Hanover; Or The Persecution of the Lowly / A Story of the Wilmington Massacre.

CHAPTER III.

Teck Pervis had served in the war of secession under General Whiting, and was one of the many demoralized stragglers, who swept before the advancing tide of the Union troops scampered through the swamps and marshes after the fall of Fort Fisher, to find refuge in Wilmington. During the Reconstruction period and many years following, he, with such characters as Sap Grant, Neal Simonds, Henry Sallins, Watson and others, made nights hideous on Dry Pond by their brawls and frolics. In introducing Teck Pervis to the reader, I wish to briefly call attention to that peculiar class in the South known as the "Poor Whites." Always an ignorant dependent, entirely different in every respect from the descendants of the Huguenots, Celt and Cavaliers that make up the South's best people; the origin of this being, who since the war has been such a prominent figure in the political uprisings and race troubles, and so on, is worthy of consideration. In the early centuries the English Government made of America what in later years Australia became—a dumping ground for criminals. Men and women of the Mother Country guilty of petty thefts and other misdemeanors were sent to America, bound out to a responsible person to be owned by said person until the expiration of sentence imposed, a stipulated sum of money being paid to the Crown for the services of the convict. At the expiration of their term of servitude these subjects were given limited citizenship, but were never allowed to be upon equality with those who once owned them. These indentured slaves and their descendants were always considered with contempt by the upper classes. The advance of American civilization, the tide of progress has arisen and swept over this indolent creature who remains the same stupid, lazy, ignoramus.

In Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North and South Carolina, and throughout the entire South are legion of this people, some of whom could not be taught the rudiments of arithmetic. When African slavery became established in America, white slavery was then tried in Australia where the treatment was so severe that thousands of them fled to the woods to become as wild in many instances as the natives. As the introduction of African slavery caused the indentured slave to depreciate in value as bond men, they were converted into overseers, patrolmen, Negro drivers to look for and to return runaway Negroes to their masters. They were licensed to break up Negro frolics, whip the men, and ravish the women. But in the main the poor white subsisted by hunting and fishing. To him work was degrading, and only for "niggers" to do. A squatter upon the property of others, his sole belongings consisted of fishing tackle, guns, a house full of children, and a yard full of dogs. In Virginia, North and South Carolina he is known as "Poor Bocra," "Poor Tackie." In Georgia and Florida it's "Cracker," and there are few readers of current literature who are not familiar with that class of whites known as Clay Eaters of Alabama and Mississippi. Looked down upon by the upper classes, the poor white before the war was simply a tool for designing politicians. When war between the North and South became iminent, the poor white increased in value; for the aristocrat was adverse to being a common private. So they sought the poor white, appealed to his patriotism, pictured to him the wrongs heaped upon the South, and the righteousness of slavery. They drew glowing pictures of the Southern army's invasion of the North to thrash the Yankees, and pardon them in Faneuil Hall. The South freed, was to open her markets to the world. Her wealth was to be untold, while grass would grow on the sidewalks of Northern cities. Every poor white who shouldered a gun was to be elevated out of serfdom, be given forty acres of land, a "nigger" and a mule. Enthused by these glowing promises, the Southern poor white shouldered his gun and waded in: and no one reviewing the history of that immortal struggle would for a moment question the bravery of the Southern soldiers. They fought like demons. They invaded the North. They made the world wonder at Gettysburg.

But the South's victorious armies did not reach Faneuil Hall. The air castles, the hopes of Southern prosperity and the poor whites elevation and wealth were blasted, when two years after that gallant dash at Gettysburg, that ragged, starved, wretched host surrendered at Appomattox. The blasted hopes of the poor white caused him to drift further away from the aristocrat who had fooled him into a foolhardy and disastrous struggle. Land was cheap but he hadn't the money to buy it, and the aristocrat didn't have the "nigger" and the mule to give him. He grew lukewarm politically, got his rod and went a fishing. But with the Negro freed and enfranchised, and the Northern politician on the premises, the vote of the poor white became indispensible to the former Southern ruler who wished to hold his own politically. So a new battle cry was made, viz:—"Negro Domination," "Social Equality." But so lukewarm had the poor white become, that his song had to be sung with pertinacious fervor to make him do more than pause to listen.

"Do you want niggers to marry your daughters? Do you want niggers to sit in school beside your children? Do you want niggers on the juries trying white men? If you don't want such dreadful calamities to befall the South, go to the polls and do your duty!" "What'd he say? Niggers er marryin our darters? Niggers in skule wid we uns? Thet aint er goin ter du! Le' me see thet ticket!"

The Southern poor white has never had much of a hankering after "book larning." He's better than the "nigger" and that's all he cares to know. To be white means license to trample upon the rights of others. The cat's paw—the tool of the aristocrat, he stands ready always, to do the dirty work of lynching, burning and intimidation. Traveling South, especially on the East Coast, the train conductor only has to say to the colored passenger in a first class car but once that he must get out. If the passenger refuses, the conductor need not waste words; a telegram to Jessup or Way Cross, Ga., or Bartow Junction in Florida will call together a crowd of crackers, large enough to put the engine off the track if necessary. Like the dog in the manger, unable to pay for a first class ride himself, the poor white squats about railroad stations and waits for the opportunity to eject some prosperous Negro. I have known as many as two hundred to swarm around a train to put off one frail woman not over ninety pounds in weight.

This is the creature that is held up continually before the Negro as his superior—an assertion that will ever be met with strong resistance. For while the Negro was a slave he is not a descendant of criminals.

"Gentermen," said Teck Pervis, "whils we air waitin fur ther kernul and other big uns ter errive, as cheerman uv the Dry Pond White Supreemacy Leeg, I wish ter keep this here meet'n warm by makin' er few broken remarks"—"Go ahead Teck, give us a speech" came from more than a dozen throats; "I wanter say jes here" he continued "thet ther white folks uv Wilmington, North Caliny hav tuk and stood nigger biggitty and hifullutin carryins on with moe patience then eny folks on top side er this green yerth" (Laughter and applause). "We po uns have jes layed er roun an slep till Mr. Nigger has trotted so fur er hed that I am feared we wont be able ter over take him." (Laughter). "They air in better houses then we po white uns, thur chilan air er wearin better cloes an er gittin moe larnin then our'n. An gentermen surs jes tackle eny er them little uns er'n an they'd surprise yer; why they kin spit latin faster then er terbacky worm kin spit terbacky. (Laughter). Who give ther nigger ther stick ter break our heads? Who done it I say? You rich white uns, thets who;" "But we'll do it no longer," said a voice from the audience. "We uns hepped yer ter fite yer battles," continued Teck, "an when thet war was ended, we did'n git ther nigger an mule yer promised, but we uns did' n kick powerful hard agin yer bekase yer did'n hev em ter giv us." (Laughter). "But you uns could er giv we uns ther wurk instid uv givin it ter good fur nuthin nigger bekase we po uns hev voted yer ticket rite er long an kep yer in office—

"I see ther kurnels on hand' so I giv way fur im," and Teck Pervis advanced to where the Colonel had paused to remove his overcoat. "Whats the matter with the Colonel? He's all right!" was uttered with a ring that shook the old wigwam. The Colonel, escorted by Teck Pervis, leisurely strutted to the centre of the hall. The Colonel had seen the time when he would have scorned the idea of being introduced to an audience by a low white. "Oh vain boast! who can control his fate?" He is now as poor as the poorest indentured slave, seeking to feed at the public crib by appealing to the passions and prejudices of the masses.

