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

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_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, where
Earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeating
them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning. Long she had
wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves,
and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thing
clear--to understand.

"Was the child born dead?"

"Worse than dead!"

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

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

She was not satisfied. She had not been dreaming. She would tell Harry
to ask him--she did not often see her husband, but she must ask him now
and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. A
moment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. From the
other 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 the
third and fourth generation."

Slowly, softly, she crept away. Her mind seemed very clear. And she
began a long journey to reach her window and chair--a long, long
journey; 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 the
sea, the mighty rhythmic beating of the sea. Long days she lay, and sat
and walked beside those vast and speaking waters, till at last she knew
their 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-meaning
woman, ambitious, but curiously narrow; not willing to work long for
the Vision, but leaping at it rashly, blindly, with a deep-seated sense
of 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 her
husband as a means not an end. She had wished to absorb him and his work
for her own glory. She had idealized for her own uses a very human man
whose life had been full of sin and fault. She must atone.

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

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

She was strong; she felt well; but she was slight, almost scrawny, and
her beauty was gone forever. It had been of that blonde white-and-pink
type that fades in a flash, and its going left her body flattened and
angular, her skin drawn and dead white, her eyes sunken. From the
radiant girl whom Cresswell had met three years earlier the change was
startling, and yet the contrast seemed even greater than it was, for her
glory then had been her abundant and almost golden hair. Now that hair
was faded, and falling so fast that at last the doctor advised her to
cut it short. This left her ill-shaped head exposed and emphasized the
sunken hollows of her face. She knew that she was changed but she did
not quite realize how changed, until now as she stood and gazed.

Yet she did not hesitate but from that moment set herself to her new
life task. Characteristically, she started dramatically and largely. She
was to make her life an endless sacrifice; she was to revivify the
manhood in Harry Cresswell, and all this for no return, no partnership
of 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 note
no change in his manner toward her; but his manner had changed. He was
studiously, scrupulously polite in private, and in public devoted; but
there was no feeling, no passion, no love. The polished shell of his
clan reflected conventional light even more carefully than formerly
because the shell was cold and empty. There were no little flashes of
anger now, no poutings nor sweet reconciliations. Life ran very smoothly
and courteously; and while she did not try to regain the affection, she
strove to enthrall his intellect. She supplied a sub-committee upon
which he was serving--not directly, but through him--with figures, with
reports, books, and papers, so that he received special commendations; a
praise that piqued as well as pleased him, because it implied a certain
surprise that he was able to do it.

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

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

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

Cresswell subscribed to a clipping-bureau and tasted the sweets of
dawning notoriety, and Mrs. Cresswell arranged a select dinner-party
which included a cabinet officer, a foreign ambassador, two
millionaires, and the leading Southern Congressmen. The talk came
around to the failure of the Senate to confirm Mr. Vanderpool, and it
was generally assumed that the President would not force the issue.

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

Mary Cresswell sped her departing guests with a distinct purpose in
mind. She must make herself leader of the Southern set in Washington and
concentrate its whole force on the appointment of Harry Cresswell as
ambassador to France. Quick reward and promotion were essential to
Harry's success. He was not one to keep up the strain of effort a long
time. Unless, then, tangible results came and came quickly, he was
liable to relapse into old habits. Therefore he must succeed and succeed
at once. She would have preferred a less ornamental position than the
ambassadorship, but there were no other openings. The Alabama senators
were firmly seated for at least four years and the Governorship had been
carefully arranged for. A term of four years abroad, however, might
bring Harry Cresswell back in time for greater advancement. At any rate,
it was the only tangible offering, and Mary Cresswell silently
determined to work for it.

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

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

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

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

The proposal caught the imagination of the Southern set. None suspected
a possible intrusion of the eternal race issue for no Negroes were
allowed in the Corcoran exhibit or school. This Mrs. Vanderpool easily
ascertained and a certain sense of justice combined in a curious way
with her political intrigue to bring about the undoing of Mary
Cresswell.

Mrs. Vanderpool's very first cautious inquiries by way of the back
stairs brought gratifying response--for did not all black Washington
know well of the work in sculpture done by Mrs. Samuel Stillings, _nee_
Wynn? Mrs. Vanderpool remembered Mrs. Stillings perfectly, and she
walked, that evening, through unobtrusive thoroughfares and called on
Mrs. Stillings. Had Mrs. Stillings heard of the new art movement? Did
she intend to exhibit? Mrs. Stillings did not intend to exhibit as she
was sure she would not be welcome. She had had a bust accepted by the
Corcoran Art Gallery once, and when they found she was colored they
returned it. But if she were especially invited? That would make a
difference, although even then the line would be drawn somehow.

