The Quest of the Silver Fleece: A Novel

by W. E. B. Du Bois

  _Thirty-one_

  A PARTING OF WAYS

  "Was the child born dead?"

  "Worse than dead!"

  Somehow, somewhere, Mary Cresswell had heard these words; long, long,ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter agony, whereEarth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeatingthem mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning. Long she hadwrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves,and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thingclear--to understand.

  "Was the child born dead?"

  "Worse than dead!"

  Then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than death? Shehad tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed her like a childeach day and left her lying there. Today she was stronger, and for thefirst time sitting up, looking listlessly out across the world--a queerworld. Why had they not let her see the child--just one look at itslittle dead face? That would have been something. And again, as thedoctor cheerily turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. Helooked at her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly:

  "There, now; you've been dreaming. You must rest quietly now." And witha nod he passed into the other room to talk with her husband.

  She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell Harryto ask him--she did not often see her husband, but she must ask him nowand she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. Amoment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. From theother side the words came distinctly and clearly:

  "--other children, doctor?"

  "You must have no other children, Mr. Cresswell."

  "Why?"

  "Because the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children unto thethird and fourth generation."

  Slowly, softly, she crept away. Her mind seemed very clear. And shebegan a long journey to reach her window and chair--a long, longjourney; but at last she sank into the chair again and sat dry-eyed,wondering who had conceived this world and made it, and why.

  A long time afterward she found herself lying in bed, awake, conscious,clear-minded. Yet she thought as little as possible, for that was pain;but she listened gladly, for without she heard the solemn beating of thesea, the mighty rhythmic beating of the sea. Long days she lay, and satand walked beside those vast and speaking waters, till at last she knewtheir voice and they spoke to her and the sea-calm soothed her soul.

  For one brief moment of her life she saw herself clearly: a well-meaningwoman, ambitious, but curiously narrow; not willing to work long forthe Vision, but leaping at it rashly, blindly, with a deep-seated senseof duty which she made a source of offence by preening and parading it,and forcing it to ill-timed notice. She saw that she had looked on herhusband as a means not an end. She had wished to absorb him and his workfor her own glory. She had idealized for her own uses a very human manwhose life had been full of sin and fault. She must atone.

  No sooner, in this brief moment, did she see herself honestly than herold habits swept her on tumultuously. No ordinary atonement would do.The sacrifice must be vast; the world must stand in wonder before thisclever woman sinking her soul in another and raising him by sheer willto the highest.

  So after six endless months Mary Cresswell walked into her Washingtonhome again. She knew she had changed in appearance, but she hadforgotten to note how much until she saw the stare--almost therecoil--of her husband, the muttered exclamation, the studied, almostoverdone welcome. Then she went up to her mirror and looked long, andknew.

  She was strong; she felt well; but she was slight, almost scrawny, andher beauty was gone forever. It had been of that blonde white-and-pinktype that fades in a flash, and its going left her body flattened andangular, her skin drawn and dead white, her eyes sunken. From theradiant girl whom Cresswell had met three years earlier the change wasstartling, and yet the contrast seemed even greater than it was, for herglory then had been her abundant and almost golden hair. Now that hairwas faded, and falling so fast that at last the doctor advised her tocut it short. This left her ill-shaped head exposed and emphasized thesunken hollows of her face. She knew that she was changed but she didnot quite realize how changed, until now as she stood and gazed.

  Yet she did not hesitate but from that moment set herself to her newlife task. Characteristically, she started dramatically and largely. Shewas to make her life an endless sacrifice; she was to revivify themanhood in Harry Cresswell, and all this for no return, no partnershipof soul--all was to be complete sacrifice and sinking soul in soul.

  If Mary Cresswell had attempted less she would have accomplished more.As it was, she began well; she went to work tactfully, seeming to noteno change in his manner toward her; but his manner had changed. He wasstudiously, scrupulously polite in private, and in public devoted; butthere was no feeling, no passion, no love. The polished shell of hisclan reflected conventional light even more carefully than formerlybecause the shell was cold and empty. There were no little flashes ofanger now, no poutings nor sweet reconciliations. Life ran very smoothlyand courteously; and while she did not try to regain the affection, shestrove to enthrall his intellect. She supplied a sub-committee uponwhich he was serving--not directly, but through him--with figures, withreports, books, and papers, so that he received special commendations; apraise that piqued as well as pleased him, because it implied a certainsurprise that he was able to do it.

  "The damned Yankees!" he sneered. "They think they've got the brains ofthe nation."

  "Why not make a speech on the subject?" she suggested.

