The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  “I have it,” said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. “First, let Mr. Easterly get Smith.” Easterly turned to the telephone.

  “Is that you, Smith?”

  “Well, this is Easterly … Yes—how about Mrs. Grey’s education schemes?… Yes … h’m—well,—see here Smith, we must go a little easy there … Oh, no, no,—but to advertise just now a big scheme of Negro Education would drive the Cresswells, the Farmers’ League, and the whole business South dead against us.… Yes, yes indeed; they believe in education all right, but they ain’t in for training lawyers and professors just yet … No, I don’t suppose her school is … Well, then; see here. She’ll be reasonable, won’t she, and placate the Cresswells?… No, I mean run the school to suit their ideas.… No, no, but in general along the lines which they could approve … Yes, I thought so … of course … good-bye.”

  “Inclined to be a little nasty?” asked Taylor.

  “A little sharp—but tractable. Now, Mr. Cresswell, the thing is in your hands. We’ll get this committee which Taylor suggests appointed, and send it on a junket to Alabama; you do the rest—see?”

  “Who’ll be the committee?” asked Cresswell.

  “Name it.”

  Mr. Cresswell smiled and left.

  The winter started in severely, and it was easy to fill two private cars with members of the new Negro Education Board right after Thanksgiving. Cresswell had worked carefully and with caution. There was Mrs. Grey, comfortable and beaming, Mr. Easterly, who thought this a good business opportunity, and his family. Mrs. Vanderpool liked the South and was amused at the trip, and had induced Mr. Vanderpool to come by stories of shooting.

  “Ah!” said Mr. Vanderpool.

  Mr. Charles Smith and John Taylor were both too busy to go, but bronchial trouble induced the Rev. Dr. Boldish of St. Faith’s rich parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment Temple Bocombe, the sociologist, consented to join.

  “Awfully busy,” he said, “but I’ve been reading up on the Negro problem since you mentioned the matter to me last week, Mr. Cresswell, and I think I understand it thoroughly. I may be able to help out.”

  The necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by Miss Taylor and Miss Cresswell, together with the silent Miss Boldish. They were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr. Boldish pointed out the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones; Mr. Bocombe counted them and estimated the number of hours of work lost at ten cents an hour.

  “Do they get that—ten cents an hour?” asked Miss Taylor.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Bocombe; “but suppose they do, for instance. That is an average wage today.”

  “They look lazy,” said Mrs. Grey.

  “They are lazy,” said Mr. Cresswell.

  “So am I,” added Mrs. Vanderpool, suppressing a yawn.

  “It is uninteresting,” murmured her husband, preparing for a nap.

  On the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the moment they drew out of Jersey City to the afternoon when, in four carriages, they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all Toomsville and swept under the shadowed rampart of the swamp.

  “The Christmas” was coming and all the Southern world was busy. Few people were busier than Bles and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully for them, heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and the tremor thrilled all lands and seas. Everything was good, all things were happy, and these two were happiest of all. Out of the shadows and hesitations of childhood they had stepped suddenly into manhood and womanhood, with firm feet and uplifted heads. All the day that was theirs they worked, picking the Silver Fleece—picking it tenderly and lovingly from off the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly yielded life and beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken tendril, this white beauty of the cotton. November came and flew, and still the unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit.

  today seemed doubly glorious, for Bles had spoken of their marriage; with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again seeking their mates, they walked the leafy way.

  Unconscious, rapt, they stepped out into the Big Road skirting the edge of the swamp. Why not? Was it not the King’s Highway? And Love was King. So they talked on, unknowing that far up the road the Cresswell coaches were wheeling along with precious burdens. In the first carriage were Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Cresswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs. Vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Grey was a little stiff from long travel and sat upright. Mr. Cresswell looked clean-cut and handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying of the day soothed them all insensibly. Groups of dark little children passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and greeting timidly.

  “There seems to be marrying and giving in marriage,” laughed Mrs. Vanderpool.

  “Not very much,” said Mr. Cresswell drily.

  “Well, at least plenty of children.”

  “Plenty.”

  “But where are the houses?” asked Mrs. Grey.

  “Perhaps in the swamp,” said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up at the sombre trees that lined the left.

  “They live where they please and do as they please,” Cresswell explained; to which Mrs. Vanderpool added: “Like other animals.”

  Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage’s four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily.

  Out through the wood Bles and Zora had come to the broad red road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place.

  “You are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp,” he said.

  “And yet look up to you,” she murmured.

  “Your eyes are darkness dressed in night.”

  “To see you brighter, dear,” she said.

  “Your little hands are much too frail for work.”

  “They must grow larger, then, and soon.”

  “Your feet are far too small to travel on.”

  “They’ll travel on to you—that’s far enough.”

  “Your lips—your full and purple lips—were made alone for kissing, not for words.”

  “They’ll do for both.”

  He laughed in utter joy and touched her hair with light caressing hands.

  “It does not fly with sunlight,” she said quickly, with an upward glance.

  “No,” he answered. “It sits and listens to the night.”

