The Quest of the Silver Fleece by W. E. B. Du Bois

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Just here again she was puzzled; with her folk, hard work and inflexible
duty were of prime importance; they were the rock foundation; and she
somehow had always counted on the courtesies of life as added to them,
making them sweet and beautiful. But in this world, not perhaps so much
with Harry as with others of his set, the depths beneath the gravely
inclined head, the deferential smile and ceremonious action, the light
clever converse, had sounded strangely hollow once or twice when she had
essayed to sound them, and a certain fear to look and see possessed her.

The bell rang, and she was a little startled at the fright that struck
her heart. She did not analyze it. In reality--pride forbade her to
admit it--she feared it was a call of some of Harry's friends: some
languid, assured Southern ladies, perilously gowned, with veiled disdain
for this interloping Northerner and her strong mind. Especially was
there one from New Orleans, tall and dark--

But it was no caller. It was simply some one named Stillings to see Mr.
Cresswell. She went down to see him--he might be a constituent--and
found a smirky brown man, very apologetic.

"You don't know me--does you, Mrs. Cresswell?" said Stillings. He knew
when it was diplomatic to forget his grammar and assume his dialect.

"Why--no."

"You remember I worked for Mr. Harry and served you-all lunch one day."

"Oh, yes--why, yes! I remember now very well."

"Well, I wants to see Mr. Harry very much; could I wait in the back
hall?"

Mary started to have him wait in the front hall, but she thought better
of it and had him shown back. Less than an hour later her husband
entered and she went quickly to him. He looked worn and white and tired,
but he laughed her concern lightly off.

"I'll be in earlier tonight," he declared.

"Is the Congressional business very heavy?"

He laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he
observed.

"Oh, no," he answered deftly; "not very." And as they moved toward the
dining-room Mary changed the subject.

"Oh," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "There is a man--a colored
man--waiting to see you in the back hall, but I guess he can wait until
after lunch."

They ate leisurely.

"There's going to be racing out at the park this evening," said Harry.
"Want to go?"

"I was going to hear an art lecture at the Club," Mary returned, and
grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. Of course, the Club
was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort, but
today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of European
reputation was going to lecture, and Mary preferred it to the company of
the race track. And--just as certainly--her husband didn't.

"Don't forget the man, dear," she reminded him; but he was buried in his
paper, frowning.

"Look at that," he said finally. She glanced at the
head-lines--"Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at
Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama."

"Why, it's Bles!" she said, her face lighting as his darkened.

"An impudent Negro," he voiced his disgust. "If they must appoint
darkies why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings."

"Stillings?" she repeated. "Why, he's the man that's waiting."

"Sam, is it? Used to be one of our servants--you remember? Wants to
borrow more money, I presume." He went down-stairs, after first helping
himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. Mrs.
Cresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling
that Mr. Cresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine--as an
indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality
and prose of life, unless--she started at the thought--his life was all
indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the
streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy.

Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings
hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he
rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole
Southern delegation in his schemes.

That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over
hot whiskey and water they talked.

"The damned Southern upstart," growled Teerswell, forgetting Stillings'
birth-place. "Do you mean to say he's actually slated for the place?"

"He's sure of it, unless something turns up."

"Well, who'd have dreamed it?" Teerswell mixed another stiff dram.

"And that isn't all," came Sam Stillings' unctuous voice.

Teerswell glanced at him. "What else?" he asked, pausing with the
steaming drink poised aloft.

"If I'm not mistaken, Alwyn intends to marry Miss Wynn."

"You lie!" the other suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning his
tumbler and striding across the floor. "Do you suppose she'd look at
that black--"

"Well, see here," said the astute Stillings, checking the details upon
his fingers. "They visit Senator Smith's together; he takes her home
from the Treble Clef; they say he talked to nobody else at her party;
she recommends him for the campaign--"

"What!" Teerswell again exploded. But Stillings continued smoothly:

"Oh, I have ways of finding things out. She corresponds with him during
the campaign; she asks Smith to make him Register; and he calls on her
every night."

Teerswell sat down limply.

"I see," he groaned. "It's all up. She's jilted me--and I--and I--"

"I don't see as it's all up yet," Stillings tried to reassure him.

"But didn't you say they were engaged?"