  He laughed. The matter under discussion was the cotton-goods schedule ofthe new tariff bill, about which really he knew a little; his wifeplaced every temptation to knowledge before him, even inspiring SenatorSmith to ask him to defend that schedule against the low-tariffadvocate. Mary Cresswell worked with redoubled energy, and for nearly aweek Harry staid at home nights and studied. Thanks to his wife thespeech was unusually informing and well put, and the fact that aprominent free-trader spoke the same afternoon gave it publicity, whileMr. Easterly saw to the press despatches.

  Cresswell subscribed to a clipping-bureau and tasted the sweets ofdawning notoriety, and Mrs. Cresswell arranged a select dinner-partywhich included a cabinet officer, a foreign ambassador, twomillionaires, and the leading Southern Congressmen. The talk camearound to the failure of the Senate to confirm Mr. Vanderpool, and itwas generally assumed that the President would not force the issue.

  Who, then, should be nominated? There were several suggestions, but theknot of Southern Congressmen about Mrs. Cresswell declared emphaticallythat it must be a Southerner. Not since the war had a prominentSoutherner represented America at a first-class foreign court; it wasshameful; the time was ripe for change. But who? Here opinions differedwidely. Nearly every one mentioned a candidate, and those who did notseemed to refrain from motives of personal modesty.

  Mary Cresswell sped her departing guests with a distinct purpose inmind. She must make herself leader of the Southern set in Washington andconcentrate its whole force on the appointment of Harry Cresswell asambassador to France. Quick reward and promotion were essential toHarry's success. He was not one to keep up the strain of effort a longtime. Unless, then, tangible results came and came quickly, he wasliable to relapse into old habits. Therefore he must succeed and succeedat once. She would have preferred a less ornamental position than theambassadorship, but there were no other openings. The Alabama senatorswere firmly seated for at least four years and the Governorship had beencarefully arranged for. A term of four years abroad, however, mightbring Harry Cresswell back in time for greater advancement. At any rate,it was the only tangible offering, and Mary Cresswell silentlydetermined to work for it.

  Here it was that she made her mistake. It was one thing for her to be atactful hostess, pleasing her husband and his guests; it was another forher to aim openly at social leadership and political influence. She hadat first all the insignia of success. Her dinners became of realpo
litical significance and her husband figured more and more as aleading Southerner. The result was two-fold. Cresswell, on the one hand,with his usual selfishness, took his rising popularity as a matter ofcourse and as the fruits of his own work; he was rising, he was makingvaluable speeches, he was becoming a social power, and his only handicapwas his plain and over-ambitious wife. But on the other hand Mrs.Cresswell forgot two pitfalls: the cleft between the old Southernaristocracy and the pushing new Southerners; and above all, her ownNorthern birth and presumably pro-Negro sympathies.

  What Mrs. Cresswell forgot Mrs. Vanderpool sensed unerringly. She hadheard with uneasiness of Cresswell's renewed candidacy for the Parisambassadorship, and she set herself to block it. She had worked hard.The President stood ready to send her husband's appointment again to theSenate whenever Easterly could assure him of favorable action. Easterlyhad long and satisfactory interviews with several senators, while theTodd insurgents were losing heart at the prospect of choosing betweenVanderpool and Cresswell. At present four Southern votes were needed toconfirm Vanderpool; but if they could not be had, Easterly declared itwould be good politics to nominate Cresswell and give him Republicansupport. Manifestly, then, Mrs. Vanderpool's task was to discredit theCresswells with the Southerners. It was not a work to her liking, butthe die was cast and she refused to contemplate defeat.

  The result was that while Mrs. Cresswell was giving large and brilliantparties to the whole Southern contingent, Mrs. Vanderpool wasengineering exclusive dinners where old New York met stately Charlestonand gossiped interestingly. On such occasions it was hinted not once,but many times, that the Cresswells were well enough, but who was thatupstart wife who presumed to take social precedence?

  It was not, however, until Mrs. Cresswell's plan for an all-Southern artexhibit in Washington that Mrs. Vanderpool, in a flash of inspiration,saw her chance. In the annual exhibit of the Corcoran Art Gallery, aSouthern girl had nearly won first prize over a Western man. Theconcensus of Southern opinion was that the judgment had been unfair, andMrs. Cresswell was convinced of this. With quick intuition shesuggested a Southern exhibit with such social prestige back of it as toimpress the country.

  The proposal caught the imagination of the Southern set. None suspecteda possible intrusion of the eternal race issue for no Negroes wereallowed in the Corcoran exhibit or school. This Mrs. Vanderpool easilyascertained and a certain sense of justice combined in a curious waywith her political intrigue to bring about the undoing of MaryCresswell.