"Gentlemen," says he, "it is needless for me to ask you to night whether or not you believe that the Anglo-Saxon race was ordained by God to rule the world. It is needless for me to say that the Anglo-Saxon proposes to carry out God's decree to the letter. (Applause). When God made man, he placed him over every other living creature to rule and govern, and that man was a white man. (Applause). When God said to man 'Have dominion over the beasts of the field,' He meant to include inferior races. These inferior races are to be kept in subjection by their superiors, and wherever and whenever they assume to dominate their superiors we are justified by our Creator in using every means available to put them down. The white people of North Carolina, the curled darlings of God's favor have by their long suffering gotten into such a state of subjection that it is time to act. (Applause). Wherever the Saxon has planted his foot, he has been a civilizer. He came to America, drove out the savage and made it the greatest nation on the face of the earth, (applause) and he has the right to govern it in its entirety from the humblest official to the executive head of the nation, (prolonged applause). We have for years been dominated by semi-civilized barbarians, flattered into the belief that they are as good as white people by unprincipalled Yankee carpet-baggers who have profited by their ignorance. Emboldened by the leniency of their superiors, Negroes have become unbearable. The government is corrupt, and so bold has the Negro become that the virtue of our women has been assailed by that black rascal, the editor of The Record—(cries of Kill him! Burn the scoundrel!) The snake is not to be scorched this time: we are going to make a clean sweep, and permanently restore white man's government. Our friends in other sections of the State, and even in adjoining States are in sympathy with us, and are willing to come in and help us," etc.

But why weary the reader with the Colonel's firey harangue? Although there is no foundation for such incendiary language the reader will soon see just how much misery it wrought upon a defenseless people. Fanned into fury by the rehearsing of imaginary wrongs by gifted tongues, the mob when once started astonished its leaders, who quailed and looked aghast at the hellish work they had inaugurated.

CHAPTER IV.

