The girl’s greeting was brief, almost curt, but unintentionally so, as one could easily see, for back in her eyes lurked an impatient hunger; she was not thinking of greetings. She murmured a quick word, and stood straight and tall with her eyes squarely on the lady.
In the depths of Mrs. Vanderpool’s heart something strange—not new, but very old—stirred. Before her stood this tall black girl, quietly returning her look. Mrs. Vanderpool had a most uncomfortable sense of being judged, of being weighed,—and there arose within her an impulse to self-justification.
She smiled and said sweetly, “Won’t you sit?” But despite all this, her mind seemed leaping backward a thousand years; back to a simpler, primal day when she herself, white, frail, and fettered, stood before the dusky magnificence of some bejewelled barbarian queen and sought to justify herself. She shook off the phantasy,—and yet how well the girl stood. It was not every one that could stand still and well.
“Please sit down,” she repeated with her softest charm, not dreaming that outside the school white persons did not ask this girl to sit in their presence. But even this did not move Zora. She sat down. There was in her, walking, standing, sitting, a simple directness which Mrs. Vanderpool sensed and met.
“Zora, I need some one to help me—to do my hair and serve my coffee, and dress and take care of me. The work will not be hard, and you can travel and see the world and live well. Would you like it?”
“But I do not know how to do all these things,” returned Zora, slowly. She was thinking rapidly—Was this the Way? It sounded wonderful. The World, the great mysterious World, that stretched beyond the swamp and into which Bles and the Silver Fleece had gone—did it lead to the Way? But if she went there what would she see and do, and would it be possible to become such a woman as Miss Smith pictured?
“What is the world like?” asked Zora.
Mrs. Vanderpool smiled. “Oh, I meant great active cities and buildings, myriads of people and wonderful sights.”
“Yes—but back of it all, what is it really? What does it look like?”
“Heavens, child! Don’t ask. Really, it isn’t worth while peering back of things. One is sure to be disappointed.”
“Then what’s the use of seeing the world?”
“Why, one must live; and why not be happy?” answered Mrs. Vanderpool, amused, baffled, spurred for the time being from her chronic ennui.
“Are you happy?” retorted Zora, looking her over carefully, from silken stockings to garden hat. Mrs. Vanderpool laid aside her little mockery and met the situation bravely.
“No,” she replied simply. Her eyes grew old and tired.
Involuntarily Zora’s hand crept out protectingly and lay a moment over the white jewelled fingers. Then quickly recovering herself, she started hastily to withdraw it, but the woman’s fingers closed around the darker ones, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s eyes became dim,
“I need you, Zora,” she said; and then, seeing the half-formed question, “Yes, and you need me; we need each other. In the world lies opportunity, and I will help you.”
Zora rose abruptly, and Mrs. Vanderpool feared, with a tightening of heart, that she had lost this strangely alluring girl.
“I will come to-morrow,” said Zora.
As Mrs. Vanderpool went in to lunch, reaction and lingering doubts came trouping back. To replace the daintiest of trained experts with the most baffling semi-barbarian, well!
“Have you hired a maid?” asked Helen.
“I’ve engaged Zora,” laughed Mrs. Vanderpool, lightly; “and now I’m wondering whether I have a jewel or—a white elephant.”
“Probably neither,” remarked Harry Cresswell, drily; but he avoided the lady’s inquiring eyes.
Next morning Zora came easily into Mrs. Vanderpool’s life. There was little she knew of her duties, but little, too, that she could not learn with a deftness and divination almost startling. Her quietness, her quickness, her young strength, were like a soothing balm to the tired woman of fashion, and within a week she had sunk back contentedly into Zora’s strong arms.
“It’s a jewel,” she decided.
With this verdict, the house agreed. The servants waited on “Miss Zora” gladly; the men scarcely saw her, and the ladies ran to her for help in all sorts. Harry Cresswell looked upon this transformation with an amused smile, but the Colonel saw in it simply evidence of dangerous obstinacy in a black girl who hitherto had refused to work.
