Thirty-eight
ATONEMENT
Three months had flown. It was Spring again, and Zora sat in the transformed swamp—now a swamp in name only—beneath the great oak, dreaming. And what she dreamed there in the golden day she dared not formulate even to her own soul. She rose with a start, for there was work to do. Aunt Rachel was ill, and Emma went daily to attend her; today, as she came back, she brought news that Colonel Cresswell, who had been unwell for several days, was worse. She must send Emma up to help, and as she started toward the school she glanced toward the Cresswell Oaks and saw the arm-chair of its master on the pillared porch.
Colonel Cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. As far as he could see, there was no human soul. His eyes were blood-shot, his cheeks sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. A sort of terror shook him until he heard the distant songs of black folk in the fields. He sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes and the breath came easier. When he opened them again a white figure was coming up the avenue of the Oaks. He watched it greedily. It was Mary Cresswell, and she started when she saw him.
"You are worse, father?" she asked.
"Worse and better," he replied, smiling cynically. Then suddenly he announced: "I've made my will."
"Why—why—" she stammered.
"Why?" sharply. "Because I'm going to die."
She said nothing. He smiled and continued:
"I've got it all fixed. Harry was in a tight place—gambling as usual—and I gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims. Then I gave John Taylor—you needn't look. I sent for him. He's a damned scoundrel; but he won't lie, and I needed him. I willed his children all the rest except two or three legacies. One was one hundred thousand dollars for you—"
"Oh, father!" she cried. "I don't deserve it."
"I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much," he returned grimly. "Then there's another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and this house and plantation. Whom do you think that's for?"
"Helen?"
"Helen!" he raised his hand in threatening anger. "I might rot here for all she cares. No—no—but then—I'll not tell you—I—ah—" A spasm of pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he sat up again and peered down the oaks. "Hush!" he gasped. "Who's that?"
"I don't know—it's a girl—I—"
He gripped her till she winced.
"My God—it walks—like my wife—I tell you—she held her head so—who is it?" He half rose.
"Oh, father, it's nobody but Emma—little Emma—Bertie's child—the mulatto girl. She's a nurse now, and I asked to have her come and attend you."
"Oh," he said, "oh—" He looked at the girl curiously. "Come here." He peered into her white young face. "Do you know me?"
The girl shrank away from him.
"Yes, sir."
"What do you do?"
"I teach and nurse at the school."
"Good! Well, I'm going to give you some money—do you know why?"
A flash of self-consciousness passed over the girl's face; she looked at him with her wide blue eyes.
"Yes, Grandfather," she faltered.
Mrs. Cresswell rose to her feet; but the old man slowly dropped the girl's hand and lay back in his chair, with lips half smiling. "Grandfather," he repeated softly. He closed his eyes a space and then opened them. A tremor shivered in his limbs as he stared darkly at the swamp.
"Hark!" he cried harshly. "Do you hear the bodies creaking on the limbs? It's Rob and Johnson. I did it—I—"
Suddenly he rose and stood erect and his wild eyes stricken with death stared full upon Emma. Slowly and thickly he spoke, working his trembling hands.
"Nell—Nell! Is it you, little wife, come back to accuse me? Ah, Nell, don't shrink! I know—I have sinned against the light and the blood of your poor black people is red on these old hands. No, don't put your clean white hands upon me, Nell, till I wash mine. I'll do it, Nell; I'll atone. I'm a Cresswell yet, Nell, a Cresswell and a gen—" He swayed. Vainly he struggled for the word. The shudder of death shook his soul, and he passed.
A week after the funeral of Colonel Cresswell, John Taylor drove out to the school and was closeted with Miss Smith. His sister, installed once again for a few days in her old room at the school, understood that he was conferring about Emma's legacy, and she was glad. She was more and more convinced that the marriage of Emma and Bles was the best possible solution of many difficulties. She had asked Emma once if she liked Bles, and Emma had replied in her innocent way,
"Oh, so much."
As for Bles, he was often saying what a dear child Emma was. Neither perhaps realized yet that this was love, but it needed, Mrs. Cresswell was sure, only the lightning-flash, and they would know. And who could furnish that illumination better than Zora, the calm, methodical Zora, who knew them so well?
As for herself, once she had accomplished the marriage and paid the mortgage on the school out of her legacy, she would go abroad and in travel seek forgetfulness and healing. There had been no formal divorce, and so far as she was concerned there never would be; but the separation from her husband and America would be forever.
Her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had little intercourse these days, and rode away. She rushed in to Miss Smith and found her sitting there—straight, upright, composed in all save that the tears were streaming down her face and she was making no effort to stop them.
"Why—Miss Smith!" she faltered.
Miss Smith pointed to a paper. Mrs. Cresswell picked it up curiously. It was an official notification to the trustees of the Smith School of a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together with the Cresswell house and plantation. Mrs. Gresswell sat down in open-mouthed astonishment. Twice she tried to speak, but there were so many things to say that she could not choose.
"Tell Zora," Miss Smith at last managed to say.
