“Quite picturesque,” observed Mrs. Vanderpool, looking at the tall, slim girl swaying toward them with a piled basket of white cotton poised lightly on her head. “Why,” in abrupt recognition, “it is our Venus of the Roadside, is it not?”
Mary saw it was Zora. Just then, too, Zora caught sight of them, and for a moment hesitated, then came on; the carriage was in front of the store, and she was bound for the store. A moment Mary hesitated, too, and then turned resolutely to greet her. But Zora’s eyes did not see her. After one look at that sorrow-stricken face, Mary turned away.
Colonel Cresswell stood by the door, his hat on, his hands in his pockets.
“Well, Zora, what have you there?” he asked.
“Cotton, sir.”
Harry Cresswell bent over it.
“Great heavens! Look at this cotton!” he ejaculated. His father approached. The cotton lay in silken handfuls, clean and shimmering, with threads full two inches long. The idlers, black and white, clustered round, gazing at it, and fingering it with repeated exclamations of astonishment.
“Where did this come from?” asked the Colonel sharply. He and Harry were both eying the girl intently.
“I raised it in the swamp,” Zora replied quietly, in a dead voice. There was no pride of achievement in her manner, no gladness; all that had flown.
“Is that all?”
“No, sir; I think there’s two bales.”
“Two bales! Where is it? How the devil—” The Colonel was forgetting his guests, but Harry intervened.
“You’ll need to get it picked right off,” he suggested.
“It’s all picked, sir.”
“But where is it?”
“If you’ll send a wagon, sir—”
But the Colonel hardly waited.
“Here you, Jim, take the big mules and drive like—Where’s that wench?”
But Zora was already striding on ahead, and was far up the red road when the great mules galloped into sight and the long whip snapped above their backs. The Colonel was still excited.
“That cotton must be ours, Harry—all of it. And see that none is stolen. We’ve got no contract with the wench, so don’t dally with her.” But Harry said firmly, quietly:
“It’s fine cotton, and she raised it; she must be paid well for it.” Colonel Cresswell glanced at him with something between contempt and astonishment on his face.
“You go along with the ladies,” Harry added; “I’ll see to this cotton.” Mary Taylor’s smile had rewarded him; now he must get rid of his company—before Zora returned.
It was dark when the cotton came; such a load as Cresswell’s store had never seen before. Zora watched it weighed, received the cotton checks, and entered the store. Only the clerk was there, and he was closing. He pointed her carelessly to the office in the back part. She went into the small dim room, and laying the cotton-check on the desk, stood waiting. Slowly the hopelessness and bitterness of it all came back in a great whelming flood. What was the use of trying for anything? She was lost forever. The world was against her, and again she saw the fingers of Elspeth—the long black claw-like talons that clutched and dragged her down—down. She did not struggle—she dropped her hands listlessly, wearily, and stood but half conscious as the door opened and Mr. Harry Cresswell entered the dimly lighted room. She opened her eyes. She had expected his father. Somewhere way down in the depths of her nature the primal tiger awoke and snarled. She was suddenly alive from hair to finger tip. Harry Cresswell paused a second and swept her full length with his eye—her profile, the long supple line of bosom and hip, the little foot. Then he closed the door softly and walked slowly toward her. She stood like stone, without a quiver; only her eye followed the crooked line of the Cresswell blue blood on his marble forehead as she looked down from her greater height; her hand closed almost caressingly on a rusty poker lying on the stove nearby; and as she sensed the hot breath of him she felt herself purring in a half heard whisper.
“I should not like—to kill you.”
He looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk. Slowly he lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and compared the cotton-check with it.
“Three thousand pounds,” he announced in a careless tone. “Yes, that will make about two bales of lint. It’s extra cotton—say fifteen cents a pound—one hundred fifty dollars—seventy-five dollars to you—h’m.” He took a notebook out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head, and paused to relight his cigarette.
“Let’s see—your rent and rations—”
“Elspeth pays no rent,” she said slowly, but he did not seem to hear.
“Your rent and rations with the five years’ back debt,”—he made a hasty calculation—“will be one hundred dollars. That leaves you twenty-five in our debt. Here’s your receipt.”
The blow had fallen. She did not wince nor cry out. She took the receipt, calmly, and walked out into the darkness.
They had stolen the Silver Fleece.
What should she do? She never thought of appeal to courts, for Colonel Cresswell was Justice of the Peace and his son was bailiff. Why had they stolen from her? She knew. She was now penniless, and in a sense helpless. She was now a peon bound to a master’s bidding. If Elspeth chose to sign a contract of work for her tomorrow, it would mean slavery, jail, or hounded running away. What would Elspeth do? One never knew. Zora walked on. An hour ago it seemed that this last blow must have killed her. But now it was different. Into her first despair had crept, in one fierce moment, grim determination. Somewhere in the world sat a great dim Injustice which had veiled the light before her young eyes, just as she raised them to the morning. With the veiling, death had come into her heart.
And yet, they should not kill her; they should not enslave her. A desperate resolve to find some way up toward the light, if not to it, formed itself within her.
