The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

I was almost frightened at Gordon's vehemence—and I was powerless before his argument. A kind of chill foreboding had me in its grip, I knew not why, that his strange intensity on this so fiery theme was yet to work us ill. For, like other strangers, he had no conception of how deep, almost desperately deep, were the convictions of Southern men on the subject that seemed so thoroughly to engross him. He harboured the romantic notion that all men were created equal, as the framers of our Constitution solemnly decreed, their slaves cringing at their feet the while. He held the quixotic view, too, that it was wrong to cheat the darkies out of their votes—I always thought he was astray on this point, and I think so yet. Gordon contended, also, that they had the same kind of feelings as white folks—but I suppose that will be a debated point while time shall last. Gordon did not know, however, how necessary it was that the darkies should be kept in their proper place; nor did he know the long purgatory our Southland had gone through in the days of reconstruction, and carpetbaggers, and negro rule, and all that sort of thing. He had no idea of the fiery zeal with which white men had to guard their supremacy, enforcing the social distinction, keeping the negro where he belonged, piously preserving the curse of Ham upon him. In a word, Gordon hadn't grasped this fundamental truth—which the world may just as well accept first as last—that, no matter how the negro race may predominate in numbers, or grow in wealth, or develop in intelligence, the white man never will be ruled by the black man. And the only way to prevent his being on top is to keep him at the bottom. So I have heard ten thousand times—and so I heartily believe.

I think Gordon and I were discussing this very matter that night as we were walking home from the little gathering of which I have made mention already. Coming along the street that skirts the river, my attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of voices from near the water's edge, negro voices evidently, and marked by tokens of excitement. I at once stopped and called Gordon's attention to it.

"They're darkies," I whispered; "what can they be doing there at this hour of the night?" For it was midnight. "And that's uncle's property," which was true enough, he being the possessor of a shed and warehouse there that stood on the river's bank.

"What indeed?" Gordon echoed. "You don't suspect anything wrong, do you?"

I made some incoherent reply, muttering something about fire, I think. For that is a constant form of dread to the Southern mind.

"I'll go over and see," said Gordon. "You come part of the way—wait there, I won't let you out of my sight," as he moved on towards the shadowy figures that could be seen moving in the darkness. A low mysterious wail broke from them at frequent intervals.

"What are you doing here?" I heard Gordon's stern Scotch voice ring out a moment after he had left me. A sharp cry of fear broke from the two crouching forms as they turned their dusky faces up to his through the night. They were two negro women and their rolling eyes shone white in the darkness. They stood before him trembling.

"Come, speak; what are you doing here?" Gordon's voice came sterner than before.

"Please, sah, we's lookin' fo' our chil'uns," one liquid voice wailed forth.

I was Southern born and Southern bred—and I had been taught, as carefully as any, the non-humanity of the black. Yet I do not know that I ever felt such a gush of inward tears as rushed upon my heart that moment. The scene is before me yet; the stalwart frame in clerical attire, towering above the cowed and obeisant figures of the stooping women who seemed to crave, rather than expect, some word of human sympathy, some hand of human help. Poor, despised, ignorant, their cry yet echoed with the great note of love, the throb of primal passion pulsing through it; the age-old cry of the mother calling for her child. And I felt a wave of pity surging over me, such as I had never felt before. I rushed forward to where they stood; for the time, at least, we belonged to the self-same race—mine, too, was a woman's heart.