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

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

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

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

In addition to the general invitations to the art exhibit numbers of
special ones were issued to promising Southern amateurs who had never
exhibited. For these a prize of a long-term scholarship and other
smaller prizes were offered. When Mrs. Vanderpool suggested the name of
"Miss Wynn" to Mrs. Cresswell among a dozen others, for special
invitation, there was nothing in its sound to distinguish it from the
rest of the names, and the invitation went duly. As a result there came
to the exhibit a little group called "The Outcasts," which was really a
masterly thing and sent the director, Signor Alberni, into hysterical
commendation.

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

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

Mary Cresswell paused a moment in triumph looking back at the darkened
hall, 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 you
brought her in purposely to force social equality. They say you used to
teach darkies. Of course, I don't believe all their talk, but I thought
you ought to know." She talked a while longer, then fluttered furtively
away.

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

Entering her motor, she drove near the address and then proceeded on
foot. The street was a prominent one, the block one of the best, the
house almost pretentious. She glanced at her memorandum again to see if
she 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 had
heard that name before--but where? She looked again at her memorandum
and at the house.

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

The girl smiled and hesitated.

"Yes, ma'am," she finally replied. "Won't you come in?" She was shown
into 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 silken
skirts. A lady with gold brown face and straight hair stood before her
with pleasant smile. Where had Mrs. Cresswell seen her before? She tried
to 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 merely
offered a chair and sat down silently. Mrs. Cresswell's perplexity
increased. She had been planning to descend graciously but
authoritatively upon some shrinking girl, but this woman not only seemed
to 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 polite
expectancy.

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 cannot
receive it."

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

Mrs. Cresswell was aghast. Who had rushed the news to this woman? She
realized that there were depths to this matter that she did not
understand 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 same
time I recognize the injustice, and I have come to say that if you will
withdraw your exhibit you will be given a scholarship in a Boston
school."

"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 Southern
born. 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 I
will 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 places
and force yourselves where you are not wanted. It does no good, it only
makes trouble and enemies." Mrs. Cresswell stopped, for the colored
woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid entered
and stood ready. Mrs. Cresswell walked slowly to the door and stepped
out. 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 just
married; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the Treasury."

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

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

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

"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 seemed
about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.

Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, as
she feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro woman, and
quarrel 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 her
Puritan notions, she frankly sought to beautify herself. She remembered
that it was the anniversary of her coming to this house. She got out her
wedding-dress, and although it hung loosely, the maid draped the Silver
Fleece beautifully about her.

She heard her husband enter and come up-stairs. Quickly finishing her
toilet, she hurried down to arrange the flowers, for they were alone
that night. The telephone rang. She knew it would ring up-stairs in his
room, but she usually answered it for he disliked to. She raised the
receiver and started to speak when she realized that she had broken into
the 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 to
listen, but now to her desperate longing to keep him home was added a
new motive. Where was "Nell's"? What was "Nell's"? What was--and there
was fear in her heart. At dinner she tried all her powers on him. She
had his favorite dishes; she mixed his salad and selected his wine; she
talked interestingly, and listened sympathetically, to him. He looked at
her with more attention. Her cheeks were more brilliant, for she had
touched them with rouge. Her eyes flashed; but he glanced furtively at
her short hair. She saw the act; but still she strove until he was
content and laughing; then coming round back of his chair, she placed
her 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 refuse
me, will you, Harry?"

Standing there, she saw the tableau in her own mind, and it looked
strange. She was afraid of herself. She knew that she would do something
foolish if she did not win this battle. She felt that overpowering
fanaticism 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 meets
tonight--very important; otherwise--"

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

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

He disengaged himself, half impatiently, and rose, glancing at the
clock. 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 was
ready to snap. She went to the rack and taking his long heavy overcoat
slipped it on. It nearly touched the floor. She seized a soft
broad-brimmed hat and umbrella and walked out. Just what she meant to do
she did not know, but somehow she must save her husband and herself from
evil. She hurried to the Willard Hotel and watched, walking up and down
the opposite sidewalk. A woman brushed by her and looked her in the
face.

"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 woman
peered at her doubtingly. She was, as Mrs. Cresswell noticed, a young
woman, 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 it
flashed upon her. She took the woman's arm and walked with her. Suddenly
she stopped.

"Where's--Nell's?"

The woman frowned. "Oh, that's a swell place," she said. "Senators and
millionaires. 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 the
drowsy city rose pale gray forms; pale, flushed, and brilliant, in
silken rags. Up and down they passed, to and fro, looking and gliding
like sheeted ghosts; now dodging policemen, now accosting them
familiarly.

"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 had
seen 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 ascending
the steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly and looked at the
opening and closing door. Then a policeman came by and looked at her.

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

"I have some friends here," she said, speaking coarsely.

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

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