Zora had been in the house but a week when a large express package was received from John Taylor. Its unwrapping brought a cry of pleasure from the ladies. There lay a bolt of silken-like cambric of wondrous fineness and lustre, marked: “For the wedding-dress.” The explanation accompanied the package, that Mary Taylor had a similar piece in the North.
Helen and Harry said nothing of the cablegram to the Paris tailor, and Helen took no steps toward having the cambric dress made, not even when the wedding invitations appeared.
“A Cresswell married in cotton!” Helen was almost in tears lest the Paris gown be delayed, and sure enough a cablegram came at last saying that there was little likelihood of the gown being ready by Easter. It would be shipped at the earliest convenience, but it could hardly catch the necessary boat. Helen had a good cry, and then came a wild rush to get John Taylor’s cloth ready. Still, Helen was querulous. She decided that silk embroidery must embellish the skirt. The dressmaker was in despair.
“I haven’t a single spare worker,” she declared.
Helen was appealing to Mrs. Vanderpool.
“I can do it,” said Zora, who was in the room.
“Do you know how?” asked the dressmaker.
“No, but I want to know.”
Mrs. Vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. “Show her,” she said. The dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. “Zora sews beautifully,” added Mrs. Vanderpool.
Thus the beautiful cloth came to Zora’s room, and was spread in a glossy cloud over her bed. She trembled at its beauty and felt a vague inner yearning, as if some subtle magic of the woven web were trying to tell her its story.
She worked over it faithfully and lovingly in every spare hour and in long nights of dreaming. Wilfully she departed from the set pattern and sewed into the cloth something of the beauty in her heart. In new and intricate ways, with soft shadowings and coverings, she wove in that white veil her own strange soul, and Mrs. Vanderpool watched her curiously, but in silence.
Meantime all things were arranged for a double wedding at Cresswell Oaks. As John and Mary Taylor had no suitable home, they were to come down and the two brides to go forth from the Cresswell mansion. Accordingly the Taylors arrived a week before the wedding and the home took on a festive air. Even Colonel Cresswell expanded under the genial influences, and while his head still protested his heart was glad. He had to respect John Taylor’s undoubted ability; and Mary Taylor was certainly lovely, in spite of that assumption of cleverness of which the Colonel could not approve.
Mary returned to the old scenes with mingled feelings. Especially was she startled at seeing Zora a member of the household and apparently high in favor. It brought back something of the old uneasiness and suspicion.
All this she soon forgot under the cadence of Harry Cresswell’s pleasant voice and the caressing touch of his arm. He seemed handsomer than ever; and he was, for sleep and temperance and the wooing of a woman had put a tinge in his marble face, smoothed the puffs beneath his eyes, and given him a more distinguished bearing and a firmer hand. And Mary Taylor was very happy. So was her brother, only differently; he was making money; he was planning to make more, and he had something to pet which seemed to him extraordinarily precious and valuable.
Taylor eagerly inquired after the cloth, and followed the ladies to Zora’s room, adjoining Mrs. Vanderpool’s, to see it. It lay uncut and shimmering, covered with dim silken tracery of a delicacy and beauty which brought an exclamation to all lips.
“That’s what we can do with Alabama cotton,” crie
d John Taylor in triumph.
They turned to him incredulously.
“But—”
“No ‘buts’ about it; these are the two bales you sent me, woven with a silk woof.” No one particularly noticed that Zora had hastily left the room. “I had it done in Easterly’s New Jersey mills according to an old plan of mine. I’m going to make cloth like that right in this county some day,” and he chuckled gayly.
But Zora was striding up and down the halls, the blood surging in her ears. After they were gone she came back and closed the doors. She dropped on her knees and buried her face in the filmy folds of the Silver Fleece.
“I knew it! I knew it!” she whispered in mingled tears and joy. “It called and I did not understand.”
