“And if that strong influence were found?” said Mrs. Vanderpool thoughtfully.
“It would surely involve some other important concession to the South.”
Mrs. Vanderpool looked up, and an interjection hovered on her lips. Was it possible that the price of Alwyn’s manhood would be her husband’s appointment to Paris? And if it were?
“I’ll do what I can,” she said graciously; “but I am afraid that will not be much.”
Miss Wynn hesitated. She had not succeeded even in guessing the source of Mrs. Vanderpool’s interest in Alwyn, and without that her appeal was but blind groping. She stopped on her way to the door to admire a bronze statuette and find time to think.
“You are interested in bronzes?” asked Mrs. Vanderpool.
“Oh, no; I’m far too poor. But I’ve dabbled a bit in sculpture.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Vanderpool revealed a mild interest, and Miss Wynn was compelled to depart with little enlightenment.
On the way up town she concluded that there was but one chance of success: she must write Alwyn’s speech. With characteristic decision she began her plans at once.
“What will you say in your speech?” she asked him that night as he rose to go.
He looked at her and she wavered slightly under his black eyes. The fight was becoming a little too desperate even for her steady nerves.
“You would not like me to act dishonestly, would you?” he asked.
“No,” she involuntarily replied, regretting the word the moment she had uttered it. He gave her one of his rare sweet smiles, and, rising, before she realized his intent, he had kissed her hands and was gone.
She asked herself why she had been so foolish; and yet, somehow, sitting there alone in the firelight, she felt glad for once that she had risen above intrigue. Then she sighed and smiled, and began to plot anew. Teerswell dropped in later and brought his friend, Stillings. They found their hostess gay and entertaining.
Miss Wynn gathered books about her, and in the days of April and May she and Alwyn read up on education. He marvelled at the subtlety of her mind, and she at the relentlessness of his. They were very near each other during these days, and yet there was ever something between them: a vision to him of dark and pleading eyes that he constantly saw beside her cool, keen glance. And he to her was always two men: one man above men, whom she could respect but would not marry, and one man like all men, whom she would marry but could not respect. His devotion to an ideal which she thought so utterly unpractical, aroused keen curiosity and admiration. She was sure he would fail in the end, and she wanted him to fail; and somehow, somewhere back beyond herself, her better self longed to find herself defeated; to see this mind stand firm on principle, under circumstances where she believed men never stood. Deep within her she discovered at times a passionate longing to believe in somebody; yet she found herself bending every energy to pull this man down to the level of time-servers, and even as she failed, feeling something like contempt for his stubbornness.
The great day came. He had her notes, her suggestions, her hints, but she had no intimation of what he would finally say.
“Will you come to hear me?” he asked.
“No,” she murmured.
“That is best,” he said, and then he added slowly, “I would not like you ever to despise me.”
She answered sharply: “I want to despise you!”
Did he understand? She was not sure. She was sorry she had said it; but she meant it fiercely. Then he left her, for it was already four in the afternoon and he spoke at eight.
In the morning she came down early, despite some dawdling over her toilet. She brought the morning paper into the dining-room and sat down with it, sipping her coffee. She leaned back and looked leisurely at the headings. There was nothing on the front page but a divorce, a revolution, and a new Trust. She took another sip of her coffee, and turned the page. There it was, “Colored High Schools Close—Vicious Attack on Republican Party by Negro Orator.”
She laid the paper aside and slowly finished her coffee. A few minutes later she went to her desk and sat there so long that she started at hearing the clock strike nine.
The day passed. When she came home from school she bought an evening paper. She was not surprised to learn that the Senate had rejected Alwyn’s nomination; that Samuel Stillings had been nominated and confirmed as Register of the Treasury, and that Mr. Tom Teerswell was to be his assistant. Also the bill reorganizing the school board had passed. She wrote two notes and posted them as she went out to walk.
