“Why?”
“Because I say so,” he retorted explosively, too angry to explain further.
She looked at him—a long, fixed, penetrating look which revealed more than she had ever seen before, then turned away and went slowly upstairs. She did not come down to dinner, and in the evening the doctor was called.
Cresswell drooped a bit after eating, hesitated, and reflected. He had acted too cavalierly in this Civic Club mess, he concluded, and yet he would not back down. He’d go see her and pet her a bit, but be firm.
He opened her boudoir door gently, and she stood before him radiant, clothed in silk and lace, her hair loosened. He paused, astonished. But she threw herself upon his neck, with a joyful, half hysterical cry.
“I will give it all up—everything! Willingly, willingly!” Her voice dropped abruptly to a tremulous whisper. “Oh, Harry! I—I am to be the mother of a child!”
XXIX
A Master of Fate
“There is not the slightest doubt, Miss Wynn,” Senator Smith was saying, “but that the schools of the District will be reorganized.”
“And the Board of Education abolished?” she added.
“Yes. The power will be delegated to a single white superintendent.”
The vertical line in Caroline Wynn’s forehead became pronounced.
“Whose work is this, Senator?” she asked.
“Well, there are, of course, various parties back of the change: the ‘outs,’ the reformers, the whole tendency to concentrate responsibility, and so on. But, frankly, the deciding factor was the demand of the South.”
“Is there anything in Washington that the South does not already own?”
Senator Smith smiled thinly.
“Not much,” drily; “but we own the South.”
“And part of the price is putting the colored schools of the District in the hands of a Southern man and depriving us of all voice in their control?”
“Precisely, Miss Wynn. But you’d be surprised to know that it was the Negroes themselves who stirred the South to this demand.”
“Not at all; you mean the colored newspapers, I presume.”
“The same, with Teerswell’s clever articles; then his partner Stillings worked the ‘impudent Negro teacher’ argument on Cresswell until Cresswell was wild to get the South in control of the schools.”
“But what do Teerswell and Stillings want?”
“They want Bles Alwyn to make a fool of himself.”
“That is a trifle cryptic,” Miss Wynn mused. The Senator amplified.
“We are giving the South the Washington schools and killing the Education Bill in return for this support of some of our measures and their assent to Alwyn’s appointment. You see I speak frankly.”
“I can stand it, Senator.”
“I believe you can. Well, now, if Alwyn should act unwisely and offend the South, somebody else stands in line for the appointment.”
“As Treasurer?” she asked in surprise.
“Oh, no, they are too shrewd to ask that; it would offend their backers, or shall I say their tools, the Southerners. No, they ask only to be Register and Assistant Register of the Treasury. This is an office colored men have held for years, and it is quite ambitious enough for them; so Stillings assures Cresswell and his friends.”
“I see,” Miss Wynn slowly acknowledged. “But how do they hope to make Mr. Alwyn blunder?”
“Too easily, I fear—unless you are very careful. Alwyn has been working like a beaver for the National Education Bill. He’s been in to see me several times, as you probably know. His heart is set on it. He regards its passage as a sort of vindication of his defence of the party.”
“Yes.”
“Now, the party has dropped the bill for good, and Alwyn doesn’t like it. If he should attack the party—”
“But he wouldn’t,” cried Miss Wynn with a start that belied her conviction.
“Did you know that he is to be invited to make the principal address to the graduates of the colored high-school?”
“But,” she objected. “They have selected Bishop Johnson; I—”
“I know you did,” laughed the Senator, “but the Judge got orders from higher up.”
“Shrewd Mr. Teerswell,” remarked Miss Wynn, sagely.
“Shrewd Mr. Stillings,” the Senator corrected; “but perhaps too shrewd. Suppose Mr. Alwyn should take this occasion to make a thorough defence of the party?”
“But—will he?”
“That’s where you come in,” Senator Smith pointed out, rising, “and the real reason of this interview. We’re depending on you to pull the party out of an awkward hole,” and he shook hands with his caller.
Miss Wynn walked slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue with a smile on her face.
“I did not give him the credit,” she declared, repeating it; “I did not give him the credit. Here I was, playing an alluring game on the side, and my dear Tom transforms it into a struggle for bread and butter; for of course, if the Board of Education goes, I lose my place.” She lifted her head and stared along the avenue.
A bitterness dawned in her eyes. The whole street was a living insult to her. Here she was, an American girl by birth and breeding, a daughter of citizens who had fought and bled and worked for a dozen generations on this soil; yet if she stepped into this hotel to rest, even with full purse, she would be politely refused accommodation. Should she attempt to go into this picture show she would be denied entrance. She was thirsty with the walk; but at yonder fountain the clerk would roughly refuse to serve her. It was lunch time; there was no place within a mile where she was allowed to eat. The revolt deepened within her. Beyond these known and definite discriminations lay the unknown and hovering. In yonder store nothing hindered the clerk from being exceptionally pert; on yonder streetcar the conductor might reserve his politeness for white folk; this policeman’s business was to keep black and brown people in their places. All this Caroline Wynn thought of, and then smiled.
This was the thing poor blind Bles was trying to attack by “appeals” for “justice.” Nonsense! Does one “appeal” to the red-eyed beast that throttles him? No. He composes himself, looks death in the