"I think they are; but--well, you know Carrie Wynn better than I do:
suppose, now--suppose he should lose the appointment?"

"But you say that's sure."

"Unless something turns up."

"But what _can_ turn up?"

"We might turn something."

"What--what--I tell you man, I'd--I'd do anything to down that nigger. I
hate him. If you'll help me I'll do anything for you."

Stillings arose and carefully opening the hall door peered out. Then he
came back and, seating himself close to Teerswell, pushed aside the
whiskey.

"Teerswell," he whispered, "you know I was working to be Register of the
Treasury. Well, now, when the scheme of making Alwyn Treasurer came up
they determined to appoint a Southern white Republican and give me a
place under Alwyn. Now, if Alwyn fails to land I've got no chance for
the bigger place, but I've got a good chance to be Register according to
the first plan. I helped in the campaign; I've got the Negro secret
societies backing me and--I don't mind telling you--the solid Southern
Congressional delegation. I'm trying now ostensibly for a
chief-clerkship under Bles, and I'm pretty sure of it: it pays
twenty-five hundred. See here: if we can make Bles do some fool talking
and get it into the papers, he'll be ditched, and I'll be Register."

"Great!" shouted Teerswell.

"Wait--wait. Now, if I get the job, how would you like to be my
assistant?"

"Like it? Why, great Jehoshaphat! I'd marry Carrie--but how can I help
you?"

"This way. I want to be better known among influential Negroes. You
introduce me and let me make myself solid. Especially I must get in Miss
Wynn's set so that both of us can watch her and Alwyn, and make her
friends ours."

"I'll do it--shake!" And Stillings put his oily hand into Teerswell's
nervous grip.

"Now, here," Stillings went on, "you stow all that jealousy and heavy
tragedy. Treat Alwyn well and call on Miss Wynn as usual--see?"

"It's a hard pill--but all right."

"Leave the rest to me; I'm hand in glove with Alwyn. I'll put stuff into
him that'll make him wave the bloody shirt at the next meeting of the
Bethel Literary--see? Then I'll go to Cresswell and say, 'Dangerous
nigger--, just as I told you.' He'll begin to move things. You see?
Cresswell is in with Smith--both directors in the big Cotton
Combine--and Smith will call Alwyn down. Then we'll think further."

"Stillings, you look like a fool, but you're a genius." And Teerswell
fairly hugged him. A few more details settled, and some more whiskey
consumed, and Teerswell went home at midnight in high spirits. Stillings
looked into the glass and scowled.

"Look like a fool, do I?" he mused. "Well, I ain't!"

Congressman Cresswell was stirred to his first political activity by the
hint given him through Stillings. He not only had a strong personal
dislike for Alwyn, but he regarded the promise to him of a high office
as a menace to the South.

The second speech which Alwyn made at the Bethel Literary was, as
Stillings foresaw, a reply to the stinging criticisms of certain colored
papers engineered by Teerswell, who said that Alwyn had been bribed to
remain loyal to the Republicans by a six thousand dollar office. Alwyn
had been cut to the quick, and his reply was a straight out defence of
Negro rights and a call to the Republican Party to redeem its pledges.

Caroline Wynn, seeing the rocks for which her political craft was
headed, adroitly steered several newspaper reports into the waste
basket, but Stillings saw to it that a circumstantial account was in the
_Colored American_, and that a copy of this paper was in Congressman
Cresswell's hands. Cresswell lost no time in calling on Senator Smith
and pointing out to him that Bles Alwyn was a dangerous Negro: seeking
social equality, hating white people, and scheming to make trouble. He
was too young and heady. It would be fatal to give such a man office and
influence; fatal for the development of the South, and bad for the
Cotton Combine.

Senator Smith was unconvinced. Alwyn struck him as a well-balanced
fellow, and he thought he deserved the office. He would, however, warn
him to make no further speeches like that of last night. Cresswell
mentioned Stillings as a good, inoffensive Negro who knew his place and
could be kept track of.

"Stillings is a good man," admitted Smith; "but Alwyn is better.
However, I'll bear what you say in mind."

Cresswell found Mr. Easterly in Mrs. Vanderpool's parlor, and that
gentleman was annoyed at the news.

"I especially picked out this Alwyn because he was Southern and
tractable, and seemed to have sense enough to know how to say well what
we wanted to say."