When she reached home Stillings was there, and they talked earnestly. The bell rang violently. Teerswell rushed in.
“Well, Carrie!” he cried eagerly.
“Well, Tom,” she responded, giving him a languid hand. Stillings rose and departed. Teerswell nodded and said:
“Well, what do you think of last night?”
“A great speech, I hear.”
“A fool speech—that speech cost him, I calculate, between twenty-four and forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Possibly he’s satisfied with his bargain.”
“Possibly. Are you?”
“With his bargain?” quickly. “Yes.”
“No,” he pressed her, “with your bargain?”
“What bargain?” she parried.
“To marry him.”
“Oh, no; that’s off.”
“Is it off?” cried Teerswell delightedly. “Good! It was foolish from the first—that black country—”
“Gently,” Miss Wynn checked him. “I’m not yet over the habit.”
“Come. See what I’ve bought. You know I have a salary now.” He produced a ring with a small diamond cluster.
“How pretty!” she said, taking it and looking at it. Then she handed it back.
He laughed gayly. “It’s yours, Carrie. You’re going to marry me.”
She looked at him queerly.
“Am I? But I’ve got another ring already,” she said.
“Oh, send Alwyn’s back.”
“I have. This is still another.” And uncovering her hand she showed a ring with a large and beautiful diamond.
He rose. “Whose is that?” he demanded apprehensively.
“Mine—” her eyes met his.
“But who gave it to you?”
“Mr. Stillings,” was the soft reply.
He stared at her helplessly. “I—I—don’t understand!” he stammered.
“Well, to be brief, I’m engaged to Mr. Stillings.”
“What! To that flat-headed—”
“No,” she coolly interrupted, “to the Register of the Treasury.”
The man was too dumbfounded, too overwhelmed for coherent speech.
“But—but—come; why in God’s name—will you throw yourself away on—on such a—you’re joking—you—”
She motioned him to a chair. He obeyed like one in a trance.
“Now, Tom, be calm. When I was a baby I loved you, but that is long ago. today, Tom, you’re an insufferable cad and I—well, I’m too much like you to have two of us in the same family.”
“But, Stillings!” he burst forth, almost in tears. “The snake—what is he?”
“Nearly as bad as you, I’ll admit; but he has four thousand a year and sense enough to keep it. In truth, I need it; for, thanks to your political activity, my own position is gone.”
“But he’s a—a damned rascal!” Wounded self-conceit was now getting the upper hand.
She laughed.
“I think he is. But he’s such an exceptional rascal; he appeals to me. You know, Tom, we’re all more or less rascally—except one.”
“Except who?” he asked quickly.
“Bles Alwyn.”
“The fool!”
“Yes,” she slowly agreed. “Bles Alwyn, the Fool—and the Man. But by grace of the Negro Problem, I cannot afford to marry a man—Hark! Some one is on the steps. I’m sure it’s Bles. You’d better go now. Don’t attempt to fight
with him; he’s very strong. Good-night.”
Alwyn entered. He didn’t notice Teerswell as he passed out. He went straight to Miss Wynn holding a crumpled note, and his voice faltered a little.
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, Bles.”
“Why?”
“Because I am selfish and—small.”
“No, you are not. You want to be; but give it up, Carrie; it isn’t worth the cost. Come, let’s be honest and poor—and free.”
She regarded him a moment, searchingly, then a look half quizzical, half sorrowful came into her eyes. She put both her hands on his shoulders and said as she kissed his lips:
“Bles, almost thou persuadest me—to be a fool. Now go.”
Thirty
THE RETURN OF ZORA
I never realized before just what a lie meant,” said Zora.
The paper in Mrs. Vanderpool’s hands fell quickly to her lap, and she gazed across the toilet-table.