It was her talisman new-found; her love come back, her stolen dream come true. Now she could face the world; God had turned it straight again. She would go into the world and find—not Love, but the thing greater than Love. Outside the door came voices—the dressmaker’s tones, Helen’s soft drawl, and Mrs. Vanderpool’s finished accents. Her face went suddenly gray. The Silver Fleece was not hers! It belonged—She rose hastily. The door opened and they came in. The cutting must begin at once, they all agreed.
“Is it ready, Zora?” inquired Helen.
“No,” Zora quietly answered, “not quite, but tomorrow morning, early.” As soon as she was alone again, she sat down and considered. By and by, while the family was at lunch, she folded the Silver Fleece carefully and locked it in her new trunk. She would hide it in the swamp. During the afternoon she sent to town for oil-cloth, and bade the black carpenter at Miss Smith’s make a cedar box, tight and tarred. In the morning she prepared Mrs. Vanderpool’s breakfast with unusual care. She was sorry for Mrs. Vanderpool, and sorry for Miss Smith. They would not, they could not, understand. What would happen to her? She did not know; she did not care. The Silver Fleece had returned to her. Soon it would be buried in the swamp whence it came. She had no alternative; she must keep it and wait.
She heard the dressmaker’s voice, and then her step upon the stair. She heard the sound of Harry Cresswell’s buggy, and a scurrying at the front door. On came the dressmaker’s footsteps—then her door was unceremoniously burst open.
Helen Cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was wreathed in smiles. She carried a big red-sealed bundle.
“Zora!” cried Helen in ecstasy. “It’s come!” Zora regarded her coldly, and stood at bay. The dressmaker was ripping and snipping, and soon there lay revealed before them—the Paris gown!
Helen was in raptures, but her conscience pricked her. She appealed to them. “Ought I to tell? You see, Mary’s gown will look miserably common beside it.”
The dressmaker was voluble. There was really nothing to tell; and besides, Helen was a Cresswell and it was to be expected, and so forth. Helen pursed her lips and petulantly tapped the floor with her foot.
“But the other gown?”
“Where is it?” asked the dressmaker, looking about. “It would make a pretty morning-dress—”
But Helen had taken a sudden dislike to the thought of it.
“I don’t want it,” she declared. “And besides, I haven’t room for it in my trunks.”
Of a sudden she leaned down and whispered to Zora: “Zora, hide it and keep it if you want it. Come,” to the dressmaker, “I’m dying to try this on—now.… Remember, Zora—not a word.” And all this to Zora seemed no surprise; it was the Way, and it was opening before her because the talisman lay in her trunk.
So at last it came to Easter morning. The world was golden with jasmine, and crimson with azalea; down in the darker places gleamed the misty glory of the dogwood; new cotton shook, glimmered, and blossomed in the black fields, and over all the soft Southern sun poured its awakening light of life. There was happiness and hope again in the cabins, and hope and—if not happiness, ambition, in the mansions.
Zora, almost forgetting the wedding, stood before the mirror. Laying aside her dress, she draped her shimmering cloth about her, dragging her hair down in a heavy mass over ears and neck until she seemed herself a bride. And as she stood there, awed with the mystical union of a dead love and a living new born self, there came drifting in at the window, faintly, the soft sound of far-off marriage music.
“ ’Tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!”
Two white and white-swathed brides were coming slowly down the great staircase of Cresswell Oaks, and two white and black-clothed bridegrooms awaited them. Either bridegroom looked gladly at the flow of his sister’s garments and almost darkly at his bride’s. For Helen was decked in Parisian splendor, while Mary was gowned in the Fleece.
“ ’Tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!”
Up floated the song of the little dark-faced children, and Zora listened.
Twenty-two
MISS CAROLINE WYNN
Bles Alwyn was seated in the anteroom of Senator Smith’s office in Washington. The Senator had not come in yet, and there were others waiting, too.
The young man sat in a corner, dreaming. Washington was his first great city, and it seemed a never-ending delight—the streets, the buildings, the crowds; the shops, and lights, and noise; the kaleidoscopic panorama of a world’s doing, the myriad forms and faces, the talk and laughter of men. It was all wonderful magic to the country boy, and he stretched his arms and filled his lungs and cried: “Here I shall live!”