Zora was dreaming again. Somehow, the old dream-life, with its glorious phantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter than ever. There was no tangible reason why, and yet today she had shut herself in her den. Searching down in the depths of her trunk, she drew forth that filmy cloud of white—silk-bordered and half finished to a gown. Why were her eyes wet today and her mind on the Silver Fleece? It was an anniversary, and perhaps she still remembered that moment, that supreme moment before the mob. She half slipped on, half wound about her, the white cloud of cloth, standing with parted lips, looking into the long mirror and gleaming in the fading day like midnight gowned in mists and stars. Abruptly there came a peremptory knocking at the door.
"Zora! Zora!" sounded Mrs. Cresswell's voice. Forgetting her informal attire, she opened the door, fearing some mishap. Mrs. Cresswell poured out the news. Zora received it in such motionless silence that Mary wondered at her want of feeling. At last, however, she said happily to Zora:
"Well, the battle's over, isn't it?"
"No, it's just begun."
"Just begun?" echoed Mary in amazement.
"Think of the servile black folk, the half awakened restless whites, the fat land waiting for the harvest, the masses panting to know—why, the battle is scarcely even begun."
"Yes, I guess that's so," Mary began to comprehend. "We'll thank God it has begun, though."
"Thank God!" Zora reverently repeated.
"Come, let's go back to poor, dear Miss Smith," suggested Mary.
"I can't come just now—but pretty soon."
"Why? Oh, I see; you're trying on something—how pretty and becoming! Well, hurry."
As they stood together, the white woman deemed the moment opportune; she slipped her arm about the black woman's waist and began:
"Zora, I've had something on my mind for a long time, and I shouldn't wonder if you had thought of the same thing."
"What is it?"
"Bles and Emma."
"What of them?"
"Their liking for each other."
Zora bent a moment and caught up the folds of the Fleece.
"I hadn't noticed it," she said in a low voice.
"Well, you're busy, you see. They've been very much together—his taking her to her charges, bringing her back, and all that. I know they love each other; yet something holds them apart, afraid to show their love. Do you know—I've wondered if—quite unconciously, it is you? You know Bles used to imagine himself in love with you, just as he did afterward with Miss Wynn."
"Miss—Wynn?"
"Yes, the Washington girl. But he got over that and you straightened him out finally. Still, Emma probably thinks yours is the prior claim, knowing, of course, nothing of facts. And Bles knows she thinks of him and you, and I'm convinced if you say the word, they'd love and marry."
Zora walked silently with her to the door, where, looking out, she saw Bles and Emma coming from Aunt Rachel's. He was helping her from the carriage with smiling eyes, and her innocent blue eyes were fastened on him.
Zora looked long and searchingly.
"Please run and tell them of the legacy," she begged. "I—I will come—in a moment." And Mrs. Cresswell hurried out.
Zora turned back steadily to her room, and locked herself in. After all, why shouldn't it be? Why had it not occurred to her before in her blindness? If she had wanted him—and ah, God! was not all her life simply the want of him?—why had she not bound him to her when he had offered himself? Why had she not bound him to her? She knew as she asked—because she had wanted all, not a part—everything, love, respect and perfect faith—not one thing could she spare then—not one thing. And now, oh, God! she had dreamed that it was all hers, since that night of death and circling flame when they looked at each other soul to soul. But he had not meant anything. It was pity she had seen there, not love; and she rose and walked the room slowly, fast and faster.
With trembling hands she drew the Silver Fleece round her. Her head swam again and the blood flashed in her eyes. She heard a calling in the swamp, and the shadow of Elspeth seemed to hover over her, claiming her for her own, dragging her down, down.... She rushed through the swamp. The lagoon lay there before her presently, gleaming in the darkness—cold and still, and in it swam an awful shape.
She held her burning head—was not everything plain? Was not everything clear? This was Sacrifice! This was the Atonement for the unforgiven sin. Emma's was the pure soul which she must offer up to God; for it was God, a cold and mighty God, who had given it to Bles—her Bles. It was well; God willed it. But could she live? Must she live? Did God ask that, too?
All at once she stood straight; her whole body grew tense, alert. She heard no sound behind her, but knew he was there, and braced herself. She must be true. She must be just. She must pay the uttermost farthing.
"Bles," she called faintly, but did not turn her head.
"Zora!"
"Bles," she choked, but her voice came stronger, "I know—all. Emma is a good girl. I helped bring her up myself and did all I could for her and she—she is pure; marry her."
His voice came slow and firm:
"Emma? But I don't love Emma. I love—some one else."
Her heart bounded and again was still. It was that Washington girl then. She answered dully, groping for words, for she was tired:
"Who is it?"
"The best woman in all the world, Zora."
"And is"—she struggled at the word madly—"is she pure?"
"She is more than pure."
"Then you must marry her, Bles."
"I am not worthy of her," he answered, sinking before her.
Then at last illumination dawned upon her blindness. She stood very still and lifted up her eyes. The swamp was living, vibrant, tremulous. There where the first long note of night lay shot with burning crimson, burst in sudden radiance the wide beauty of the moon. There pulsed a glory in the air. Her little hands groped and wandered over his close-curled hair, and she sobbed, deep voiced:
"Will you—marry me, Bles?"
L'ENVOI
Lend me thine ears, O God the Reader, whose Fathers aforetime sent mine down into the land of Egypt, into this House of Bondage. Lay not these words aside for a moment's phantasy, but lift up thine eyes upon the Horror in this land;—the maiming and mocking and murdering of my people, and the prisonment of their souls. Let my people go, O Infinite One, lest the world shudder at
The End