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Updated: June 3, 2025
Vanderpool's first care, and it led to a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now and then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of Zora's mind. When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious, and noted the girl's rapid development.
The crimson fire flashed in Zora's eyes as she passed the overseer. "Well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?" he growled insolently. Zora's eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered. "Nothing," she answered softly. "But I hope your soul will burn in hell forever and forever." They proceeded down the plantation road, but Zora could not speak.
Here stood a black man with a white man's voice, and yonder a white woman with a Negro's musical cadences; and yet again, a brown girl with exactly Miss Cresswell's air, and yonder, Miss Williams, with Zora's wistful willfulness. Bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his heart with sickening hopeless weight.
"I can do it," said Zora, who was in the room. "Do you know how?" asked the dressmaker. "No, but I want to know." Mrs. Vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. "Show her," she said. The dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. "Zora sews beautifully," added Mrs. Vanderpool. Thus the beautiful cloth came to Zora's room, and was spread in a glossy cloud over her bed.
The grateful mothers came out twice a week at least; at first with suspicious aloofness, but gradually melting under Zora's tact until they sat and talked with her and told their troubles and struggles. Zora realized how human they were, and how like their problems were to hers. They and their children grew to love this busy, thoughtful woman, and Zora's fears were quieted.
On one side of the fire-place sat the yellow woman, young, with traces of beauty, holding the white child in her arms; on the other, hugging the blaze, huddled a formless heap, wreathed in coils of tobacco smoke Elspeth, Zora's mother. Zora said nothing, but glided in and stood in the shadows. "Good-evening," said Bles cheerily. The woman with the baby alone responded.
"Look here," he angrily opened upon them, "if you niggers want to meet around keep out of this house; hereafter I'll send the clothes down. By God, if you want to make love go to the swamp!" He stamped down the stairs while an ashy paleness stole beneath the dark-red bronze of Zora's face. They walked silently down the road together the old familiar road. Alwyn was staring moodily ahead.
Then came Zora's letter, simple and brief, but breathing youth and strength of purpose. Miss Smith seized upon it as an omen of salvation. In vain her shrewd New England reason asked: "What can a half-taught black girl do in this wilderness?" Her heart answered back: "What is impossible to youth and resolution?"
The white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But Zora's hand was on his shoulder. "What's the matter, Rob?" she asked. "They're selling us out," he muttered savagely. "Millie's been sick since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and the other little ones I didn't make much.
This rain might stay for days; it looked like such a downpour; and that would mean the end of the Silver Fleece; the end of Zora's hopes; the end of everything. He gulped in despairing anger and hit the staid old horse the smartest tap she had known all summer. "Why, Bles, what's the matter?" called Miss Smith, as the horse started forward.
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