"Whew! dis here win is er blowin pow'ful col fer Octoby. Ther ol sow was er tot'n straw yistedy and that means winter aint fur off. Shoo there! I never seed ther beat er thet ol hen; make hase ter gulp her own co'n down ter driv ther turkeys way from their'n." Thus spoke Mrs. Amanda Pervis as she stood in the door of her humble wooden dwelling on Kidder's Hill a brisk morning in October. "Thanksgiving haint fur off, an turkey meat's er gittin high. Shoo ther yer hussy!" "Who air yu er talkin ter Mandy?" said her husband coming to the door and peeping over his wife's shoulder. "I tho't er trader er some sort wus er passin." The wife turned and looked astonished at her husband. "Why fer ther lan sake, what's er comin over ye Teck Pervis? I tho't yer'd be fas er sleep after bein so late ter meetin las nite. I tho't yer'd tak yer res bein yer haint er goin er fishin!" "I felt kinder resliss like, and I tho't I jes es well be er gittin up," answered Teck, plunging his face into the basin of cool spring water that his wife had placed on the shelf beside the door. "Well hit won't tak me long ter git breakfus reddy," and Mrs. Pervis darted into the kitchen. Teck Pervis dipped his hands into the basin, poured the cool water on his head until his gray hair hung in thick mats over his face then leisurely drawing the towel from the nail beside the door, lazily wiped his head and face. The smell of fried bacon and delicious coffee arose from the kitchen; the rattling of dishes was to him sufficient token of the putting of victuals on the table. Teck Pervis sauntered in, sat down folded his arms upon the table, and sheepishly watched his wife as she flitted from place to place in the humble little kitchen. Mrs. Pervis paused, and her eyes met her husband's gaze. "Well what in ther wor'l is ter matter Teck Pervis? Why air ye gazin at me so dis mornin, turn yer cup and tak yer coffy." "We uns had er interestin meetin las night," he said meekly. "Well mus yer put on er graveyard face ter day bekase yer had er interestin meetin las night? Don't put so much gravy on yer rice, hits ergin yer helth. Maria Tappin tol me yestidy thet her brother Tom was to be nitiated las night with er good meny other uns, an I 'lowed I'd here erbout hit, as my husban was er goin. Now yer air talkin erbout er interestin meetin the candidates muster all bin on han." Teck Pervis looked pleadingly at his wife. Mrs. Pervis went on: "I am glad yer went ter loge meetin; er lot er them Red Shirt Varmints cum er roun las night er lookin fer yer to go with em ter that wigwam, and I was proud ter tell em that my husban' was not in politicks when it cum to killin colud folks ter git inter office, an that truth hit em so hard dey sneaked." Teck shuddered. During a series of revivals in the Free Will Baptist Church during the summer Teck Pervis had professed religion. A fierce struggle was going on 'neath his rugged breast. Must he tell the truth. The best whites were there even ministers of the gospel; but then preachers are not always on the right side; and Teck Pervis had promised his wife that he'd not allow himself to be a tool for hungry broken down aristocrats who only wished to use the poor as cats' paws. He took a big swallow of coffee, drummed nervously with his fingers upon the table. "I jes es well tell yer ther plain truth, Mandy," he said finally, "I got wi ther boys las night and went ter ther Wigwam, an was made Cheerman ov ther meetin. They lowed thet hit wus ter be ther mos importent meetin in ther campain, an hit wus time fer white men ter be er standin tergither." "Teck Pervis," exclaimed the wife, "Hev I bin er rastlin'in prayer an pleadin ter ther Lawd in vain? Didn't I beg yer not ter fergit yer religin in jine-in in wid sinners in doin eval?" "There aint er goin ter be eny killin done, Mandy, we air jes er goin ter skeer ther Niggers way from ther polls, an keep um frum votin." "I know all erbout hit," broke in Mrs. Pervis. "Hit will en' in murder, for yer know thet Niggers won't be drove." "Why all ther big guns war there Mandy; merchints, lawyers, docters an ev'n preachers." "Laws e massy me!" exclaimed Mrs. Pervis. "An if ther shepod wus ther, yer kaint blame ther flock." "Teck Pervis did I understan yo ter say that—" "Don't git excited, Mandy, yer jes es well git use ter ther new tern things air takin. Them preachers war thar bekase they sed hits time fur white uns ter stan tergither. Radicul rule mus be put down." Mrs. Pervis crossed her hands upon the table and looked resigned. "Teck, do tell me what preachers war they?" "Why ef yo own minister wus'n thar hiself I hope er hoppergrass may chaw me." "Teck Pervis, do ye mean ter tell me thet Brother Jonas Melvin wus at thet meetin?" "Yes, and Hoosay too, thet Presberteen man thet sines his name with er dubble D hung on ter ther een." "Jonas Melvin is er windin up his kerrare in Free Will Church. We'll hev no sich men fumblin wi ther werd ev God in our pulpit. I never did think them Presbyteens hed eny religin no way. They air full of book larnin, but havn't bin tech wit ther sparit. This Hussy is lik ther res er these hi tone preachers thet hang on ter this docterin thet ther yerth moves insted uv ther sun." "Hoosay Mandy. Why don't yer tak proper! Hoosay!" "Well, he jes oughter be named Hussy, fur he is er hussy. When ole sat'n meets them two at the cross-road thars er goin ter be er tussle now I tell yer." "Well now yer know thet ther scripter says cussed be Canyon, least wise thets the way Brother Melvin splained hit tother night, cussed be Canyon means cussed be Niggers." "Now Teck Pervis, wher is yer proof thet the scripter ment Nigger? I aint rusty un ther scripter ef I am er gittin ole." "Now, Mandy, yer know ther scripter reads thet Canyon was the son er Ham an wus cussed bekase his daddy laffed at ole Noey, bekase when he layed down ter sleep he didn't pull the kivver on his self proper like. When de ole man woke up the tother boys tole him what Ham hed done, he cussed Canyon Ham's son, and sed sarvant of sarvants shill he be. Ham wus ther Nigger boy in ther family, and we uns air carin out ther edicts of ther scripter when we try ter keep the Nigger cussed. Sarvant ov sarvants shill he be, an we air—" "Hol on, Teck Pervis," exclaimed his wife. "Let me git in er word kinder catiwompus like et leas. Now we air all ther time er lookin fer scripter ter back us up in our devalmint. Ther scripter don't say thet God'l mighty cussed Canyon, it says thet Noey cussed him, an ef Noey hed kep sober an b'haved hisself he wouldenter hed ter cuss at eny body. Whose teachin air we er follerin? Ole Noey's er our Blessed Lawd an Saviour? He sed all things what soiver ye wood thet men should do ter yo, do ye evan so ter thim. Have yer back slided an fergot yer religin erready Teck Pervis?" Teck was dumb. "Yo Red Shirts Ruff Riders an broke down ristecrats kin go on an do yer devilment but mark what Mandy Pervis says, God'l Mighty will giv yu uns ther wurk er yer hans." "Why, Mandy, yo ought ter git er license ter preach, why you kin spit scripter lik er bon evangilis," and Teck Pervis reached over and slapped his wife upon the shoulder. This compliment from her husband stimulated the old lady to more earnest effort. "Now look er here," she continued. "What do them risticrats kere er bout the likes er we? In slave times we war not as good as their Niggers an ef we didn't get out ther way on the road, they'd ride their fine critters plum over us. They hed no use fer we uns unless hit wus ter use us fer somethin. Whan ther war broke out, of course they wanted der po'uns ter do ther fightin, an they kill me ole daddy bekase he would'n jine em. He didn't think it right ter tak up an fight agin the Union; an I can't fergit thet you'ns who did go ter ther fight ware promis'd er Nigger an er mule. But did yer git em?" Teck Pervis winced. Mrs. Pervis continued. "Now sich es ole Wade an Moss Teele an uthers air hungry ter git er bite at ther public grip, so they throw out bait fer yo uns ter nibble; an yer air fools ernuff ter nibble. Jane Snow tells me thet all ther big bug Niggers er goin ter be driv out, and we uns will git ther property and wash up in ther churches." "Thet wus promused," broke in Teck. "But who hes ther rite ter tek them critters property an giv hit ter yo uns?" replied Mrs. Pervis. "Teck Pervis yo may mark my words, but jes es soon es them broken down ristocrats git er hol of ther gov'mint, jes es soon es yo po fools help them, then yer kin go." Teck Pervis glared at his wife like a fierce beast at bay. He was Teck Pervis of old, the defiant, blood-thirsty rebel in the rifle pit glaring over the breastworks at the enemy. "Wese got ther guns!" he thundered, bringing his fist down upon the table, "an ef they dont give ther po' uns er show when ther city is took, why! we'd jes es leave kill er ristercrat as er Nigger, and we uns will do it. Wat yo say is right frum start to finish. We uns air watchin um; wese got ther guns, an we uns'll hold em till we see how things air goin ter wurk. Reach up there an han me my pipe Mandy."

CHAPTER V.

This sweet old lullaby of Longfellow's, sung by a rich soprano voice floated upon the cool October air out from a beautiful and richly furnished suburban cottage in Wilmington. The singer sat alone at the piano. Though vulgarly called a "Negress," her skin was almost as fair as a Saxon's; and because of the mingling of Negro blood—more beautiful in color. She was gowned in an evening dress of gossamer material, ashes of rose in color. Her hair let out to its full length hung in silky profusion down her back. There were plain old fashioned half moon rings in her ears, and bands of gold upon her bare arms enhanced their beauty. No one will deny that among the women of mixed blood in the South, there are types of surpassing beauty. The inter-mixture of Negro and Saxon, Negro and Spanish and Indian blood gives the skin a more beautiful color than exists in the unadulterated of either race. While the mulatto and octoroon may reveal the Saxon in the fairness of the skin, the Negro reinforcement shows itself generally in the slight inclination of the lips toward thickness, the lustrious black of the eye and hair which is generally abundant and slightly woolly in texture. This is brought out plainly in the case of the Jew. Although centuries have passed since the Jews very extensively amalgamated with the dark races of Egypt and Canaan, their dark complexions, lustrous black eyes, abundant woolly hair plainly reveal their Hamatic lineage. To pass through the Bowery or lower Broadway in the great metropolis at an hour when the shop and factory girl is hurrying to or from her work, one is struck by the beauty of Jewish womanhood. King David's successful campaigns placed Solomon over large dominions of Moabitish and Canaanitish peoples; and for the stability of his kingdom, Solomon took wives out of all of these nationalities; and Solomon's most favored wife was his black princess, Naamah, the mother of Rehoboam, his successor. The poet describes Naamah as the "Rose of Sharon, the most excellent of her country." The marriage of Solomon to his black princess was the most notable of any of his marriages; for that wonderful poem, "Solomon's Songs," is mainly a eulogy to this one of his many wives. "I am black but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look not upon me because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me." In the most beautiful language in the gift of the poets of that day Solomon converses with Naamah in the following dialogue: "Return, return O Shulamite; return, return that we may look upon thee." Naamah, "What will you see in Shulamite?" Solomon, "As it were a company of two armies."

