled the expression on her husband’s face.

  Mary Cresswell did not get home until nearly dinner time; then she came in glowing with enthusiasm. Her work had received special commendation that afternoon, and she had been asked to take the chairmanship of the committee on publicity. Finding that her husband was at home, she determined to tell him—it was so good to be doing something worth while. Perhaps, too, he might be made to show some interest. She thought of Mr. and Mrs. Todd and the old dream glowed faintly again.

  Cresswell looked at her as she entered the library where he was waiting and smoking. She was rumpled and muddy, with flying hair and thick walking shoes and the air of bustle and vigor which had crept into her blood this last month. Truly, her cheeks were glowing and her eyes bright, but he disapproved. Softness and daintiness, silk and lace and glimmering flesh, belonged to women in his mind, and he despised Amazons and “business” women. He received her kiss coldly, and Mary’s heart sank. She essayed some gay greeting, but he interrupted her.

  “What’s this stuff about the Civic Club?” he began sharply.

  “Stuff?” she queried, blankly.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered stiffly. “I belong to the Civic Club, and have been working with it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” His resentment grew as he proceeded.

  “I did not think you were interested.”

  “Didn’t you know that this Child Labor business was opposed to my interests?”

  “Dear, I did not dream it. It’s a Republican bill, to be sure; but you seemed very friendly with Senator Smith, who introduced it. We were simply trying to improve it.”

  “Suppose we didn’t want it improved.”

  “That’s what some said; but I did not believe such—deception.”

  The blood rushed to Cresswell’s face.

  “Well, you will drop this bill and the Civic Club from now on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so,” he retorted explosively, too angry to explain further.

  She looked at him—a long, fixed, penetrating look which revealed more than she had ever seen before, then turned away and went slowly up-stairs. She did not come down to dinner, and in the evening the doctor was called.

  Cresswell drooped a bit after eating, hesitated, and reflected. He had acted too cavalierly in this Civic Club mess, he concluded, and yet he would not back down. He’d go see her and pet her a bit, but be firm.

  He opened her boudoir door gently, and she stood before him radiant, clothed in silk and lace, her hair loosened. He paused, astonished. But she threw herself upon his neck, with a joyful, half hysterical cry.

  “I will give it all up—everything! Willingly, willingly!” Her voice dropped abruptly to a tremulous whisper. “Oh, Harry! I—I am to be the mother of a child!”

  Twenty-nine

  A MASTER OF FATE

  There is not the slightest doubt, Miss Wynn,” Senator Smith was saying, “but that the schools of the District will be reorganized.”

  “And the Board of Education abolished?” she added.

  “Yes. The power will be delegated to a single white superintendent.”

  The vertical line in Caroline Wynn’s forehead became pronounced.

  “Whose work is this, Senator?” she asked.

  “Well, there are, of course, various parties back of the change: the ‘outs,’ the reformers, the whole tendency to concentrate responsibility, and so on. But, frankly, the deciding factor was the demand of the South.”

  “Is there anything in Washington that the South does not already own?”

  Senator Smith smiled thinly.

  “Not much,” drily; “but we own the South.”

  “And part of the price is putting the colored schools of the District in the hands of a Southern man and depriving us of all voice in their control?”

  “Precisely, Miss Wynn. But you’d be surprised to know that it was the Negroes themselves who stirred the South to this demand.”

  “Not at all; you mean the colored newspapers, I presume.”

  “The same, with Teerswell’s clever articles; then his partner Stillings worked the ‘impudent Negro teacher’ argument on Cresswell until Cresswell was wild to get the South in control of the schools.”

  “But what do Teerswell and Stillings want?”

  “They want Bles Alwyn to make a fool of himself.”

  “That is a trifle cryptic,” Miss Wynn mused. The Senator amplified.

  “We are giving the South the Washington s
chools and killing the Education Bill in return for this support of some of our measures and their assent to Alwyn’s appointment. You see I speak frankly.”

  “I can stand it, Senator.”

  “I believe you can. Well, now, if Alwyn should act unwisely and offend the South, somebody else stands in line for the appointment.”

  “As Treasurer?” she asked in surprise.