As she gazed that odd mirage of other days haunted her again. She did not seem to see her maid, nor the white and satin morning-room. She saw, with some long inner sight, a vast hall with mighty pillars; a smooth, marbled floor and a great throng whose silent eyes looked curiously upon her. Strange carven beasts gazed on from a setting of rich, barbaric splendor and she herself—the Liar—lay in rags before the gold and ivory of that lofty throne whereon sat Zora.
The foolish phantasy passed with the second of time that brought it, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s eyes dropped again to her paper, to those lines,—
“The President has sent the following nominations to the Senate … To be ambassador to France, John Vanderpool, Esq.”
The first feeling of triumph thrilled faintly again until the low voice of Zora startled her. It was so low and calm, it came as though journeying from great distances and weary with travel.
“I used to think a lie a little thing, a convenience; but now I see. It is a great No and it kills things. You remember that day when Mr. Easterly called?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Vanderpool, faintly.
“I heard all he said. I could not help it; my transom was open. And then, too, after he mentioned—Mr. Alwyn’s name, I wanted to hear. I knew that his appointment would cost you the embassy—unless Bles was tempted and should fall. So I came to you to say—to say you mustn’t pay the price.”
“And I lied,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. “I told you that he should be appointed and remain a man. I meant to make him see that he could yield without great cost. But I let you think I was giving up the embassy when I never intended to.”
She spoke coldly, yet Zora knew. She reached out and took the white, still hands in hers, and over the lady’s face again flitted that stricken look of age.
“I do not blame you,” said Zora gently. “I blame the world.”
“I am the world,” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered harshly, then suddenly laughed. But Zora went on:
“It bewildered me when I first read the news early this morning; the world—everything—seemed wrong. You see, my plan was all so splendid. Just as I turned away from him, back to my people, I was to help him to the highest. I was so afraid he would miss it and think that Right didn’t win in Life, that I wrote him—”
“You wrote him? So did I.”
Zora glanced at her quickly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Vanderpool. “I thought I knew him. He seemed an ordinary, rather priggish, opinionated country boy, and I wrote and said—Oh, I said that the world is the world; take it as it is. You wrote differently, and he obeyed you.”
“No; he did not know it was I. I was just a Voice from nowhere calling to him. I thought I was right. I wrote each day, sometimes twice, sending bits of verse, quotations, references, all saying the same thing: Right always triumphs. But it doesn’t, does it?”
“No. It never does save by accident.”
“I do not think that is quite so,” Zora pondered aloud, “and I am a little puzzled. I do not belong in this world where Right and Wrong get so mixed. With us yonder there is wrong, but we call it wrong—mostly. Oh, I don’t know; even there things are mixed.” She looked sadly at Mrs. Vanderpool, and the fear that had been hovering behind her mistress’s eyes became visible.
“It was so beautiful,” said Zora. “I expected a great thing of you—a sacrifice. I do not blame you because you could not do it; and yet—yet, after this,—don’t you see?—I cannot stay here.”
Mrs. Vanderpool arose and walked over to her. She stood above her, in her silken morning-gown, her brown and gray sprinkled hair rising above the pale, strong-lined face.
“Zora,” she faltered, “will you leave me?”
Zora answered, “Yes.” It was a soft “yes,” a “yes” full of pity and regret, but a “yes” that Mrs. Vanderpool knew in her soul to be final.
She sat down again on the lounge and her fingers crept along the cushions.
“Ambassadorships come—high,” she said with a catch in her voice. Then after a pause: “When will you go, Zora?”
“When you leave for the summer.”
Mrs. Vanderpool looked out upon the beautiful city. She was a little surprised at herself. She had found herself willing to sacrifice almost anything for Zora. No living soul had ever raised in her so deep an affection, and yet she knew now that, although the cost was great, she was willing to sacrifice Zora for Paris. After all, it was not too late; a rapid ride even now might secure high office for Alwyn and make Cresswell ambassador. It would be difficult but possible. But she had not the slightest inclination to attempt it, and she said aloud, half mockingly:
“You are right, Zora. I promised—and—I lied. Liars have no place in heaven and heaven is doubtless a beautiful place—but oh, Zora! you haven’t seen Paris!”