We have conclusive evidence that the Southern gentleman did, and does sing such love ditties, and talk sweet nothings to the Southern black woman, and the woman of mixed blood, but unlike Solomon, he is too much of a coward to publicly extol her. During the slave period in the West Indian Islands a child born to a slave woman shared the fortunes of its father; and if the father was free, so was the child. But the American slave holder reversed that law so that he could humble the bond-woman and damn her offspring with impunity. Upheld by the law the Southerner sold his own daughter and sister into a life of shame. The pretty Negress and the woman of mixed blood brought extortionate prices in Southern markets. Northern sympathizers may talk of the New South, and the Southern orator may harp upon the shortcomings of the "inferior race," but on this line of thought and conduct, the Southern whites have not changed one whit. Before the war, Sambo only had a quit-claim on his black or mulatto wife, and now the laws are so framed that he cannot defend the woman of his race against the encroachments of his white brother, who looks at the destruction of the Negro woman as only an indiscretion. The humble black fool is often forced away from his own wife or sweet-heart at the point of a revolver, cowed by the feeling that a manly stand against a white man might cause incalculable loss of life. Yet the advocate of Lynch Law pictures this humble fellow, this man who is afraid to attempt to defend his own home, as a reckless dare-devil, keeping the whites in constant terror. How incompatible these two traits of character. No; it is not the reckless dare deviltry of the Negro that terrorizes the South, but the conscience of the white man whose wrong treatment of a defenseless people fills him with fear and intensifies his hatred. He is determined to fill to overflow his cup of iniquity. Like Macbeth, he has waded in so far, that to return were as tedious as to go over. It matters not how loud the Southerner shouts about "the good-for-nothing Nigger," he still has the same old ante-bellum liking for the women of that race. Bishop Turner is the only honest and earnest advocate of Negro Emigration, the others have only a half-hearted leaning in that direction. If it were possible for emigration to become a reality, the Southern whites would be the hardest kickers against the scheme. The only beneficiaries from this wonderful enterprise would be the steamship companies; for after the hundreds of years of transportation are over, then excursion parties would be the order of the day for time immemorial. Our Southern gentleman will not be deprived of the Negro woman. There is no ocean too wide for him to cross; no wall too high for him to scale; he'd risk the fires of hell to be in her company, intensely as he pretends to hate her. Wilmington, North Carolina, the scene of that much regretted phenomenon—the fatal clashing of races in November, 1898, was not, and is not without its harems, its unholy minglings of Shem with Ham; where the soft-fingered aristocrat embraces the lowest dusky sirene in Paddy's Hollow, and thinks nothing of it. Molly Pierrepont whom I introduce to the reader in this chapter, is a type of Negro women whose progress along ennobling avenues is more hotly contested than any other woman in the South, because of her beauty. To decide between the honor with poverty offered by the black man and the life of ease with shame offered by the white one is her "Gethsemine." Yet where love of honor has conquered, she has made a devoted wife and a loving mother.

Such a character as Molly Pierrepont was an exclusive luxury for gentlemen. The poor white could not afford to support a mistress who of course went to the highest bidder. Ben Hartright left the Wigwam before the close of the meeting in which he was so deeply interested, and proceeded directly to Molly's cottage; but he did not notice as he tipped lightly through the gate a cloaked and veiled form crouching down in the bushes a few yards away. He heard not the light footsteps as it drew nearer to be sure that there was no mistaking the visitor. Ben Hartright entered boldly; knocking was unnecessary, he was master there. The furniture and hangings were all his purchase, even the expensive jewels that the woman wore. The figure on the outside drew still closer, peered in, tip-toed upon the piazza, pressed the ear against the window to catch as much as possible of what went on within. Only a few minutes did it tarry however. As the door swung open, Molly arose from the piano and advanced with outstretched arms to meet him.

"Hello, Ben! I thought you were to be here by eight to-night."

Ben Hartright sank upon a sofa and gently drew the girl down beside him before he assayed to answer her.

"Well, Molly, you must remember that I am in politics now," he said, kissing her fondly, "and I must attend the different meetings, business before pleasure you know. We are in the most exciting period of the campaign; a campaign the like of which has never before been experienced in North Carolina. We are organized and determined to save the State to the Democratic party and make white supremacy an established fact if we have to kill every Nigger and Nigger-hearted white man in it. To make assurance doubly sure, we are arming ourselves, and seeing to it that no Nigger shall buy an ounce of powder, and every Nigger man and woman is to be searched and what weapons they have taken away that no white man's life may be endangered. There are some Niggers and white men who must be killed, and they are carefully listed."

Ben Hartright unbosomed to Molly the plots of the White Supremacy League in all its blood-curdling details, naming every man and woman who were to be the victims of the mob's fury.

"Do you think that a very brave thing to do?" asked Molly at the conclusion of Ben's recital.

"Oh, anything is fair in dealing with Niggers," answered Ben. But the look of astonishment in Molly's black eyes suddenly brought Ben Hartright to the full realization that he was revealing the secrets of his klan to one of the race he was plotting to massacre.

"Of course we don't include such as you, Molly," he said, lightly tapping her on the shoulder. "You are no Nigger, you are nearly as white as I am."

"Nearly as white," echoed Molly with a sneer. "Do you mean to try to choke it down my throat that my whiteness would save me should your people rise up against Niggers in Wilmington? Honestly, Ben Hartright, do you mean that?" Molly arose from the sofa and stood up before her lover that she might the better study his face. Hartright was silent.

In Southern legislative halls white minorities in old Reconstruction days ruled Republican majorities by appealing to the vanity of light-skinned Negro representatives.

"You are almost white, why vote with them Niggers?" Ben Hartright was using the old tactics; he had realized that he perhaps had been careless with his secrets. "What I really mean, Molly, is that you are a friend of white people—that is you are not one of those Nigger wenches who want to be er—er—ladies—that want Nigger dudes to raise their hats to them—want to be like white people you know."

"I understand," said Molly.

"We white gentlemen believe in having colored girl friends, and we always stand by them no matter what happens." Molly momentarily eyed the ceiling.

"Benny, did you ever read Uncle Tom's Cabin?"

"Yes, I have," answered Ben, but it has been too long ago to remember very much of its contents.

"Why? Everybody should read that book it seems to me; read and read again Cassie's story of her love for the man who after promising to protect and defend her, sneaked away and sold her. Cassie was almost white. Cassie was a white man's friend, and to that man she was true; but Cassie's story of betrayal, disappointment, misery at the hands of that long haired brute who afterwards became her master, would make the strongest heart weep. You will stand by your colored girl friend. Perhaps you think you would, but I doubt it, Ben Hartright. When that time comes that the two races are arrayed against each other, my fair complexion will be of no avail. I am a Nigger, and will be dealt with as such, even by the man who now promises me protection."