  Mrs. Vanderpool's very first cautious inquiries by way of the backstairs brought gratifying response--for did not all black Washingtonknow well of the work in sculpture done by Mrs. Samuel Stillings, _nee_Wynn? Mrs. Vanderpool remembered Mrs. Stillings perfectly, and shewalked, that evening, through unobtrusive thoroughfares and called onMrs. Stillings. Had Mrs. Stillings heard of the new art movement? Didshe intend to exhibit? Mrs. Stillings did not intend to exhibit as shewas sure she would not be welcome. She had had a bust accepted by theCorcoran Art Gallery once, and when they found she was colored theyreturned it. But if she were especially invited? That would make adifference, although even then the line would be drawn somehow.

  "Would it not be worth a fight?" suggested Mrs. Vanderpool with a littleheightening of color in her pale cheek.

  "Perhaps," said Mrs. Stillings, as she brought out some specimens of herwork.

  Mrs. Vanderpool was both ashamed and grateful. With money and leisureMrs. Stillings had been able to get in New York and Boston the trainingshe had been denied in Washington on account of her color. The thingsshe exhibited really had merit and one curiously original group appealedto Mrs. Vanderpool tremendously.

  "Send it," she counseled with strangely contradictory feelings ofenthusiasm, and added: "Enter it under the name of Wynn."

  In addition to the general invitations to the art exhibit numbers ofspecial ones were issued to promising Southern amateurs who had neverexhibited. For these a prize of a long-term scholarship and othersmaller prizes were offered. When Mrs. Vanderpool suggested the name of"Miss Wynn" to Mrs. Cresswell among a dozen others, for specialinvitation, there was nothing in its sound to distinguish it from therest of the names, and the invitation went duly. As a result there cameto the exhibit a little group called "The Outcasts," which was really amasterly thing and sent the director, Signor Alberni, into hystericalcommendation.

  In the private view and award of prizes which preceded the larger socialfunction the jury hesitated long between "The Outcasts" and a paintingfrom Georgia. Mrs. Cresswell was enthusiastic and voluble for the bit ofsculpture, and it finally won the vote for the first prize.

  All was ready for the great day. The President was coming and most ofthe diplomatic corps, high officers of the army, and all the socialleaders. Congress would be well represented, and the boom for Cresswellas ambassador to France was almost visible in the air.

  Mary Cresswell paused a moment in triumph looking back at the darkenedhall, when a little woman fluttered up to her and whispered:

  "Mrs. Cresswell, have you heard the gossip?"

  "No--what?"

  "That Wynn woman they say is a nigger. Some are whispering that youbrought her in purposely to force social equality. They say you used toteach darkies. Of course, I don't believe all their talk, but I thoughtyou ought to know." She talked a while longer, then fluttered furtivelyaway.

  Mrs. Cresswell sat down limply. She saw ruin ahead--to think of a blackgirl taking a prize at an all-Southern art exhibit! But there was stilla chance, and she leaped to action. This colored woman was doubtlesssome poor deserving creature. She would call on her immediately, and byan offer of abundant help induce her to withdraw quietly.

  Entering her motor, she drove near the address and then proceeded onfoot. The street was a prominent one, the block one of the best, thehouse almost pretentious. She glanced at her memorandum again to see ifshe was mistaken. Perhaps the woman was a domestic; probably she was,for the name on the door was Stillings. It occurred to her that she hadheard that name before--but where? She looked again at her memorandumand at the house.

  She rang the bell, asking the trim black maid: "Is there a person namedCaroline Wynn living in this house?"

  The girl smiled and hesitated.

  "Yes, ma'am," she finally replied. "Won't you come in?" She was showninto the parlor, where she sat down. The room was most interesting,furnished in unimpeachable taste. A few good pictures were on the walls,and Mrs. Cresswell was examining one when she heard the swish of silkenskirts. A lady with gold brown face and straight hair stood before herwith pleasant smile. Where had Mrs. Cresswell seen her before? She triedto remember, but could not.

  "You wished to see--Caroline Wynn?"

  "Yes."

  "What can I do for you?"

  Mrs. Cresswell groped for her proper cue, but the brown lady merelyoffered a chair and sat down silently. Mrs. Cresswell's perplexityincreased. She had been planning to descend graciously butauthoritatively upon some shrinking girl, but this woman not only seemedto assume equality but actually looked it. From a rapid survey, Mrs.Cresswell saw a black silk stocking, a bit of lace, a tailor-made gown,and a head with two full black eyes that waited in calmly politeexpectancy.

  Something had to be said.