Two months later they parted simply, knowing well it was forever. Mrs. Vanderpool wrote a check.
“Use this in your work,” she said. “Miss Smith asked for it long ago. It is—my campaign contribution.”
Zora smiled and thanked her. As she put the sealed envelope in her trunk her hand came in contact with a long untouched package. Zora took it out silently and opened it and the beauty of it lightened the room.
“It is the Silver Fleece,” said Zora, and Mrs. Vanderpool kissed her and went.
Zora walked alone to the vaulted station. She did not try to buy a Pullman ticket, although the journey was thirty-six hours. She knew it would be difficult if not impossible and she preferred to share the lot of her people. Once on the foremost car, she leaned back and looked. The car seemed clean and comfortable but strangely short. Then she realized that half of it was cut off for the white smokers and as the door swung whiffs of the smoke came in. But she was content for she was almost alone.
It was eighteen little months ago that she had ridden up to the world with widening eyes. In that time what had happened? Everything. How well she remembered her coming, the first reflection of yonder gilded dome and the soaring of the capitol; the swelling of her heart, with inarticulate wonder; the pain of the thirst to know and understand. She did not know much now but she had learned how to find things out. She did not understand all, but some things she—
“Ticket”—the tone was harsh and abrupt. Zora started. She had always noted how polite conductors were to her and Mrs. Vanderpool—was it simply because Mrs. Vanderpool was evidently a great and rich lady? She held up her ticket and he snatched it from her muttering some direction.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Change at Charlotte,” he snapped as he went on.
It seemed to Zora that his discourtesy was almost forced: that he was afraid he might be betrayed into some show of consideration for a black woman. She felt no anger, she simply wondered what he feared. The increasing smell of tobacco smoke started her coughing. She turned. To be sure. Not only was the door to the smoker standing open, but a white passenger was in her car, sitting by the conductor and puffing heartily. As the black porter passed her she said gently:
“Is smoking allowed in here?”
“It ain’t non o’ my business,” he flung back at her and moved away. All day white men passed back and forward through the car as through a thoroughfare. They talked loudly and laughed and joked, and if they did not smoke they carried their lighted cigars. At her they stared and made comments, and one of them came and lounged almost over her seat, inquiring where she was going.
She did not reply; she neither looked nor stirred, but kept whispering to herself with something like awe: “This is what they must endure—my poor people!”
At Lynchburg a newsboy boarded the train with his wares. The conductor had already appropriated two seats for himself, and the newsboy routed out two colored passengers, and usurped two other seats. Then he began to be especially annoying. He joked and wrestled with the porter, and on every occasion pushed his wares at Zora, insisting on her buying.
“Ain’t you got no money?” he asked. “Where you going?”
“Say,” he whispered another time, “don’t you want to buy these gold spectacles? I found ’em and I dassen’t sell ’em open, see? They’re worth ten dollars—take ’em for a dollar.”
Zora sat still, keeping her eyes on the window; but her hands worked nervously, and when he threw a book with a picture of a man and half-dressed woman directly under her eyes, she took it and dropped it out the window.
The boy started to storm and demanded pay, while the conductor glared at her; but a white man in the conductor’s seat whispered something, and the row suddenly stopped.
A gang of colored section hands got on, dirty and loud. They sprawled about and smoked, drank, and bought candy and cheap gewgaws. They eyed her respectfully, and with one of them she talked a little as he awkwardly fingered his cap.
As the day wore on Zora found herself strangely weary. It was not simply the unpleasant things that kept happening, but the continued apprehension of unknown possibilities. Then, too, she began to realize that she had had nothing to eat. Travelling with Mrs. Vanderpool there was always a dainty lunch to be had at call. She did not expect this, but she asked the porter:
The Quest of the Silver Fleece Page 27