  “Oh, no, they are too shrewd to ask that; it would offend their backers, or shall I say their tools, the Southerners. No, they ask only to be Register and Assistant Register of the Treasury. This is an office colored men have held for years, and it is quite ambitious enough for them; so Stillings assures Cresswell and his friends.”

  “I see,” Miss Wynn slowly acknowledged. “But how do they hope to make Mr. Alwyn blunder?”

  “Too easily, I fear—unless you are very careful. Alwyn has been working like a beaver for the National Education Bill. He’s been in to see me several times, as you probably know. His heart is set on it. He regards its passage as a sort of vindication of his defence of the party.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, the party has dropped the bill for good, and Alwyn doesn’t like it. If he should attack the party—”

  “But he wouldn’t,” cried Miss Wynn with a start that belied her conviction.

  “Did you know that he is to be invited to make the principal address to the graduates of the colored high-school?”

  “But,” she objected. “They have selected Bishop Johnson; I—”

  “I know you did,” laughed the Senator, “but the Judge got orders from higher up.”

  “Shrewd Mr. Teerswell,” remarked Miss Wynn, sagely.

  “Shrewd Mr. Stillings,” the Senator corrected; “but perhaps too shrewd. Suppose Mr. Alwyn should take this occasion to make a thorough defence of the party?”

  “But—will he?”

  “That’s where you come in,” Senator Smith pointed out, rising, “and the real reason of this interview. We’re depending on you to pull the party out of an awkward hole,” and he shook hands with his caller.

  Miss Wynn walked slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue with a smile on her face.

  “I did not give him the credit,” she declared, repeating it; “I did not give him the credit. Here I was, playing an alluring game on the side, and my dear Tom transforms it into a struggle for bread and butter; for of course, if the Board of Education goes, I lose my place.” She lifted her head and stared along the avenue.

  A bitterness dawned in her eyes. The whole street was a living insult to her. Here she was, an American girl by birth and breeding, a daughter of citizens who had fought and bled and worked for a dozen generations on this soil; yet if she stepped into this hotel to rest, even with full purse, she would be politely refused accommodation. Should she attempt to go into this picture show she would be denied entrance. She was thirsty with the walk; but at yonder fountain the clerk would roughly refuse to serve her. It was lunch time; there was no place within a mile where she was allowed to eat. The revolt deepened within her. Beyond these known and definite discriminations lay the unknown and hovering. In yonder store nothing hindered the clerk from being exceptionally pert; on yonder street-car the conductor might reserve his politeness for white folk; this policeman’s business was to keep black and brown people in their places. All this Caroline Wynn thought of, and then smiled.

  This was the thing poor blind Bles was trying to attack by “appeals” for “justice.” Nonsense! Does one “appeal” to the red-eyed beast that throttles him? No. He composes himself, looks death in the eye, and speaks softly, on the chance. Whereupon Miss Wynn composed herself, waved gayly at a passing acquaintance, and matched some ribbons in a department store. The clerk was new and anxious to sell.

  Meantime her brain was busy. She had a hard task before her. Alwyn’s absurd conscience and Quixotic ideas were difficult to cope with. After his last indiscreet talk she had ventured deftly to remonstrate, and she well remembered the conversation.

  “Wasn’t what I said true?” he had asked.

  “Perfectly. Is that an excuse for saying it?”

  “The facts ought to be known.”

  “Yes, but ought you to tell them?”

  “If not I, who?”

  “Some one who is less useful elsewhere, and whom I like less.”

  “Carrie,” he had been intensely earnest. “I want to do the best thing, but I’m puzzled. I wonder if I’m selling my birthright for six thousand dollars?”

  “In case of doubt, do it.”

  “But there’s the doubt: I may convert; I may open the eyes of the blind; I may start a crusade for Negro rights.”

  “Don’t believe it; it’s useless; we’ll never get our rights in this land.”

  “You don’t believe that!” he had ejaculated, shocked.

  Well, she must begin again. As she had hoped, he was waiting for her when she reached home. She welcomed him cordially, made a little music for him, and served tea.

  “Bles,” she said, “the Opposition has been laying a pretty shrewd trap for you.”

  “What?” he asked absently.

  “They are going to have you chosen as High School commencement orator.”

  “Me? Stuff!”