  But even as she nestled to him happily there came the harsh thunder of horses’ hoofs, beating on their ears. He drew her quickly to him in fear, and the coach lurched and turned, and left them facing four pairs of eyes. Miss Taylor reddened; Mrs. Grey looked surprised; Mrs. Vanderpool smiled; but Mr. Cresswell darkened with anger. The couple unclasped shamefacedly, and the young man, lifting his hat, started to stammer an apology; but Cresswell interrupted him:

  “Keep your—your philandering to the woods, or I shall have you arrested,” he said slowly, his face colorless, his lips twitching with anger. “Drive on, John.”

  Miss Taylor felt that her worst suspicions had been confirmed; but Mrs. Vanderpool was curious as to the cause of Cresswell’s anger. It was so genuine that it needed explanation.

  “Are kisses illegal here?” she asked before the horses started, turning the battery of her eyes full upon him. But Cresswell had himself well in hand.

  “No,” he said. “But the girl is—notorious.”

  On the lovers the words fell like a blow. Zora shivered, and a grayish horror mottled the dark burning of her face. Bles started in anger, then paused in shivering doubt. What had happened? They knew not; yet involuntarily their hands fell apart; they avoided each other’s eyes.

  “I—I must go now,” gasped Zora, as the carriage swept away.

  He did not hold her, he did not offer the farewell kiss, but stood staring at the road as she walked into the swamp. A moment she paused and looked back; then slowly, almost painfull
y, she took the path back to the field of the Fleece, and reaching it after long, long minutes, began mechanically to pick the cotton. But the cotton glowed crimson in the failing sun.

  Bles walked toward the school. What had happened? he kept asking. And yet he dared not question the awful shape that sat somewhere, cold and still, behind his soul. He heard the hoofs of horses again. It was Miss Taylor being brought back to the school to greet Miss Smith and break the news of the coming of the party. He raised his hat. She did not return the greeting, but he found her pausing at the gate. It seemed to her too awful for this foolish fellow thus to throw himself away. She faced him and he flinched as from some descending blow.

  “Bles,” she said primly, “have you absolutely no shame?”

  He braced himself and raised his head proudly.

  “I am going to marry her; it is no crime.” Then he noted the expression on her face, and paused.

  She stepped back, scandalized.

  “Can it be, Bles Alwyn,” she said, “that you don’t know the sort of girl she is?”

  He raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly, as she turned to go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. The heavens flamed scarlet in his eyes and he screamed.

  “It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie!” He wheeled about and tore into the swamp.

  “It’s a damned lie!” he shouted to the trees. “Is it?—is it?” chirped the birds. “It’s a cruel falsehood!” he moaned. “Is it?—is it?” whispered the devils within.

  It seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and faltering about him. The trees bent curiously and strange breathings were upon the breezes. He unbuttoned his collar that he might get more air. A thousand things he had forgotten surged suddenly to life. Slower and slower he ran, more and more the thoughts crowded his head. He thought of that first red night and the yelling and singing and wild dancing; he thought of Cresswell’s bitter words; he thought of Zora telling how she stayed out nights; he thought of the little bower that he had built her in the cotton field. A wild fear struggled with his anger, but he kept repeating, “No, no,” and then, “At any rate, she will tell me the truth.” She had never lied to him; she would not dare; he clenched his hands, murder in his heart.

  Slowly and more slowly he ran. He knew where she was—where she must be, waiting. And yet as he drew near huge hands held him back, and heavy weights clogged his feet. His heart said: “On! quick! She will tell the truth, and all will be well.” His mind said: “Slow, slow; this is the end.” He hurled the thought aside, and crashed through the barrier.

  She was standing still and listening, with a huge basket of the piled froth of the field upon her head. One long brown arm, tender with curvings, balanced the cotton; the other, poised, balanced the slim swaying body. Bending she listened, her eyes shining, her lips apart, her bosom fluttering at the well-known step.

  He burst into her view with the fury of a beast, rending the wood away and trampling the underbrush, reeling and muttering until he saw her. She looked at him. Her hands dropped, she stood very still with drawn face, grayish-brown, both hands unconsciously out-stretched, and the cotton swaying, while deep down in her eyes, dimly, slowly, a horror lit and grew. He paused a moment, then came slowly onward doggedly, drunkenly, with torn clothes, flying collar, and red eyes. Then he paused again, still beyond arm’s-length, looking at her with fear-struck eyes. The cotton on her head shivered and dropped in a pure mass of white and silvery snow about her limbs. Her hands fell limply and the horror flamed in her wet eyes. He struggled with his voice but it grated and came hoarse and hard from his quivering throat.

  “Zora!”

  “Yes, Bles.”

  “You—you told me—you were—pure.”

  She was silent, but her body went all a-tremble. He stepped forward until she could almost touch him; there standing straight and tall he glared down upon her.

  “Answer me,” he whispered in a voice hard with its tight held sobs. A misery darkened her face and the light died from her eyes, yet she looked at him bravely and her voice came low and full as from afar.

  “I asked you what it meant to be pure, Bles, and—and you told—and I told you the truth.”

  “What it meant!—what it meant!” he repeated in the low, tense anguish.