Ben Hartright quailed under Molly's biting sarcasm. He was unprepared for this change of front on the part of his mistress. His pretention of love were not sufficient to create in Molly a feeling of security.

"Then d'm it all! you as good as tell a gentleman to his teeth that he lies then?" said he doggedly.

"No; I don't mean to say that you lie. What you say to me now, you may earnestly mean, but under circumstances just mentioned, you would deny that you ever knew me. What you have revealed tonight concerning your aims and plots, portrays to my mind just who and what you are, and just who and what I am. Samson has revealed his secret to his Delilah, and its Delilah's duty to warn her people of the dangers that await them. Men whose lives are threatened must be warned; women who are in danger of being ignominiously dealt with must be put upon their guard; must know that these defenders of virtue, these Southern gentlemen who are thirsting for the blood of a slanderer (?) of white women are hypocrites, who strain out a gnat and swallow a camel."

"By the thunder, what do you mean by such language?" and Ben Hartright arose from the sofa and glared at the girl, his eyes flashing. "Do you know that you are talking to a gentleman?"

"Be careful," said Molly, "You wouldn't have the women for whom you would be so chivalrous know who Ben Hartright really is, would you?"

"Why, what's the matter Molly?" said Hartright in a more subdued voice. "Have you joined the sanctified band?"

"No; but I realize as never before just who and what I am, and your trying to flatter me into the belief that I am better than black women who try to be pure, is a revelation to me who and what you are. There are men whom you have named to be killed whose only offense is that they are respectable and independent; and women who are hated because they are not easy victims such as I am—women who will live honestly upon bread and water. These are colored people who have so much confidence in the better class of white people, that they would not believe that such a plot is being laid for their destruction."

Ben Hartright put his arms around Molly's waist. "I thought you were a true friend of white people, Molly; but I find that you are not, so let's drop the unpleasant subject. If the Niggers keep away from the polls, and don't attempt to run a ticket, there will be no trouble; but if they persist in defying the whites, there'll be hell. But all pretty Nigger gals such as you will be all right."

"Unhand me!" said Molly, twisting herself from his grasp. "Go tell your hypocritical associates in crime that the deed they are about to commit will recoil upon their own heads, and upon the heads of their children."

"But—er—now Molly—"

"Go!" hissed Molly, pointing to the door.

Ben Hartright walked slowly to the door paused and wistfully eyed Molly who stood with uplifted hand pointing in that direction. "Oh, you are quite full of race pride just now, but when it comes to deciding between the easy life that a white man pays for and Nigger drudgery, you'll doubtless change your tune. I leave you to reflect."

Hartright walked out. Molly sank upon the sofa and buried her face in her hands. "How true!" she sobbed. "What have I done?" but she rose and her anguish was gone in a twinkling. "Easy life! Drudgery! But here I swear from this hour Molly Pierrepont will live no longer such a life."

Ben Hartright reached his home in Orange street about three o'clock, noiselessly opened the door and strode up to his apartments, thinking he would get to bed without disturbing his young wife; but she was not there. The bed remained as it was when the chambermaid left it that morning, after giving it its finishing touches. Ben Hartright looked about the room in wild amazement. He drew out his watch, scanned its face eagerly. "By ginger!" he exclaimed, "it's past three o'clock. Wonder where is Emily? This is indeed something unusual." Thinking perhaps that his child might have taken ill during the night and that his wife had remained in the nurse's room with it, he crossed the hall and rapped upon the door; a second rap brought the nurse to the door rubbing her eyes. "What's the matter, Fannie; is the baby sick?"

"No, sah!" answered the girl.

"Isn't Miss Emily in there?"

"No, sah; Mr. Benny she aint in heah, sah."

"Where in the thunder is she then?" roared Ben Hartright, now beside himself with rage. "Is this the way you look after your mistress?" and he seized the already frightened girl by the shoulders and shook her vigorously, turned away before she could utter a word of excuse, and bounded down to his mother's apartments.

Mrs. Hartright, aroused by the noise above, was just emerging from her door to learn the cause of it all. "Why, what's the matter, son?" she questioned gently, as Ben, both angry and frightened, strode up to where she stood.

"Didn't you hear me asking Fannie where Emily is? Didn't you know that she hasn't been in her room, and here it is nearly four o'clock in the morning!"

"Emily went out just after tea, and I thought she had returned," answered the mother. "Perhaps she went walking with some of her girl friends, was taken ill and had to stop at one of their homes. Wait Benny, I'll dress and help you to look for her."

Ben Hartright turned and walked slowly to the door and paused to wait for his mother. There was a turn of the door latch, a vigorous twist of a key in the lock; the door flew open and Emily Hartright walked in. She apparently did not see her husband who stood and eyed her angrily as she entered and began to ascend the steps to her room.

"Emily," said Ben, following and seizing his wife by the arm. "Are you mad, if not explain this extraordinary conduct of yours. Where have you been?" She turned, gazed into her husband's eyes for a moment, then with one vigorous tug, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and proceeded up the steps. The mother by this time had joined her son, and they both followed the young lady who had entered her room and was removing her wraps.

"What's the matter my darling?" said Mrs. Hartright, throwing her arms around her daughter's waist. "I was so troubled about you. What kept you out so late, Emily?"

"Wait, mother, until I have rested and composed myself, then I will explain," answered Emily, softly.

Ben had sank into a chair and sat with his chin resting upon the palm of his hand. Emily sat upon the side of the bed.

"Men go night after night," she said, "stay as long as they please, and return in whatever condition they please; and to queries of their wives, they are evasive in their answers; but when a woman takes the privilege of exercising her rights—"

"Her rights," roared Ben, jumping to his feet. "A lady goes out of her residence, leaves her servant and relatives in ignorance of her destination, returns at four o' clock in the morning to tell anxious husband and mother about her rights! We'll have a direct explanation from you, Mrs. Hartright, without preambling."

"I'll not be bullied, Ben Hartright," answered the young wife calmly. "Remember that when you married me, you didn't marry a chambermaid or housekeeper, but a lady of one of the first families of Virginia, and such people brook no bullying," and Emily arose and glared at her husband like a tigress.

Ben Hartright quailed. Never had he seen his little wife in such a state of anger and defiance.

"If you are man enough to reveal your whereabouts until the small hours of the morning, you can tell where your wife was."

Ben Hartright raised his eyes from the floor and looked at his wife in amazement.

"When you entered the house of your mistress, Molly Pierrepont, to-night, I saw you. I, your wife, whom you swore to honor and protect, saw you. She saw you embrace and kiss a Negro woman, the woman of a race whom you pretend to despise, and whom you and your pals are secretly scheming to cold bloodedly murder and drive from their homes. Take care! God knows your hypocrisy and the deeds you commit will recoil upon your own heads."