"When, as a matter of fact," drawled Mrs. Vanderpool, "he was simply
honest."

"The South won't stand it," Cresswell decisively affirmed.

"Well--" began Mr. Easterly.

"See here," interrupted Mrs. Vanderpool. "I'm interested in Alwyn; in
fact, an honest man in politics, even if he is black, piques my
curiosity. Give him a chance and I'll warrant he'll develop all the
desirable traits of a first class office-holder."

Easterly hesitated. "We must not offend the South, and we must placate
the Negroes," he said.

"The right sort of Negro--one like Stillings--appointed to a reasonable
position, would do both," opined Cresswell.

"It evidently didn't," Mrs. Vanderpool interjected.

Cresswell arose. "I tell you, Mr. Easterly, I object--it mustn't go
through." He took his leave.

Mrs. Vanderpool did not readily give up her plea for Alwyn, and bade
Zora get Mr. Smith on the telephone for discussion.

"Well," reported Easterly, hanging up the receiver, "we may land him. It
seems that he is engaged to a Washington school-teacher, and Smith says
she has him well in hand. She's a pretty shrewd proposition, and
understands that Alwyn's only chance now lies in keeping his mouth shut.
We may land him," he repeated.

"Engaged!" gasped Mrs. Vanderpool.

Zora quietly closed the door.

_Twenty-seven_

THE VISION OF ZORA

How Zora found the little church she never knew; but somehow, in the
long dark wanderings which she had fallen into the habit of taking at
nightfall, she stood one evening before it. It looked warm, and she was
cold. It was full of her people, and she was very, very lonely. She sat
in a back seat, and saw with unseeing eyes. She said again, as she had
said to herself a hundred times, that it was all right and just what she
had expected. What else could she have dreamed? That he should ever
marry her was beyond possibility; that had been settled long
since--there where the tall, dark pines, wan with the shades of evening,
cast their haunting shadows across the Silver Fleece and half hid the
blood-washed west. After _that_ he would marry some one else, of course;
some good and pure woman who would help and uplift and serve him.

She had dreamed that she would help--unknown, unseen--and perhaps she
had helped a little through Mrs. Vanderpool. It was all right, and yet
why so suddenly had the threads of life let go? Why was she drifting in
vast waters; in uncharted wastes of sea? Why was the puzzle of life
suddenly so intricate when but a little week ago she was reading it, and
its beauty and wisdom and power were thrilling her delighted hands?
Could it be possible that all unconsciously she had dared dream a
forbidden dream? No, she had always rejected it. When no one else had
the right; when no one thought; when no one cared, she had hovered over
his soul as some dark guardian angel; but now, now somebody else was
receiving his gratitude. It was all right, she supposed; but she, the
outcast child of the swamp, what was there for her to do in the great
world--her, the burden of whose sin--

But then came the voice of the preacher: _"Behold the Lamb of God, that
taketh away the sin of the world_."

She found herself all at once intently listening. She had been to church
many times before, but under the sermons and ceremonies she had always
sat coldly inert. In the South the cries, contortions, and religious
frenzy left her mind untouched; she did not laugh or mock, she simply
sat and watched and wondered. At the North, in the white churches, she
enjoyed the beauty of wall, windows, and hymn, liked the voice and
surplice of the preacher; but his words had no reference to anything in
which she was interested. Here suddenly came an earnest voice addressed,
by singular chance, to her of all the world.

She listened, bending forward, her eyes glued to the speaker's lips and
letting no word drop. He had the build and look of the fanatic: thin to
emancipation; brown; brilliant-eyed; his words snapped in nervous energy
and rang in awful earnestness.

