Mrs. Grey wanted particulars. “What did you disagree about?” she asked bluntly.
“I may be responsible for some of the disagreement,” interrupted Mr. Cresswell, hesitatingly; “I’m afraid Miss Smith does not approve of us white Southerners.”
“But you mean to say you can’t even advise her?”
“Oh, no; we can. But—we’re not—er—exactly welcomed. In fact,” said Cresswell gravely, “the chief criticism I have against your Northerners’ schools for Negroes is, that they not only fail to enlist the sympathy and aid of the best Southerners, but even repel it.”
“That is very wrong—very wrong,” commented the Englishman warmly, a sentiment in which Mrs. Grey hastened to agree.
“Of course,” continued Cresswell, “I am free to confess that I have no personal desire to dabble in philanthropy, or conduct schools of any kind; my hands are full of other matters.”
“But it’s precisely the advice of such disinterested men that philanthropic work needs,” Mr. Vanderpool urged.
“Well, I volunteered advice once in this case and I shan’t repeat the experiment soon,” said Cresswell laughing. Mrs. Grey wanted to hear the incident, but the young man was politely reluctant. Mary Taylor, however, related the tale of Zora to Mrs. Grey’s private ear later.
“Fortunately,” said Mr. Vanderpool, “Northerners and Southerners are arriving at a better mutual understanding on most of these matters.”
“Yes, indeed,” Cresswell agreed. “After all, they never were far apart, even in slavery days; both sides were honest and sincere.”
All through the dinner Mr. Smith had been preoccupied and taciturn. Now he abruptly shot a glance at Cresswell.
“I suppose that one was right and one was wrong.”
“No,” said Cresswell, “both were right.”
“I thought the only excuse for fighting was a great Right; if Right is on neither side or simultaneously on both, then War is not only Hell but Damnation.”
Mrs. Grey looked shocked and Mrs. Vanderpool smiled.
“How about fighting for exercise?” she suggested.
“At any rate,” said Cresswell, “we can all agree on helping these poor victims of our quarrel as far as their limited capacity will allow—and no farther, for that is impossible.”
Very soon after dinner Charles Smith excused himself. He was not yet inured to the ways of high finance, and the programme of the cotton barons, as unfolded that day, lay heavy on his mind, despite all his philosophy.
“I have had a—full day,” he explained to Mrs. Grey.
XIV
Love
The rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. The wind screamed in the ancient Cresswell oaks and swirled across the swamp in loud, wild gusts. The waters roared and gurgled in the streams, and along the roadside. Then, when the wind fell murmuring away, the clouds grew blacker and blacker and rain in long slim columns fell straight from Heaven to earth digging itself into the land and throwing back the red mud in angry flashes.
So it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days Bles watched it with leaden heart. He knew the Silver Fleece—his and Zora’s—must be ruined. It was the first great sorrow of his life; it was not so much the loss of the cotton itself—but the fantasy, the hopes, the dreams built around it. If it failed, would not they fail? Was not this angry beating rain, this dull spiritless drizzle, this wild war of air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? But if his own despair was great his pain at the plight of Zora made it almost unbearable. He did not see her in these seven days. He pictured her huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless leaky cabin with worse than no companions. Ah! the swamp, the cruel swamp! It was a fearful place in the rain. Its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its clinging slimy draperies—how they twined about the bones of its victims and chilled their hearts. Yet here his Zora—his poor disappointed child—was imprisoned.
Child? He had always called her child—but now in the inward illumination of these dark days he knew her as neither child nor sister nor friend, but as the One Woman. The revelation of his love lighted and brightened slowly till it flamed like a sunrise over him and left him in burning wonder. He panted to know if she, too, knew, or knew and cared not, or cared and knew not. She was so strange and human a creature. To her all things meant something—nothing was aimless, nothing merely happened. Was this rain beating down and back her love for him, or had she never loved? He walked his room, gripping his hands, peering through the misty windows toward the swamp—rain, rain, rain, nothing but rain. The world was water veiled in mists.
Then of a sudden, at midday, the sun shot out, hot and still; no breath of air stirred; the sky was like blue steel; the earth steamed. Bles rushed to the edge of the swamp and stood there irresolute. Perhaps—if the water had but drained from the cotton!—it was so strong and tall! But, pshaw! Where was the use of imagining? The lagoon had been level with the dykes a week ago; and now? He could almost see the beautiful Silver Fleece, bedraggled, drowned, and rolling beneath the black lake of slime. He went back to his work, but early in the morning the thought of it lured him again. He must at least see the grave of his hope and Zora’s, and out of it resurrect new love and strength.
Perhaps she, too, might be there, waiting, weeping. He started at the thought. He hurried forth sadly. The raindrops were still dripping and gleaming from the trees, flashing back the heavy yellow sunlight. He splashed and stamped along, farther and farther onward until he neared the rampart of the clearing, and put foot upon the tree-bridge. Then he looked down. The lagoon was dry. He stood a moment bewildered, then turned and rushed upon the island. A great sheet of dazzling sunlight