"Emily, are you mad?" gasped the elder lady who stood as if transfixed to the floor.

"Ask him," returned the young lady, "he knows whether or not I utter the truth, or whether I am a victim of a beclouded brain. He knows that he has wronged me; he knows that he has lied to me. I care not for your frowns. You a gentleman? You hate Niggers, yet you can embrace one so fondly. I will no longer live with such a gentleman, who night after night under the excuse of 'clubs' and 'business' spends his time away from his wife, and in company of a Negro woman. I am going home to my people."

"Now, Emily," said the elder Mrs. Hartright, "don't start a scandal; remember that you are a Southerner. Southern people do not countenance the airing of unpleasant family matters!"

"Yes," replied the young lady, "this fear of airing family troubles on the part of our women, has made us slaves, while the men are licensed to indulge in all manner of indecencies with impunity. I will be the first Southern woman to sever the chain of 'formality,' and cry aloud to the world that I leave my husband because of his unfaithfulness. It is my right, and I will exercise that right."

Ben who had again sank into his seat arose and advanced toward his wife to sue for forgiveness.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, with uplifted hand. "The cup is full. Go back to her who has monopolized the best portion of your time since you have married me."

Ben Hartright sank again into his chair and buried his face into his hands.

"Now, my darlings, let mother be the daysman between you," said the elder Mrs. Hartright, coming near carressing the young wife. "Benny knows just to what extent he has wronged you my dear, and I believe him honest enough and manly enough to acknowledge it, and sue for forgiveness. I leave you to yourselves. God grant that you may be enabled to peacably settle your difficulties satisfactorily to you both, without giving license to Madame Gossip. God bless you." Kissing Emily, Mrs. Hartright descended to her room.

Ben Hartright succeeded in patching up matters with his wife by promising to live a more honest life, only to break it, which caused her to make good her threat and leave him.

CHAPTER VI.

The home of Mrs. West was one of the many snug little cottages owned by the colored inhabitants of that section of Wilmington known as "Camp Land." It also had the distinction of facing Campbell Street, the main thoroughfare of that portion of the city. Although Mrs. West knew something of slavery as it existed in North Carolina, she was free born; her grandfather having purchased his freedom, and afterwards that of the rest of the family before her birth. The rule that the free Negro was a shiftless being more to be pitied than envied by slaves, was not without many exceptions in North Carolina. There were many Negroes in old North Carolina who by grasping every opportunity to earn an extra dollar by working for neighboring planters when their own tasks were done, and making such useful articles as their genius could contrive, often after years of patient toiling and saving would often astonish their masters by offering to purchase their freedom. There were others who paid to their masters annually a specified sum of money for their time, that they might enjoy the control of their own affairs as much as possible.

For many years before the war my father did public carting in the town of Fayetteville as a free-man, his master receiving a certain amount of his earnings. Of course there were free Negroes whose conception of freedom was a release from manual toil, and who like poor whites, lived a shiftless indolent life, following the sunshine in Winter and the shade in Summer.

Free Negroes in North Carolina had the right to purchase property and enjoy other limited privileges. The parents of Mrs. West, known as Burchers, emigrated to the West in the forties, where their children could be educated. After the war Mrs. West, with her husband whom she had met and married in Ohio, returned to North Carolina, prepared to enter upon the work of uplifting the newly emancipated of their unfortunate race; and now well advanced in years, she could look over many years of active useful service in the cause of her people. It was the evening for the regular monthly meeting of the Union Aid Society of which Mrs. West was President, and several members had already arrived; but in such a season such business for which a society of this kind was organized would doubtless be neglected, so pregnant was the air with the all absorbing subject—politics.

But the Union Aid Society is composed exclusively of women. What of that? Some of our most skilled politicians in the South are among the women of both races. Although they do not take the stump and sit upon platforms in public assemblages, they are superior house-to-house canvassers, and in their homes noiselessly urge the men to do their duty. For earnest persistence and true loyalty to the party of her choice, the Negro woman of the South outdoes her sister in white. Give the ballot to the women of the South, and give her dusky daughters an equal show, and a Solid South would be a thing of the past; for the Negro woman is the most loyal supporter of Republican principles in that section. So radical is the Negro woman, that it is worth a husband's, or brother's, or sweetheart's good standing in the home or society to assay to vote a Democratic ticket. Such a step on the part of a Negro man has in some instances broken up his home. The Spartan loyalty of the Southern white woman to the Confederacy and the Lost Cause was not more marked than is the fidelity of the Negro woman to that party which stood for universal freedom and the brotherhood of man, and whose triumphant legions so ignominiously crushed Freedom's sullen and vindictive foe. Although the Government provides for the annual placing of a small flag upon the grave of each of the thousands of heroes now sleeping in the Southland, it is the dusky fingers of the Negro woman, perfumed by the sweet incense of love and gratitude that places the lilac, the rose and forget-me-not there.

The Northern white woman in the South, in order to maintain her social caste, generally allows her patriotism to cool. But the Negro woman sings patriotic airs on each 30th of May as she twines wreaths of pine to lay upon the graves of those who died for her. Of course, these women who had gathered in the parlor of Mrs. West's cottage were intensely interested in the coming election in Wilmington, and were ready to discuss the event with all the fervor of their patriotic souls. "Ladies," said Mrs. West after the prayers had been said, and the minutes of the previous meeting read, "I confess that for the first time since my election to the presidency of this society, I feel an inclination to waive the transaction of its regular business, so depressed am I over events now crowding upon us." "I believe thats the case with every one," answered Mrs. Cole. "I have received a letter from the Chairman of the Executive Committee," continued Mrs. West, "stating that so grave is the situation all over the State that he is advised by the Governor himself to withdraw Republican candidates from the field—a request without a precedent in North Carolina."

"It would never do to show such cowardice!" said Mrs. Cole. "If I were chairman of that committee I'd put the ticket in the field and go to the polls if the devils were around it as thick as shingles upon a housetop." "I was of the same mind" answered Mrs. West, "but when the Governor of the State—when brave Daniel Lane has become apprehensive, I can appreciate the gravity of the situation. I have seen that man walk undismayed through the streets of Wilmington during very turbulent periods in her history. I see that in the upper section of the State the Democrats have already organized Red Shirt Brigades who are riding through the rural districts terrorizing Negroes, and we may look for the same to take place in Wilmington. Silas writes that they are determined to carry the election. He has received two threatening letters and is afraid. You are aware that that monster has been, and is advising the whites in our State to copy South Carolina's method of carrying elections, and they are heeding his advice. I am compelled to acknowledge despite my previous confidence in the integrity and honesty of our North Carolina white people that my faith is getting shaky. The buying of guns and other weapons by poor whites who are often unable to buy food, means something. It means that the rich are going to use them to perform the dirty work of intimidation and murder if necessary to carry this election." "Colored men must show their manhood, and fight for their rights," exclaimed Mrs. Wise the secretary who had laid down her pen and was attentively listening to the president's talk. "But how are they to do it?" asked Mrs. West; "My son tells me that there is not a store in the city that will sell a Negro an ounce of powder. The best thing to do—if such things should happen—is to stay in our homes, and advise the men to be cool. Rashness on their part would be all the excuse the unprincipalled whites would want to kill them. Editor Manly's reply to Mrs. Fell's letter in August is now brought forward to be used by their stump orators to fan the flames of race hatred." "I wish he hadn't written it," interrupted Mrs. Cole. "It was a truth unwisely said," answered Mrs. Wise, "and by a man who meant to defend his own; so let us make the best of it. I would not have Editor Manly feel for a moment that we are such ingrates as to say anything against him."