  "I--er--came; that is, I believe you sent a group to the art exhibit?"

  "Yes."

  "It was good--very good."

  Miss Wynn said nothing, but sat calmly looking at her visitor. Mrs.Cresswell felt irritated.

  "Of course," she managed to continue, "we are very sorry that we cannotreceive it."

  "Indeed? I understood it had taken the first prize."

  Mrs. Cresswell was aghast. Who had rushed the news to this woman? Sherealized that there were depths to this matter that she did notunderstand and her irritation increased.

  "You know that we could not give the prize to a--Negro."

  "Why not?"

  "That is quite immaterial. Social equality cannot be forced. At the
sametime I recognize the injustice, and I have come to say that if you willwithdraw your exhibit you will be given a scholarship in a Bostonschool."

  "I do not wish it."

  "Well, what do you want?"

  "I was not aware that I had asked for anything."

  Mrs. Cresswell felt herself getting angry.

  "Why did you send your exhibit when you knew it was not wanted?"

  "Because you asked me to."

  "We did not ask for colored people."

  "You asked all Southern-born persons. I am a person and I am Southernborn. Moreover, you sent me a personal letter."

  Mrs. Cresswell was sure that this was a lie and was thoroughly incensed.

  "You cannot have the prize," she almost snapped. "If you will withdraw Iwill pay you any reasonable sum."

  "Thank you. I do not want money; I want justice."

  Mrs. Cresswell arose and her face was white.

  "That is the trouble with you Negroes: you wish to get above your placesand force yourselves where you are not wanted. It does no good, it onlymakes trouble and enemies." Mrs. Cresswell stopped, for the coloredwoman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid enteredand stood ready. Mrs. Cresswell walked slowly to the door and steppedout. Then she turned.

  "What does Miss Wynn do for a living?"

  The girl tittered.

  "She used to teach school but she don't do nothing now. She's justmarried; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the Treasury."

  Mrs. Cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. There wasbut one resource--she must keep the matter out of the newspapers, andsee Stillings, whom she now remembered well.

  "I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in the artexhibition?"

  Mrs. Cresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter, and themaid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers and be blazonedto-morrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on itscushions.

  "Where to, Madame?" asked the chauffeur.

  "I don't care," returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.

  She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans seemedabout to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.

  Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, asshe feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro woman, andquarrel with her--

  But he must not. This very night, before the morning papers came out,she must explain. He must see; he must appreciate her efforts.

  She rushed into her dressing-room and called her maid. Contrary to herPuritan notions, she frankly sought to beautify herself. She rememberedthat it was the anniversary of her coming to this house. She got out herwedding-dress, and although it hung loosely, the maid draped the SilverFleece beautifully about her.

  She heard her husband enter and come up-stairs. Quickly finishing hertoilet, she hurried down to arrange the flowers, for they were alonethat night. The telephone rang. She knew it would ring up-stairs in hisroom, but she usually answered it for he disliked to. She raised thereceiver and started to speak when she realized that she had broken intothe midst of a conversation.

  "--committee won't meet tonight, Harry."

  "So? All right. Anything on?"

  "Yes--big spree at Nell's. Will you go?"

  "Sure thing; you know me! What time?"

  "Meet us at the Willard by nine. S'long."

  "Good-bye."

  She slowly, half guiltily, replaced the receiver. She had not meant tolisten, but now to her desperate longing to keep him home was added anew motive. Where was "Nell's"? What was "Nell's"? What was--and therewas fear in her heart. At dinner she tried all her powers on him. Shehad his favorite dishes; she mixed his salad and selected his wine; shetalked interestingly, and listened sympathetically, to him. He looked ather with more attention. Her cheeks were more brilliant, for she hadtouched them with rouge. Her eyes flashed; but he glanced furtively ather short hair. She saw the act; but still she strove until he wascontent and laughing; then coming round back of his chair, she placedher arms about his neck.

  "Harry, will you do me a favor?"

  "Why, yes--if--"

  "It is something I want very, very much."

  "Well, all right, if--"

  "Harry, I feel a little--hysterical, tonight, and--you will not refuseme, will you, Harry?"

  Standing there, she saw the tableau in her own mind, and it lookedstrange. She was afraid of herself. She knew that she would do somethingfoolish if she did not win this battle. She felt that overpoweringfanaticism back within her raging restlessly. If she was not careful--

  "But what is it you want?" asked her husband.

  "I don't want you to go out tonight."

  He laughed awkwardly.

  "Nonsense, girl! The sub-committee on the cotton schedule meetstonight--very important; otherwise--"

  She shuddered at the smooth lie and clasped him closer, putting hercheek to his.