"Life is sin, and sin is sorrow. Sorrow is born of selfishness and
self-seeking--our own good, our own happiness, our own glory. As if any
one of us were worth a life! No, never. A single self as an end is, and
ought to be, disappointment; it is too low; it is nothing. Only in a
whole world of selves, infinite, endless, eternal world on worlds of
selves--only in their vast good is true salvation. The good of others
is our true good; work for others; not for your salvation, but the
salvation of the world." The audience gave a low uneasy groan and the
minister in whose pulpit the stranger preached stirred uneasily. But he
went on tensely, with flying words:

"Unselfishness is sacrifice--Jesus was supreme sacrifice." ("Amen,"
screamed a voice.) "In your dark lives," he cried, "_who_ is the King of
Glory? Sacrifice. Lift up your heads, then, ye gates of prejudice and
hate, and let the King of Glory come in. Forget yourselves and your
petty wants, and behold your starving people. The wail of black millions
sweeps the air--east and west they cry, Help! Help! Are you dumb? Are
you blind? Do you dance and laugh, and hear and see not? The cry of
death is in the air; they murder, burn, and maim us!" ("Oh--oh--" moaned
the people swaying in their seats.) "When we cry they mock us; they ruin
our women and debauch our children--what shall we do?

"Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away sin. Behold the Supreme
Sacrifice that makes us clean. Give up your pleasures; give up your
wants; give up all to the weak and wretched of our people. Go down to
Pharaoh and smite him in God's name. Go down to the South where we
writhe. Strive--work--build--hew--lead--inspire! God calls. Will you
hear? Come to Jesus. The harvest is waiting. Who will cry: 'Here am I,
send me!'"

Zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and
answered the call: "Here am I--send me."

And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars; around
her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang some new song
of peace.

"What is the matter, Zora?" Mrs. Vanderpool inquired, for she seemed to
see in the girl's face and carriage some subtle change; something that
seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped the dreamer into the
realness of things; how suddenly the seeker saw; how to the wanderer,
the Way was opened.

Just how she sensed this Mrs. Vanderpool could not have explained, nor
could Zora. Was there a change, sudden, cataclysmic? No. There were to
come in future days all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless
cry: "It is all right--all right!" But more and more, above the doubt
and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that
flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became
possible, and through it all things else were possible. Thus from the
grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed
worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection rolled away the stone.

"What is the matter, Zora?" Mrs. Vanderpool repeated.

Zora looked up, almost happily--standing poised on her feet as if to
tell of strength and purpose.

"I have found the Way," she cried joyously.

Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long searching look.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "I've been waiting."

"I'm sorry--but I've been--converted." And she told her story.

"Pshaw, Zora!" Mrs. Vanderpool uttered impatiently. "He's a fakir."

"Maybe," said Zora serenely and quietly; "but he brought the Word."

"Zora, don't talk cant; it isn't worthy of your intelligence."

"It was more than intelligent--it was true."

"Zora--listen, child! You were wrought up tonight, nervous--wild. You
were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied
two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul."

But Zora merely smiled. "All you say may be true. But what does it
matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: 'Whereas I was
blind now I see.'"

Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. "And what shall you do?"
she asked.

"I'm going back South to work for my people."

"When?" The old careworn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool's features.

Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other
woman's neck.

"Not right off," she said gently; "not until I learn more. I hate to
leave you, but--it calls!"

Mrs. Vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily:

"You see, Zora, the more you know the more you can do."

"Yes."

"And if you are determined I will see that you are taught. You must know
settlement-work and reform movements; not simply here but--" she
hesitated--"in England--in France."

"Will it take long?" Zora asked, smoothing the lady's hair.

Mrs. Vanderpool considered. "No--five years is not long; it is all too
short."

"Five years: it is very long; but there is a great deal to learn. Must I
study five years?"

Mrs. Vanderpool threw back her head.

"Zora, I am selfish I know, but five years truly is none too long. Then,
too, Zora, we have work to do in that time."

"What?"

"There is Alwyn's career," and Mrs. Vanderpool looked into Zora's eyes.

The girl did not shrink, but she paused.

"Yes," she said slowly, "we must help him."

"And after he rises--"

"He will marry."

"Whom?"

"The woman he loves," returned Zora, quietly.

"Yes--that is best," sighed Mrs. Vanderpool. "But how shall we help
him?"

"Make him Treasurer of the United States without sacrificing his
manhood or betraying his people."

"I can do that," said Mrs. Vanderpool slowly.

"It will cost something," said Zora.

"I will do it," was the lady's firm assurance. Zora kissed her.

The next afternoon Mrs. Cresswell went down to a white social settlement
of which Congressman Todd had spoken, where a meeting of the Civic Club
was to be held. She had come painfully to realize that if she was to
have a career she must make it for herself. The plain, unwelcome truth
was that her husband had no great interests in life in which she could
find permanent pleasure. Companionship and love there was and, she told
herself, always would be; but in some respects their lives must flow in
two streams. Last night, for the second time, she had irritated him; he
had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must brood or work
today. And so she hunted work, eagerly.