"The most important thing that I intended to mention, and which makes me feel that our situation is a critical one," continued Mrs. West, "was a letter that came this morning from Molly Pierrepont." "Molly Pierrepont!" echo every one almost in one breath. "Poor erring girl!" said Mrs. Wise slowly. "What has happened her?" "Molly has written me a long and even affectionate letter. She writes, 'Ben Hartright confided to me the other night the ghastly plans of the Rough Riders, a band made up from the most respectable of the whites. They are to be reinforced from all over the State, and even from other States for the purpose of killing and driving from Wilmington objectionable blacks and whites, John Holloway, Nicholas McDuffy, Editor Manly, John Brown, Lawyers Scott, Moore and Henderson, George Z. French, Thomas Miller, Ariah Bryant, McLane Lofton, Pickens and Bell and others of prominence and independenence are to be special marks of vengeance. I beg you my dear Aunt Betty, warn these people. I shall take it upon myself to give the alarm, for these are my people.'

"There is some good in this wayward child after all," said Mrs. West, pushing her spectacles back, and looking up. "But who of these people would believe that such was in store for them? These men would not leave their homes without a severe struggle." "The Government should protect its citizens in their rights," said Mrs. Wise. "Government? Bah!" answered Mrs. West. "Here's the highest official of the State afraid for his own life." "Well if the Governor is incapable of coping with the situation, the President has the power to send in the troops," said Mrs. Cole. "Yes, but will he use that power? I don't believe McKinley is going to do anything to offend the Southern whites if they kill every Negro in the South. The interests of an alien race are too trivial to risk the sundering of the ties that are supposed by the North to bind the two sections. Each State according to the Southern view, is a sovereignty itself, and can kill and murder its inhabitants with impunity. There is no John Brown, Beecher, nor Sumner, nor Douglass, Garrison, Phillips and others of that undaunted host who were willing and did risk persecution and death for us; this generation has not produced such precious characters. God is our only helper and we must look to Him for deliverance. We are living too well for the broken down aristocrats and poor whites who are disappointed because we are not all domestics.

"Molly expresses her intention to call, and I was hoping she would come before you all left. Perhaps you know Molly Pierrepont, for a woman of her reputation cannot help being known to a small community; but you are not all aware of the fact that I raised her, and took special pains to give her a good education, and I thought she'd requite me by trying to lead a useful life." "But you know Mrs. West, that Negro girls of attractiveness in the South have a great battle to fight, if they wish to be pure," said Mrs. Wise. "That's very true" answered Mrs. West; "I have often pondered over the thought since she left me five years ago, that the conditions under which she was born may have had something to do with shaping her course in life. We, innocent as we may be, must suffer for the iniquities of our parents. Before the war, there lived in Brunswick a large slave owner by name of Philpot. He was the father of Molly's mother, one of his slaves. After the surrender, this woman did not leave the plantation of her master but remained there until her death. The child, Molly's mother, whose name was Eliza, at the time of her mother's death was a pretty lass of fourteen; so attractive that the father then an old man could not curb his brutal passion. It is needless for me to speak plainer ladies. There is a passage of Scripture which reads as follows: 'The dog has returned to his vomit, and the sow that was washed is wallowing in the mire.' The young mother brought the child to Wilmington, gave her to me, and disappeared. Molly was then about four years old. Those who knew of me and my affairs know how carefully I raised the girl. She graduated from Hampton with honors, has a fair musical education, and a voice that might have made her a fortune. Imagine how proud her foster mother was when she returned home from school, so full of promise. If she would only leave this place and seek to live a better life in some strange community I would be more content. It would be hard for her to do so here. This Ben Hartright and another white gentleman had a free fight over her about a month ago. Ben was prevented from using his pistol by the girl's timely interference. That fiend of Georgia who is urging the men of her race to revel in the blood of their fellows, would do them more good by urging upon them the necessity of good morals. Doubtless this Ben Hartright is one of the leaders of this proposed raid in Wilmington to drive out undesirable citizens, yet he is so low morally, that he leaves a richly furnished home, a refined wife and pretty child to fight over a Negro woman, for such he has I hear." "But this letter proves that there are redeemable qualities in Molly despite her birth and bad life." "Magdalene made a devoted follower of Christ, you know," said Mrs. Wise; "with God's help, she can if she wills, pull away from her present surroundings and be a good woman." "Yes, she says in her letter that 'never did the full realization of what I am, come so plainly before me, as when this villian so cooly told me of his plans. I drove him from my presence as I would a dog.' This shows that Molly's race pride is not entirely blunted by dissipation and unholy living. I counsel you all ere you depart, to remember that we are at the mercy of the whites, and each one of us should do all in our power to show our men the wisdom of coolness. By this, with God's help, we may be able to avert the evil threatened. I declare the Union Aid Society adjourned, subject to the call of the president."

CHAPTER VII.

A few evenings after the unpleasant interview between Molly Pierrepont and Ben Hartright, Silas Wingate, chairman of the Republican Executive Committee, sat alone in his office. In that morning's mail had come to him a letter from the Governor, full of discouraging news as to the chances of Republican success throughout the State, and advising that for the safety of life Republican candidates be withdrawn from the field—a request unprecedented in the history of the State. "This would be too cowardly a backdown," he soliloquized. "The situation is not so serious perhaps as the Governor imagines. Such bluffs the Democrats have resorted to more than once before, but they didn't deter us in the least. We put our ticket in the field and fought hard for its election." But never before had the chairman of the Executive Committee seen in New Hanover County such grim and warlike activity on the part of the Democrats. The arming of the poor whites, the hiring of sterner implements of war, secret house-to-house meetings, and the stern refusal of dealers to sell a black man a deadly weapon of any description or as much as an ounce of powder meant something more than bluff. Yet so strong was the faith of Mr. Wingate in the integrity of the better classes of Wilmington's white citizens that he was slow to grasp the situation although the evidence was so overwhelming. He took the letter from the desk and read it for the fourth time since receiving it, riveting his eyes long and intently upon the signature affixed. Of all the years he had known the Governor he had never known him to shrink or show cowardice in any form whatever, although he'd passed through such crises as would tend to test the mettle of any man, it matters not how brave. "Surely the situation must be terrible!" finally observed Mr. Wingate, throwing the letter upon the desk and whirling around in his chair. "I will call a meeting and put the matter before the committee. When that man says back down then surely doomsday is not far off."