  "Harry," she pleaded, "just this once--for me."

  He disengaged himself, half impatiently, and rose, glancing at theclock. It was nearly nine. A feeling of desperation came over her.

  "Harry," she asked again as he slipped on his coat.

  "Don't be foolish," he growled.

  "Just this once--Harry--I--" But the door banged to, and he was gone.

  She stood looking at the closed door a moment. Something in her head wasready to snap. She went to the rack and taking his long heavy overcoatslipped it on. It nearly touched the floor. She seized a softbroad-brimmed hat and umbrella and walked out. Just what she meant to doshe did not know, but somehow she must save her husband and herself fromevil. She hurried to the Willard Hotel and watched, walking up and downthe opposite sidewalk. A woman brushed by her and looked her in theface.

  "Hell! I thought you was a man," she said. "Is this a new gag?"

  Mrs. Cresswell looked down at herself involuntarily and smiled wanly.She did look like a man, with her hat and coat and short hair. The womanpeered at her doubtingly. She was, as Mrs. Cresswell noticed, a youngwoman, once pretty, perhaps, and a little over-dressed.

  "Are you walking?" she asked.

  "What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Cresswell, and then in a moment itflashed upon her. She took the woman's arm and walked with her. Suddenlyshe stopped.

  "Where's--Nell's?"

  The woman frowned. "Oh, that's a swell place," she said. "Senators andmillionaires. Too high for us to fly."

  Mrs. Cresswell winced. "But where is it?" she asked.

  "We'll walk by it if you want to."

  And Mary Cresswell walked in another world. Up from the ground of thedrowsy city rose pale gray forms; pale, flushed, and brilliant, insilken rags. Up and down they passed, to and fro, looking and glidinglike sheeted ghosts; now dodging policemen, now accosting themfamiliarly.

  "Hello, Elise," growled one big blue-coat.

  "Hello, Jack."

  "What's this?" and he peered at Mrs. Cresswell, who shrank back.

  "Friend of mine. All right."

  A horror crept over Mary Cresswell: where had she lived that she hadseen so little before? What was Washington, and what was this fine,tall, quiet residence? Was this--"Nell's"?

  "Yes, this is it--good-bye--I must--"

  "Wait--what is your name?"

  "I haven't any name," answered the woman suspiciously.

  "Well--pardon me! Here!" and she thrust a bill into the woman's hand.

  The girl stared. "Well, you're a queer one! Thanks. Guess I'll turn in."

  Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascendingthe steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly and looked at theopening and closing door. Then a policeman came by and looked at her.

  "Come, move on," he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptlyvanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her hand toring, but the door flew silently open and a man-servant stood looking ather.

  "I have some fr
iends here," she said, speaking coarsely.

  "You will have to be introduced," said the man. She hesitated andstarted to turn away. Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed uponher husband's card-case. She presented a card. It worked a rapidtransformation in the servant's manner, which did not escape her.

  "Come in," he invited her.

  She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glidedquickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains ofmusic. Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudentblue-and-blonde beauty. Mary slipped straight across to him and leanedacross the table. The hat fell off, but she let it go.

  "Harry!" she tried to say as he looked up.

  Then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and whirledabout; the voices grew fainter and fainter--all the world recededsuddenly far away. She extended her hands languidly, then, feeling soutterly tired, let her eyelids drop and fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start, in her own bed. She was physically exhausted buther mind was clear. She must go down and meet him at breakfast and talkfrankly with him. She would let bygones be bygones. She would explainthat she had followed him to save him, not to betray him. She wouldpoint out the greater career before him if only he would be a man; shewould show him that they had not failed. For herself she asked nothing,only his word, his confidence, his promise to try.

  After his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table, Cresswelluttered nothing immediately save the commonplaces of greeting. Hementioned one or two bits of news from the paper, upon which shecommented while dawdling over her egg. When the servant went out andclosed the door, she paused a moment considering whether to open byappeal or explanation. His smooth tones startled her:

  "Of course, after your art exhibit and the scene of last night, Mary, itwill be impossible for us to live longer together."

  She stared at him, utterly aghast--voiceless and numb.

  "I have seen the crisis approaching for some time, and the Negrobusiness settles it," he continued. "I have now decided to send you tomy home in Alabama, to my father or your brother. I am sure you will behappier there."

  He rose. Bowing courteously, he waited, coldly and calmly, for her togo.

  All at once she hated him and hated his aristocratic repression; thiscold calm that hid hell and its fires. She looked at him, wide-eyed, andsaid in a voice hoarse with horror and loathing:

  "You brute! You nasty brute!"