Mrs. Vanderpool took pains to repeat Zora’s words to Mr. Easterly. He considered the matter.
“In one sense, it’s good advice,” he admitted; “but there’s the South to reckon with. I’ll think it over and speak to the President. Oh, yes; I’m going to mention France at the same time.”
Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and leaned back in her carriage. She noted with considerable interest the young colored woman who was watching her from the sidewalk: a brown, well-appearing young woman of notable self-possession. Caroline Wynn scrutinized Mrs. Vanderpool because she had been speaking with Mr. Easterly, and Mr. Easterly was a figure of political importance. That very morning Miss Wynn had telegraphed Bles Alwyn. Alwyn arrived at Washington just as the morning papers heralded the sweeping Republican victory. All about he met new deference and new friends; strangers greeted him familiarly on the street; Sam Stillings became his shadow; and when he reported for work his chief and fellow clerks took unusual interest in him.
“Have you seen Senator Smith yet?” Miss Wynn asked after a few words of congratulation.
“No. What for?”
“What for?” she answered. “Go to him today; don’t fail. I shall be at home at eight tonight.”
It seemed to Bles an exceedingly silly thing to do—calling on a busy man with no errand; but he went. He decided that he would just thank the Senator for his interest, and get out; or, if the Senator was busy, he would merely send in his card. Evidently the Senator was busy, for his waiting-room was full. Bles handed the card to the secretary with a word of apology, but the secretary detained him.
“Ah, Mr. Alwyn,” he said affably; “glad to see you. The Senator will want to see you, I know. Wait just a minute.” And soon Bles was shaking Senator Smith’s hand.
“Well, Mr. Alwyn,” said the Senator heartily, “you delivered the goods.”
“Thank you, sir. I tried to.”
Senator Smith thoughtfully looked him over and drew out the letters.
“Your friends, Mr. Alwyn,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “have a rather high opinion of you. Here now is Stillings, who helped on the campaign. He suggests an eighteen-hundred-dollar clerkship for you.” The Senator glanced up keenly and omitted to state what Stillings suggested for himself. Alwyn was visibly grateful as well as surprised.
“I—I hoped,” he began hesitatingly, “that perhaps I might get a promotion, but I had not thought of a first-class clerkship.”
“H’m.” Senator Smith leaned back and twiddled his thumbs, staring at Alwyn until the hot blood darkened his cheeks. Then Bles sat up and stared politely but steadily back. The Senator’s eyes dropped and he put out his hand for the second note.
“Now, your friend, Miss Wynn”—Alwyn started—“is even more ambitious.” He handed her letter to the young man, and pointed out the words.
“Of course, Senator,” Bles read, “we expect Mr. Alwyn to be the next Register of the Treasury.”
Bles looked up in amazement, but the Senator reached for a third letter. The room was very still. At last he found it. “This,” he announced quietly, “is from a man of great power and influence, who has the ear of the new President.” He smoothed out the letter, paused briefly, then read aloud:
“ ‘It has been suggested to me by’ ”—the Senator did not read the name; if he had “Mrs. Vanderpool” would have meant little to Alwyn—“ ‘It has been suggested to me by blank that the future allegiance of the Negro vote to the Republican Party might be insured by giving to some prominent Negro a high political position—for instance, Treasurer of the United States’—salary, six thousand dollars,” interpolated Senator Smith—“ ‘and that Alwyn would be a popular and safe appointment for that position.’ ”
The Senator did not read the concluding sentence, which ran: “Think this over; we can’t touch political conditions in the South; perhaps this sop will do.”
For a long time Alwyn sat motionless, while the Senator said nothing. Then the young man rose unsteadily.
“I don’t think I quite grasp all this,” he said as he shook hands. “I’ll think it over,” and he went out.
When Caroline Wynn heard of that extraordinary conversation her amazement knew no bounds. Yet Alwyn ventured to voice doubts:
“I’m not fitted for either of those high offices; there are many others who deserve more, and I don’t somehow like the idea of seeming to have worked hard in the campaign simply for money or fortune. You see, I talked against that very thing.”
Miss Wynn’s eyes widened.
“Well, what else—” she began and then changed. “Mr. Alwyn, the line between virtue and foolishness is dim and wavering, and I should hate to see you lost in that marshy borderland. By a streak of extraordinary luck you have gained the political leadership of Negroes in America. Here’s your chance to lead your people, and here you stand blinking and hesitating. Be a man!”
Alwyn straightened up and felt his doubts going. The evening passed very pleasantly.
“I’m going to have a little dinner for you,” said Miss Wynn finally, and Alwyn grew hot with pleasure. He turned to her suddenly and said:
“Why, I’m rather—black.” She expressed no surprise but said reflectively:
“You are dark.”
“And I’ve been given to understand that Miss Wynn and her set rather—well, preferred the lighter shades of colored folk.”
Miss Wynn laughed lightly.
“My parents did,” she said simply. “No dark man ever entered their house; they were simply copying the white world. Now I, as a matter of aesthetic beauty, prefer your brown-velvet color to a jaundiced yellow, or even an uncertain cream; but the world doesn’t.”
“The world?”
“Yes, the world; and especially America. One may be Chinese, Spaniard, even Indian—anything white or dirty white in this land, and demand decent treatment; but to be Negro or darkening toward it unmistakably means perpetual handicap and crucifixion.”
“Why not, then, admit that you draw the color-line?”
“Because I don’t; but the world does. I am not prejudiced as my parents were, but I am foresighted. Indeed, it is a deep ethical query, is it not, how far one has the right to bear