There was a timid knock at the door. Feeling that perhaps it was one of his colleagues dropping in for a chat upon the all-absorbing topic of the day, Mr. Wingate did not rise or turn his face in that direction, but simply bid the visitor enter. The latch was timidly turned, followed by light footsteps, accompanied by the rustle of skirts, and before he could turn his head to see who this unexpected visitor might be, the figure had glided up to his chair and two soft hands were pressed over his eyes. "Now, just guess who it is. I will not release my hold until you do," was the soft command. "Now, as I was expecting only politicians to-night and, of course, no visitor in petticoats, I should be excused from trying to guess who you are on these grounds," answered Mr. Wingate, trying to force the hands which were firmly pressing down upon his eyes. "In such times as these you are likely to see even the women in the forefront in the fray, and doing even more than merely making calls," returned the visitor, releasing her hold and stepping in front of Mr. Wingate. "Why, Molly Pierrepont! What brings you here?" exclaimed Mr. Wingate, rising and staring at his visitor, who unceremoniously sank into a chair. "I am somewhat interested in this campaign myself—astonishing intelligence I know," calmly replied the visitor; "yet I am going to astonish you more by saying that I have information to impart to the chairman of the Executive Committee that will be of great value to him in conducting this campaign." Molly's calm demeanor, so unlike a woman of her disposition and temperament, struck Mr. Wingate somewhat humorously. Molly Pierrepont, having chosen a life of shame that she might—if only clandestinely—associate with and enjoy the favors of the men of the white race, would be the last person of the race to take a stand in its defense to give aid to the Negro in his combat with the white man, politically or otherwise. Women of Molly's stamp, possessing no race pride, had never been race defenders, so it was plausible for Mr. Wingate to feel that the woman was jesting, or that she was sent by his enemies into his camp as a spy. "In our present dilemma the Republican Committee stands much in need of information and advice," said Mr. Wingate, slowly. "Things are assuming quite a serious aspect; you are in position to get a good deal of information as to the maneuvers of the enemy. But, my dear girl, if you are here to aid us, have you counted the cost?" Mr. Wingate knew that Molly Pierrepont was the mistress of one of Wilmington's best citizens, a bitter Democrat, and a reputed leader of the White Supremacy League; that she was well cared for, that her gowns, etc., equaled in quality and construction those of her paramour's wife, and, considering her love for such ease and luxury, to come out and reveal the doings, and openly denounce the schemes of the party of her paramour, was a sacrifice that a woman of her character was not generally ready to make—in fact, such thoughts did not find lodgment in her brain. In the flattering embrace of the Philistine all noble aspirations ordinarily become extinct. Mr. Wingate's interrogation was followed by a brief pause, which caused Molly to move uneasily in her chair. "I see, Silas Wingate, that you question my sincerity," she said, slowly. "I can't blame you, though. It is perfectly natural for such as I to be arrayed with the whites or be neutral, stifling all thoughts of being of service to my wronged people, because my life belies it. But I am sincere, Silas; believe me," and Molly reached over and laid her hand upon the arm of Mr. Wingate, whose look betrayed his incredulity. "In spite of the lowliness of my birth, and the life I have chosen, some good remains in me." She went on: "My fair complexion and life of ease have not made me forget that I am identified with the oppressed and despised." "Thank God! thank God!" said Mr. Wingate, his face brightening. "There is a ring of sincerity in your voice, my dear, that banishes doubt." "I come to-night to warn you, Silas," continued Molly. "Before many moons Wilmington will be the scene of a bloody race war. Ben Hartright is my medium of information. He came to my house last evening, and, imbued with the feeling that I was in sympathy with the white element, revealed to me the dastardly plot in all its blood-curdling details." Mr. Wingate trembled and shook like an aspen leaf as Molly named the men and women singled out as victims. "These people have ample time now to make good their escape. Tell them, Silas, that the best whites are in this move, and they are determined to carry it to the bitter end, and their only safety is in flight. Ben tells me that the plans are well laid, that men will be here to assist in the dirty work from as far South as Texas. I listened patiently to Hartright's recital and then denounced him and his cohorts as infamous cowards!" "Did you dare?" exclaimed Mr. Wingate, gazing eagerly into Molly's face. "I drove him from my presence." Mr. Wingate drew nigh and laid his hand caressingly upon Molly's head. "You have risked much," he said, eagerly. "I fully realize that," returned Molly. "When he had left me, what I had said and done came home with its full force, but, like Jephthah, I had sworn, and will not go back; and here now, as I did then, I swear with uplifted hand to renounce forever my life of shame, and will be no longer a Magdalene!" "Angels record thy vow in heaven," said Mr. Wingate. "You can, with God's help, be true to your vow, for Magdalene, who became one of the faithful, was a greater sinner than you, Molly." "But Magdalene perhaps never threw away the opportunities for good that I have," answered Molly, who had arisen and begun to pace the floor. "Magdalene is not charged with having spurned the love and sent to a premature grave a man who offered to honor and protect her through life." "Don't brood over the past, Molly," said Mr. Wingate, a grass-covered mound in Pine Forest Cemetery rising before him. "Let the dead past be gone." "I will not! I cannot!" said Molly, pausing. "The past will spur me to higher aims in the future. I never can forget the time that Harold came to make a last plea to me to be his wife, expressing his willingness to make every sacrifice for my happiness. He had bright hopes of success in his profession. Yet I spurned his offer to live a life of shame with a white man. You know he went to Macon afterwards, and there as a physician built up quite a lucrative practice. He wrote me often; he spoke of his prosperity and his unhappiness without me to share it. He could not forget me. I tried to forget him by plunging deeper into sin. It's some three years ago now since the last letter came, in which he said, 'I am dying! dying! dying for you!' I tried to make light of it as perhaps merely a jest. But, Silas, you know that it's quite two years now since they buried the heart which I had broken in Pine Forest Cemetery. Harold! Harold! If I could only call you back with those sunny days of innocence. No one knows but God what anguish I have suffered since you left me. But I was unworthy of you, Harold, unworthy!" The woman had bowed her head upon the desk and was sobbing convulsively. "Oh, that you could come back to me, Harold! Harold, tender and true. How gladly would I accept your offer now, Harold. You would forgive me, unworthy me." Her voice sank into an incoherent murmur. Mr. Wingate was deeply moved. He arose and bent over her.

"Courage, my child, courage," he whispered, soothingly. "You have just started out to do the noblest work of your life. There are many years before you to live nobly and amend for the past."