Especially was he attracted by his own people. They seemed transformed, revivified, changed. Some might be mistaken for field hands on a holiday—but not many. Others he did not recognize—they seemed strange and alien—sharper, quicker, and at once more overbearing and more unscrupulous.
There were yet others—and at the sight of these Bles stood straighter and breathed like a man. They were well dressed, and well appearing men and women, who walked upright and looked one in the eye, and seemed like persons of affairs and money. They had arrived—they were men—they filled his mind’s ideal—he felt like going up to them and grasping their hands and saying, “At last, brother!” Ah, it was good to find one’s dreams, walking in the light, in flesh and blood. Continually such thoughts were surging through his brain, and they were rioting through it again as he sat waiting in Senator Smith’s office.
The Senator was late this morning; when he came in he glanced at the morning paper before looking over his mail and the list of his callers. “Do fools like the American people deserve salvation?” he sneered, holding off the headlines and glancing at them.
“ ‘League Beats Trust.’ … ‘Farmers of South Smash Effort to Bear Market … Send Cotton to Twelve Cents … Common People Triumph.’
“A man is induced to bite off his own nose and then to sing a pæan of victory. It’s nauseating—senseless. There is no earthly use striving for such blockheads; they’d crucify any Saviour.” Thus half consciously Senator Smith salved his conscience, while he extracted a certificate of deposit for fifty thousand dollars from his New York mail. He thrust it aside from his secretary’s view and looked at his list as he rang the bell: there was Representative Todd, and somebody named Alwyn—nobody of importance. Easterly was due in a half-hour. He would get rid of Todd meantime.
“Poor Todd,” he mused; “a lamb for the slaughter.”
But he patiently listened to him plead for party support and influence for his bill to prohibit gambling in futures.
“I was warned that it was useless to see you, Senator Smith, but I would come. I believe in you. Frankly, there is a strong group of your old friends and followers forming against you; they met only last night, but I did not go. Won’t you take a stand on some of these progressive matters—this bill, or the Child Labor movement, or Low Tariff legislation?”
Mr. Smith listened but shook his head.
“When the time comes,” he announced deliberately, “I shall have something to say on several of these matters. At present I can only say that I cannot support this bill,” and Mr. To
dd was ushered out. He met Mr. Easterly coming in and greeted him effusively. He knew him only as a rich philanthropist, who had helped the Neighborhood Guild in Washington—one of Todd’s hobbies.
Easterly greeted Smith quietly.
“Got my letter?”
“Yes.”
“Here are the three bills. You will go on the Finance Committee tomorrow; Sumdrich is chairman by courtesy, but you’ll have the real power. Put the Child Labor Bill first, and we’ll work the press. The Tariff will take most of the session, of course. We’ll put the cotton inspection bill through in the last days of the session—see? I’m manœuvring to get the Southern Congressmen into line.… Oh, one thing. Thompson says he’s a little worried about the Negroes; says there’s something more than froth in the talk of a bolt in the Northern Negro vote. We may have to give them a little extra money and a few more minor offices than usual. Talk with Thompson; the Negroes are sweet on you and he’s going to be the new chairman of the campaign, you know. Ever met him?”
“Yes.”
“Well—so long.”
“Just a moment,” the statesman stayed the financier.
“Todd just let fall something of a combination against us in Congress—know anything of it?”
“Not definitely; I heard some rumors. Better see if you can run it down. Well, I must hurry—good day.”
While Bles Alwyn in the outer office was waiting and musing, a lady came in. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the curve of her gown, and as she seated herself beside him, the suggestion of a faint perfume. A vague resentment rose in him. Colored women would look as well as that, he argued, with the clothes and wealth and training. He paused, however, in his thought: he did not want them like the whites—so cold and formal and precise, without heart or marrow. He started up, for the secretary was speaking to him.
“Are you the—er—the man who had a letter to the Senator?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Quest of the Silver Fleece Page 19