His compromises were not all conscious ones, though. He believed honestly it was wisest that he observe some sort of half-way ground between rank cowardice and uncompromising opposition to the conditions which existed. In doing so, he had no sense of physical or moral timidity. He knew no Negro could yet safely advocate complete freedom for the Negro in the South. He felt there had been improvement during the past half-century in those conditions. He believed that in time all of the Negro’s present problems would be solved satisfactorily. If, by not trying to rush things, he could help in that solution, he was content. In believing thus, Kenneth was different in no way from the majority of intelligent Negroes in the South: temporizing with the truth, it may be, yet of such temporizations and compromises is the life of the Negro all over the South.
With the evolving of a plan which enabled him to be of help and, at the same time, involved him in no danger of trouble with his white neighbours, Kenneth took on an eagerness which was at marked variance with his former manner. His eyes shone with the desire to make their plan a success. Of a tender and sympathetic nature, almost with the gentleness of a woman, he realized now that the burdens of his race had lain heavy upon him. He had suffered in their suffering, had felt almost as though he had been the victim when he read or heard of a lynching, had chafed under the bonds which bound the hands and feet and heart and soul of his people. But launched as he now was on a plan to furnish relief from one of the worst of those bonds, he had changed overnight into a determined and purposeful and ardent worker towards the goal he and Jane had set for themselves. Jane rejoiced at the changed air of Kenneth—he seemed to have emerged from the shell in which he had encased himself and, womanlike, she rejoiced that he had done so through her own work.
So absorbed had they been in discussion of their plans that the time had flown by as though on wings. Ten o’clock was announced by Mr. Phillips in the room above by the dropping of his shoes, one after the other, on the floor. Kenneth needed no second signal, he rose to go. Jane went to the door with him.
“Kenneth, you’re entirely different from the way you were yesterday. I’m so glad. …”
The next morning he called on Judge Stevenson. The Judge’s office was above the Bon Ton Store in a two-story brick building on Lee Street. Kenneth climbed the flight of dingy, dusty stairs which bore alternately on the vertical portions tin signs inscribed:
Richad P. Stevenson, Attorney-at-Law
and
Dr. J. C. Carpenter, Dentist.
The judge’s office was at the head of the stairs and in it Kenneth found the old lawyer seated near the window, his coat off, and in his mouth the long, thin, villainous-looking cigar without which few persons in Central City ever remembered seeing him, though none had ever seen one of them lighted. He chewed on it ruminatively when in repose. When engaged in an argument, either in or out of a courtroom, and especially when opposition caused his choleric temper to be aroused, he chewed furiously as though he would have enjoyed treating his enemy of the moment in similar fashion. He was tall and thickset, his snow-white hair brushed straight back from his forehead like the mane of a lion. Skin reddened by exposure to sun and wind, bushy eyebrows from under which gleamed fiery eyes that could shift in an instant from twinkling good humour to flashing indignation or anger, thin nose and ample mouth, his face was one that would command respect or at least attention in almost any gathering. He wore loosely fitting, baggy clothes that draped his ample figure with a gracefulness that added to his distinguished appearance. Many thought he resembled at first glance that famous Kentuckian, Henry Watterson, and indeed he did bear an unmistakable likeness to “Marse Henry.”
The judge’s life had been a curious combination of contradictions. He had fought valiantly in the Confederate army as a major, serving under “Stonewall” Jackson, whose memory he worshipped second only to that of his wife, who had died some ten years before. He bore a long scar, reminder of the wound that had laid him low during the battle of Atlanta. His mode of brushing his hair back was adopted to cover the mark, but when he talked, as he loved to do, of his martial experiences, he would always, at the same time in the narrative, brush, with one sweep of his hand, the hair down over his forehead and reveal the jagged scar of which he was inordinately proud.