She felt the atmosphere the moment she entered. There were carelessly
gowned women and men smart and shabby, but none of them were thinking of
clothes nor even of one another. They had great deeds in mind; they were
scanning the earth; they were toiling for men. The same grim excitement
that sends smaller souls hunting for birds and rabbits and lions, had
sent them hunting the enemies of mankind: they were bent to the chase,
scenting the game, knowing the infinite meaning of their hunt and the
glory of victory. Mary Cresswell had listened but a half hour before her
world seemed so small and sordid and narrow, so trivial, that a sense of
shame spread over her. These people were not only earnest, but expert.
They acknowledged the need of Mr. Todd's educational bill.

"But the Republicans are going to side-track it; I have that on the best
authority," said one.

"True; but can't we force them to it?"

"Only by political power, and they've just won a campaign."

"They won it by Negro votes, and the Negro who secured the votes is
eager for this bill; he's a fine, honest fellow."

"Very well; work with him; and when we can be of real service let us
know. Meantime, this Child Labor bill is different. It's bound to pass.
Both parties are back of it, and public opinion is aroused. Now our work
is to force amendments enough to make the bill effective."

Discussion followed; not flamboyant and declamatory, but tense,
staccato, pointed. Mrs. Cresswell found herself taking part. Someone
mentioned her name, and one or two glances of interest and even
curiosity were thrown her way. Congressmen's wives were rare at the
Civic Club.

Congressmen Todd urged Mrs. Cresswell to stay after the discussion and
attend a meeting of the managers and workers of the Washington social
settlements.

"Have you many settlements?" she inquired.

"Three in all--two white and one colored."

"And will they all be represented?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Cresswell. If you object to meeting the colored
people--"

Mrs. Cresswell blushed.

"No, indeed," she answered; "I used to teach colored people."

She watched this new group gather: a business man, two fashionable
ladies, three college girls, a gray-haired colored woman, and a young
spectacled brown man, and then, to her surprise, Mrs. Vanderpool and
Zora.

Zora was scarcely seated when that strange sixth sense of hers told her
that something had happened, and it needed but a side-glance from Mrs.
Vanderpool to indicate what it was. She sat with folded hands and the
old dreamy look in her eyes. In one moment she lived it all again--the
red cabin, the moving oak, the sowing of the Fleece, and its fearful
reaping. And now, when she turned her head, she would see the woman who
was to marry Bles Alwyn. She had often dreamed of her, and had set a
high ideal. She wanted her to be handsome, well dressed, earnest and
good. She felt a sort of person proprietorship in her, and when at last
the quickened pulse died to its regular healthy beat, she turned and
looked and knew.

Caroline Wynn deemed it a part of the white world's education to
participate in meetings like this; doing so was not pleasant, but it
appealed to her cynicism and mocking sense of pleasure. She always
roused hostility as she entered: her gown was too handsome, her gloves
too spotless, her air had hauteur enough to be almost impudent in the
opinion of most white people. Then gradually her intelligence, her cool
wit and self-possession, would conquer and she would go gracefully out
leaving a rather bewildered audience behind. She sat today with her dark
gold profile toward Zora, and the girl looked and was glad. She was such
a woman she would have Bles marry. She was glad, and she choked back the
sob that struggled and fought in her throat.

The meeting never got beyond a certain constraint. The Congressman made
an excellent speech; there were various sets of figures read by the
workers; and Miss Wynn added a touch of spice by several pertinent
questions and comments. Then, as the meeting broke up and Mrs. Cresswell
came forward to speak to Zora, Mrs. Vanderpool managed to find herself
near Miss Wynn and to be introduced. They exchanged a few polite
phrases, fencing delicately to test the other's wrist and interest. They
touched on the weather, and settlement work; but Miss Wynn did not
propose to be stranded on the Negro problem.

"I suppose the next bit of excitement will be in the inauguration," she
said to Mrs. Vanderpool.

"I understand it will be unusually elaborate," returned Mrs. Vanderpool,
a little surprised at the turn. Then she added pleasantly: "I think I
shall see it through, from speech to ball."

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