“Come, honey,” he shouted, “you’se a’dreaming! Come on, honey!”
She turned abruptly and gripped his hand, as one drowning grips anything offered—gripped till he winced. She laughed a loud mirthless laugh, that came pouring like a sob from her deep lungs.
“Come on!” she mocked, and joined them.
They were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. There were husky, big-limbed youths, and boldfaced, loud-tongued girls. Tomorrow they would start upcountry to some backwoods barony in the kingdom of cotton, and work till Christmas time. Today was the last in town; there was craftily advanced money in their pockets and riot in their hearts. In the gathering twilight they marched noisily through the streets; in their midst, wide-eyed and laughing almost hysterically, marched Zora.
Mrs. Vanderpool meantime rode thoughtfully out of town toward Cresswell Oaks. She was returning from witnessing the Mardi Gras festivities at New Orleans and at the urgent invitation of the Cresswells had stopped off. She might even stay to the wedding if the new plans matured.
Mrs. Vanderpool was quite upset. Her French maid, on whom she had depended absolutely for five years or more, had left her.
“I think I want to try a colored maid,” she told the Cresswells, laughingly, as they drove home. “They have sweet voices and they can’t doff their uniform. Helene without her cap and apron was often mistaken for a lady, and while I was in New Orleans a French confectioner married her under some such delusion. Now, haven’t you a girl about here who would do?”
“No,” declared Harry decisively, but his sister suggested that she might ask Miss Smith at the colored school.
Again Mrs. Vanderpool laughed, but after tea she wandered idly down the road. The sun behind the swamp was crimsoning the world. Mrs. Vanderpool strolled alone to the school, and saw Sarah Smith. There was no cordiality in the latter’s greeting, but when she heard the caller’s errand her attention was at once arrested and held. The interests of her charges were always uppermost in her mind.
“Can’t I have the girl Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool at last inquired.
Miss Smith started, for she was thinking of Zora at that very instant. The girl was later than usual, and she was momentarily expecting to see her tall form moving languidly up the walk.
She gave Mrs. Vanderpool a searching look. Mrs. Vanderpool glanced involuntarily at her gown and smiled as she did it.
“Could I trust you with a human soul?” asked Miss Smith abruptly.
Mrs. Vanderpool looked up quickly. The half mocking answer that rose involuntarily to her lips was checked. Within, Mrs. Vanderpool was a little puzzled at herself. Why had she asked for this girl? She had felt a strange interest in her—a peculiar human interest since she first saw her and as she saw her again this afternoon. But would she make a satisfactory maid? Was it not a rather dangerous experiment? Why had she asked for her? She certainly had not intended to when she entered the house.
In the silence Miss Smith continued: “Here is a child in whom the fountains of the great deep are suddenly broken up. With peace and care she would find herself, for she is strong. But here there is no peace. Slavery of soul and body awaits her and I am powerless to protect her. She must go away. That going away may make or ruin her. She knows nothing of working for wages and she has not the servant’s humility; but she has loyalty and pluck. For one she loves there is nothing she would not do; but she cannot be driven. Or rather, if she is driven, it may rouse in her the devil incarnate. She needs not exactly affection—she would almost resent that—but intelligent interest and care. In return for this she will gradually learn to serve and serve loyally. Frankly, Mrs. Vanderpool, I would not have chosen you for this task of human education. Indeed, you would have been my last thought—you seem to me—I speak plainly—a worldly woman. Yet, perhaps—who can tell?—God has especially set you to this task. At any rate, I have little choice. I am at my wits’ end. Elspeth, the mother of this child, is not long dead; and here is the girl, beautiful, unprotected; and here am I, almost helpless. She is in debt to the Cresswells, and they are pressing the claim to her service. Take her if you can get her—it is, I fear, her only chance. Mind you—if you can persuade her; and that may be impossible.”
“Where is she now?”
Miss Smith glanced out at the darkening landscape, and then at her watch.
“I do not know; she’s very late. She’s given to wandering, but usually she is here before this time.”
“I saw her in town this afternoon,” said Mrs. Vanderpool.
“Zora? In town?” Miss Smith rose. “I’ll send her to you tomorrow,” she said quietly. Mrs. Vanderpool had hardly reached the Oaks before Miss Smith was driving toward town.
A small cabin on the town’s ragged fringe was crowded to suffocation. Within arose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous laughter; the scraping of a fiddle and whine of an accordion. Liquor began to appear and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden as the dances whirled. At the edge of the orgy stood Zora, wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain that gripped her heart and hammered in her head, crying in tune with the frenzied music—“the End—the End!”
Abruptly she recognized a face despite the wreck and ruin of its beauty.
“Bertie!” she cried as she seized the mother of little Emma by the arm.
The woman staggered and offered her glass.
“Drink,” she cried, “drink and forget.”
In a moment Zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in both hands. A dozen hands clapped a devil’s tattoo. A score of voices yelled and laughed. The shriek of the music was drowned beneath the thunder of stamping feet. Men reeled to singing women’s arms, but above the roar rose the song of the
