Colonel Cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. As far as he could see, there was no human soul. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. A sort of terror shook him until he heard the distant songs of black folk in the fields. He sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes and the breath came easier. When he opened them again a white figure was coming up the avenue of the Oaks. He watched it greedily. It was Mary Cresswell, and she started when she saw him.
“You are worse, father?” she asked.
“Worse and better,” he replied, smiling cynically. Then suddenly he announced: “I’ve made my will.”
“Why—why—” she stammered.
“Why?” sharply. “Because I’m going to die.”
She said nothing. He smiled and continued:
“I’ve got it all fixed. Harry was in a tight place—gambling as usual—and I gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims. Then I gave John Taylor—you needn’t look. I sent for him. He’s a damned scoundrel; but he won’t lie, and I needed him. I willed his children all the rest except two or three legacies. One was one hundred thousand dollars for you—”
“Oh, father!” she cried. “I don’t deserve it.”
“I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much,” he returned grimly. “Then there’s another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and this house and plantation. Whom do you think that’s for?”
“Helen?”
“Helen!” he raised his hand in threatening anger. “I might rot here for all she cares. No—no—but then—I’ll not tell you—I—ah—” A spasm of pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he sat up again and peered down the oaks. “Hush!” he gasped. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know—it’s a girl—I—”
He gripped her till she winced.
“My God—it walks—like my wife—I tell you—she held her head so—who is it?” He half rose.
“Oh, father, it’s nobody but Emma—little Emma—Bertie’s child—the mulatto girl. She’s a nurse now, and I asked to have her come and attend you.”
“Oh,” he said, “oh—” He looked at the girl curiously. “Come here.” He peered into her white young face. “Do you know me?”
The girl shrank away from him.
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you do?”
“I teach and nurse at the school.”
“Good! Well, I’m going to give you some money—do you know why?”
A flash of self-consciousness passed over the girl’s face; she looked at him with her wide blue eyes.
“Yes, Grandfather,” she faltered.
Mrs. Cresswell rose to her feet; but the old man slowly dropped the girl’s hand and lay back in his chair, with lips half smiling. “Grandfather,” he repeated softly. He closed his eyes a space and then opened them. A tremor shivered in his limbs as he stared darkly at the swamp.
“Hark!” he cried harshly. “Do you hear the bodies creaking on the limbs? It’s Rob and Johnson. I did it—I—”
Suddenly he rose and stood erect and his wild eyes stricken with death stared full upon Emma. Slowly and thickly he spoke, working his trembling hands.
“Nell—Nell! Is it you, little wife, come back to accuse me? Ah, Nell, don’t shrink! I know—I have sinned against the light and the blood of your poor black people is red on these old hands. No, don’t put your clean white hands upon me, Nell, till I wash mine. I’ll do it, Nell; I’ll atone. I’m a Cresswell yet, Nell, a Cresswell and a gen—” He swayed. Vainly he struggled for the word. The shudder of death shook his soul, and he passed.
A week after the funeral of Colonel Cresswell, John Taylor drove out to the school and was closeted with Miss Smith. His sister, installed once again for a few days in her old room at the school, understood that he was conferring about Emma’s legacy, and she was glad. She was more and more convinced that the marriage of Emma and Bles was the best possible solution of many difficulties. She had asked Emma once if she liked Bles, and Emma had replied in her innocent way,
“Oh, so much.”
As for Bles, he was often saying what a dear child Emma was. Neither perhaps realized yet that this was love, but it needed, Mrs. Cresswell was sure, only the lightning-flash, and they would know. And who could furnish that illumination better than Zora, the calm, methodical Zora, who knew them so well?
As for herself, once she had accomplished the marriage and paid the mortgage on the school out of her legacy, she would go abroad and in travel seek forgetfulness and healing. There had been no formal divorce, and so far as she was concerned there never would be; but the separation from her husband and America would be forever.
Her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had little intercourse these days, and rode away. She rushed in to Miss Smith and found her sitting there—straight, upright, composed in all save that the tears were streaming down her face and she was making no effort to stop them.
“Why—Miss Smith!” she faltered.
Miss Smith pointed to a paper. Mrs. Cresswell picked it up curiously. It was an official notification to the trustees of the Smith School of a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together with the Cresswell house and plantation. Mrs. Gresswell sat down in open-mouthed astonishment. Twice she tried to speak, but there were so many things to say that she could not choose.
“Tell Zora,” Miss Smith at last managed to say.
Zora was dreaming again. Somehow, the old dream-life, with its glorious fantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter than ever. There was no tangible reason why, and yet today she had shut herself in her den. Searching down in the depths of her trunk, she drew forth that filmy cloud of white—silk-bordered and half finished to a gown. Why were her eyes wet
