“Is all well with you, Mr. Alwyn?” she asked lightly.
“No, I’m not enjoying myself,” said Bles, truthfully.
“Delicious! And why not?”
He regarded her earnestly.
“There are so many things to talk about,” he said; “earnest things; things of importance. I—I think when our people—” he hesitated. Our?—was our right? But he went on: “When our people meet we ought to talk of our situation, and what to do and—”
Miss Wynn continued to smile.
“We’re all talking of it all the time,” she said.
He looked incredulous.
“Yes, we are,” she insisted. “We veil it a little, and laugh as lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that’s grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Ah, there’s the rub. You haven’t learned our language yet. We don’t just blurt into the Negro Problem; that’s voted bad form. We leave that to our white friends. We saunter to it sideways, touch it delicately because”—her face became a little graver—“because, you see, it hurts.”
Bles stood thoughtful and abashed.
“I—I think I understand,” he gravely said at last.
“Come here,” she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed group in the midst of a conversation.
“—Thinking of sending Jessie to Bryn Mawr,” Bles heard Miss Jones saying.
“Could she pass?”
“Oh, they might think her Spanish.”
“But it’s a snobbish place and she would have to give up all her friends.”
“Yes, Freddie could scarcely visit—” the rest was lost.
“Which, being interpreted,” whispered Miss Wynn, “means that Bryn Mawr draws the color line while we at times surmount it.”
They moved on to another group.
“—Splendid draughtsman,” a man was saying, “and passed at the head of the crowd; but, of course, he has no chance.”
“Why, it’s civil-service, isn’t it?”
“It is. But what of that? There was Watson—”
Miss Wynn did not pause. She whispered: “This is the tale of Civil Service Reform, and how this mighty government gets rid of black men who know too much.”
“But—” Bles tried to protest.
“Hush,” Miss Wynn commanded and they joined the group about the piano. Teerswell, who was speaking, affected not to notice them, and continued:
“—I tell you, it’s got to come. We must act independently and not be bought by a few offices.”
“That’s all well enough for you to talk, Teerswell; you have no wife and babies dependant on you. Why should we who have sacrifice the substance for the shadow?”
“You see, the Judge has got the substance,” laughed Teerswell. “Still I insist: divide and conquer.”
“Nonsense! Unite, and keep.”
Bles was puzzled.
“They’re talking of the coming campaign,” said Miss Wynn.
“What!” exclaimed Bles aloud. “You don’t mean that anyone can advise a black man to vote the Democratic ticket?”
An elderly man turned to them.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “that is just my attitude; I fought for my freedom. I know what slavery is; may I forget God when I vote for traitors and slaveholders.”
The discussion waxed warm and Miss Wynn turned away and sought Miss Jones.
“Come, my dear,” she said, “it’s ‘The Problem’ again.” They sauntered away toward a ring of laughter.
The discussion thus begun at Miss Wynn’s did not end there. It was on the eve of the great party conventions, and the next night Sam Stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly of the inner circle, into which Alwyn had been so unaccountably snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavors, Stillings lingered and seemed destined to linger. But Stillings was a patient, resolute man beneath his deferential exterior, and he saw in Bles a stepping stone. So he began to drop in at his lodgings and tonight invited him to the Bethel Literary.
“What’s that?” asked Bles.
“A debating club—oldest in the city; the best people all attend.”
Bles hesitated. He had half made up his mind that this was the proper time to call on Miss Wynn. He told Stillings so, and told him also of the evening and the discussion.
“Why, that’s the subject up tonight,” Stillings declared, “and Miss Wynn will be sure to be there. You can make your call later. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me when you call.” Alwyn reached for his hat.
When they arrived, the basement of the great church was filling with a throng of men and women. Soon the officers and the speaker of the evening appeared. The president was a brown woman who spoke easily and well, and introduced the main speaker. He was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced black man, clean shaven and well dressed, a lawyer by profession. His theme was “The Democratic Party and the Negro.” His argument was cool, carefully reasoned, and plausible. He was evidently feeling for the sympathy of his audience, and while they were not enthusiastic, they warmed to him gradually and he certainly was strongly impressing them.
Bles was thinking. He sat in the back of the hall, tense, alert, nervous. As the speaker progressed a white man came in and sat down beside him. He was spectacled, with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look. But he did not sleep. He was very observant.
“Who’s speaking?” he asked Bles, and Bles told him. Then he inquired about one or two other persons. Bles could not inform him, but Stillings could and did. Stillings seemed willing to devote considerable time to him.
Bles forgot the man. He was almost crouching for a spring, and no sooner had the speaker, with a really fine apostrophe to independence and reason in voting, sat down, than Bles was on his feet, walking forward. His form was commanding, his voice deep and musical, and his earnestness terribly evident. He hardly waited for recognition from the slightly astonished president, but fairly burst into speech.
“I am from Alabama,” he began earnestly, “and I know the Democratic Party.” Then he told of government and conditions in the Black Belt, of the lying, oppression, and helplessness of the sodden black masses; then, turning, he reminded them of the history of slavery. Finally, he pointed to Lincoln’s picture and to Sumner’s and mentioned other white friends.
“And, my brothers, they