  “You—and not stuff, but ‘Education’ will be your natural theme. Indeed, they have so engineered it that the party chiefs expect from you a defence of their dropping of the Educational Bill.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, and probably your nomination will come before the speech and confirmation after.”

  Bles walked the floor excitedly for a while and then sat down and smiled.

  “It was a shrewd move,” he said; “but I think I thank them for it.”

  “I don’t. But still,

  “ ‘’T is the sport to see the engineer hoist

  by his own petar.’ ”

  Bles mused and she watched him covertly. Suddenly she leaned over.

  “Moreover,” she said, “about that same date I’m liable to lose my position as teacher.”

  He looked at her quickly, and she explained the coming revolution in school management.

  He did not discuss the matter, and she was equally reticent; but when he entered the doors of his lodging-place and, gathering his mail, slowly mounted the stairs, there came the battle of his life.

  He knew it and he tried to wage it coolly and with method. He arrayed the arguments side by side: on this side lay success; the greatest office ever held by a Negro in America—greater than Douglass or Bruce or Lynch had held—a landmark, a living example and inspiration. A man owed the world success; there were plenty who could fail and stumble and give multiple excuses. Should he be one? He viewed the other side. What must he pay for success? Aye, face it boldly—what? Mechanically he searched for his mail and undid the latest number of the Colored American. He was sure the answer stood there in Teerswell’s biting vulgar English. And there it was, with a cartoon:

  HIS MASTER’S VOICE

  Alwyn is Ordered to Eat His Words or Get Out

  Watch Him Do It Gracefully

  The Republican Leaders, etc.

  He threw down his paper, and the hot blood sang in his ears. The sickening thought was that it was true. If he did make the speech demanded it would be like a dog obedient to his master’s voice.

  The cold sweat oozed on his face; throwing up the window, he drank in the Spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had thought so alluring. Somehow it looked like the swamp, only less beautiful; he stretched his arms and his lips breathed—“Zora!”

  He turned hastily to his desk and looked at the other piece of mail—a single sealed note carefully written on heavy paper. He did not recognize the handwriting. Then his mind flew off again. What would they say if he failed to get the office? How they would silently hoot and jeer at the upstart who suddenly climbed so high and fell. And Carrie Wynn—poor Carrie, with her pride and position dragged down in his ruin: how would she take it? He w
rithed in soul. And yet, to be a man; to say calmly, “No”; to stand in that great audience and say, “My people first and last”; to take Carrie’s hand and together face the world and struggle again to newer finer triumphs—all this would be very close to attainment of the ideal. He found himself staring at the little letter. Would she go? Would she, could she, lay aside her pride and cynicism, her dainty ways and little extravagances? An odd fancy came to him: perhaps the answer to the riddle lay sealed within the envelope he fingered.

  He opened it. Within lay four lines of writing—no more—no address, no signature; simply the words:

  “It matters now how strait the gate,

  How charged with punishment the scroll;

  I am the master of my fate,

  I am the captain of my soul.”

  He stared at the lines. Eleven o’clock—twelve—one—chimed the deep-voiced clock without, before Alwyn went to bed.

  Miss Wynn had kept a vigil almost as long. She knew that Bles had influential friends who had urged his preferment; it might be wise to enlist them. Before she fell asleep she had determined to have a talk with Mrs. Vanderpool. She had learned from Senator Smith that the lady took special interest in Alwyn.

  Mrs. Vanderpool heard Miss Wynn’s story next day with some inward dismay. Really the breadth and depth of intrigue in this city almost frightened her as she walked deeper into the mire. She had promised Zora that Bles should receive his reward on terms which would not wound his manhood. It seemed an easy, almost an obvious thing, to promise at the time. Yet here was this rather unusual young woman asking Mrs. Vanderpool to use her influence in making Alwyn bow to the yoke. She fenced for time.

  “But I do not know Mr. Alwyn.”

  “I thought you did; you recommended him highly.”

  “I knew of him slightly in the South and I have watched his career here.”

  “It would be too bad to have that career spoiled now.”

  “But is it necessary? Suppose he should defend the Education Bill.”

  “And criticise the party?” asked Miss Wynn. “It would take strong influence to pull him through.”