  “But—but, Bles—” She faltered; there came an awful pleading in her eyes; her hand groped toward him; but he stepped slowly back—“But, Bles—you said—willingly—you said—if—if she knew—”

  He thundered back in livid anger:

  “Knew! All women know! You should have died!”

  Sobs were rising and shaking her from head to foot, but she drove them back and gripped her breasts with her hands.

  “No, Bles—no—all girls do not know. I was a child. Not since I knew you, Bles—never, never since I saw you.”

  “Since—since,” he groaned—“Christ! But before?”

  “Yes, before.”

  “My God!”

  She knew the end had come. Yet she babbled on tremblingly:

  “He was our master, and all the other girls that gathered there did his will; I—I—” she choked and faltered, and he drew farther away—“I began running away, and they hunted me through the swamps. And then—then I reckon I’d have gone back and been—as they all are—but you came, Bles—you came, and you—you were a new great thing in my life, and—and—yet, I was afraid I was not worthy until you—you said the words. I thought you knew, and I thought that—that purity was just wanting to be pure.”

  He ground his teeth in fury. Oh, he was an innocent—a blind baby—the joke and laughing-stock of the country around, with yokels grinning at him and pale-faced devils laughing aloud. The teachers knew; the girls knew; God knew; everybody but he knew—poor blind, deaf mole, stupid jackass that he was. He must run—run away from this world, and far off in some free land beat back this pain.

  Then in sheer weariness the anger died within his soul, leaving but ashes and despair. Slowly he turned away, but with a quick motion she stood in his path.

  “Bles,” she cried, “how can I grow pure?”

  He looked at her listlessly.

  “Never—never again,” he slowly answered her.

  Dark fear swept her drawn face.

  “Never?” she gasped.

  Pity surged and fought in his breast; but one thought held and burned him. He bent to her fiercely:

  “Who?” he demanded.

  She pointed toward the Cresswell Oaks, and he turned away. She did not attempt to stop him again, but dropped her hands and stared drearily up into the clear sky with its shining worlds.

  “Good-bye, Bles,” she said slowly. “I thank God he gave you to me—just a little time.” She hesitated and waited. There came no word as the man moved slowly away. She stood motionless. Then slowly he turned and came back. He laid his hand a moment, lightly, upon her head.

  “Good-bye—Zora,” he sobbed, and was gone.

  She did not look up, but knelt there silent, dry-eyed, till the last rustle of his going died in the night. And then, like a waiting storm, the torrent of her grief swept down upon her; she stretched herself upon the black and fleece-strewn earth, and writhed.

  Sixteen

  THE GREAT REFUSAL

  All night Miss Smith lay holding the quivering form of Zora close to her breast, staring wide-eyed into the darkness—thinking, thinking. In the morning the party would come. There would be Mrs. Grey and Mary Taylor, Mrs. Vanderpool, who had left her so coldly in the lurch before, and some of the Cresswells. They would come well fed and impressed with the charming hospitality of their hosts, and rather more than willing to see through those host’s eyes. They would be in a hurry to return to some social function, and would give her work but casual attention.

  It seemed so dark an ending to so bright a dream. Never for her had a fall opened as gloriously. The love of this boy and girl, blossoming as it had beneath her tender care, had been a sacred, wonderful history that revi
ved within her memories of long-forgotten days. But above lay the vision of her school, redeemed and enlarged, its future safe, its usefulness broadened—small wonder that to Sarah Smith the future had seemed in November almost golden.

  Then things began to go wrong. The transfer of the Tolliver land had not yet been effected; the money was ready, but Mr. Tolliver seemed busy or hesitating. Next came this news of Mrs. Grey’s probable conditions. So here it was Christmas time, and Sarah Smith’s castles lay almost in ruins about her.

  The girl moaned in her fitful sleep and Miss Smith soothed her. Poor child! here too was work—a strange strong soul cruelly stricken in her youth. Could she be brought back to a useful life? How she needed such a strong, clear-eyed helper in this crisis of her work! Would Zora make one or would this blow send her to perdition? Not if Sarah Smith could save her, she resolved, and stared out the window where the pale red dawn was sending its first rays on the white-pillared mansion of the Cresswells.

  Mrs. Grey saw the light on the columns, too, as she lay lazily in her soft white bed. There was a certain delicious languor in the late lingering fall of Alabama that suited her perfectly. Then, too, she liked the house and its appointments; there was not, to be sure, all the luxury that she was used to in her New York mansion, but there was a certain finish about it, an elegance and staid old-fashioned hospitality that appealed to her tremendously. Mrs. Grey’s heart warmed to the sight of Helen in her moments of spasmodic caring for the sick and afflicted on the estate. No better guardian of her philanthropies could be found than these same Cresswells. She must, of course, go over and see dear Sarah Smith; but really there was not much to say or to look at.

  The prospects seemed most alluring. Later, Mr. Easterly talked a while on routine business, saying, as he turned away:

  “I am more and more impressed, Mrs. Grey, with your wisdom in placing large investments in the South. With peaceful social conditions the returns will be large.”