He pictured the scene in which he’d play the leading rôle on the following day. The pleasurable tingle this thought brought him caused a hard smile to come to his lips. Mary’d be lying downstairs in the parlour in her coffin. Roy Ewing and his damned, snivelling wife would be howling and crying and mourning upstairs. He, Kenneth Harper, a Negro, a “damned nigger,” would be standing triumphantly over them, castigating and flaying their very souls with his biting words of denunciation! Tongue in cheek, he’d rage! He’d tell them they were fools, villains, murderers, child-killers!
The words he’d use sprang to his mind. “You murdered Mary yourselves!” he’d say. “Didn’t I tell you not to give her any food for ten days?” he’d demand. And then they’d shiveringly admit that he had told them those very words. “But, no,” he’d go on, “you wouldn’t listen to a ‘damned nigger’s’ word! Old Bennett, who doesn’t know as much about medicine as a horse-doctor—probably less—he’s got a white skin! And mine’s black! Therefore—” his sarcasm would be great right there as he bowed in mock humility—“therefore you listened to him instead of me! And, doing so”—here another low bow—“you killed your own daughter!” Here his voice would rise in violent denunciation: “You’re murderers! Yes, that’s what you are! You’re murderers! You’ve murdered your own daughter! And I’m glad of it! I wish every one of you and your dirty breed lay in the coffin with her! You, who think you’re God’s own pet little race! You, who think that all the wisdom in the world is wrapped in your dirty little carcasses! And all the virtue! And all the brains! Everything! Everything! EVERYTHING!”
Oh, yes, he’d finish with infinite scorn: “And you’ve got nothing! Nothing! NOTHING! Nothing but lies and deceit and conceit and filthy, empty pride!”
Lord, but he’d be magnificent! Booth and Tree and Barrymore and all the rest of the actors they called great, rolled into one, couldn’t equal his scorn, his raising and lowering of voice, his tremendous climax! And then he’d walk magnificently from the room, leaving them huddled there like whipped curs!
His maniacal exultation swept him on and on. He had stopped ministering to the sick girl on the bed before him. He leaned back with a terrible leer on his face as he watched the half-unconscious form before him struggling in her pain. The strain of the horrible day which had started out so radiantly and optimistically had been too much for him. He gloried in the kindly fate that had delivered so opportunely into his hands one who should serve as a vicarious victim for those who had struck him mortal blows without cause. He felt that Bob, whatever he was, was smiling even now in approval of his actions. …
The minutes sped by. Half past twelve! One o’clock! Half past one! Mrs. Ewing sat anxiously by the bed, not daring to speak. She had misinterpreted Kenneth’s smile. It had frightened her a little. It’s because he’d been through so much to-day, she thought. I’ll turn down the light so it won’t be too great a glare. She did. It never occurred to her that Kenneth’s smile could mean anything other than that he was gaining ground in his fight for her little girl’s life. …
Outside, the fifteen waited. … Minutes, hours passed. It grew cold. The strain was getting irksome. They watched the room where shone only a faint light now. They pictured what was going on in that room. It made their blood boil and grow cold alternately. Two o’clock! They began to grumble. “Le’s go in an’ get the damn nigger and roast him alive!” some demanded. “We can’t do that!” the fat man declared. “The damned bitch’ll yell and wake up the neighbours! She, a white woman, with her nigger lover! Can’t let it get out she consented! We’ll get him outside an’ say he was unsuccessful in th’attempt!”… With that they had to be satisfied. They grumbled, but they knew he was right. Can’t let the niggers know a white woman willingly went to bed with a nigger! … That’d never do! Must preserve the reputation of white women! …
Kenneth still sat by Mary’s bed. His eyelids felt heavy. It was hard to keep them open. Revenge began to lose its savour. Wasn’t so sweet as it had seemed. What’s the use, he thought, of telling what he had planned to the Ewings? They wouldn’t understand. They’d never seen great actors on the stage. All they’d seen was mushy movie actors and silly women. Like casting pearls before swine! They’d never appreciate the wonder of his acting! No, not acting. Irony. Sarcasm. Vials of wrath. Beakers of gall.
Why does the air seem so heavy? Can’t keep eyes open. Feel like bathing in chloroform.
Kenneth awakened suddenly from his stupor. Mary was coughing horribly—gasping—strangling. Her mother cried out sharply. Kenneth rapidly regained his senses. God! That had been an awful dream. Feverishly he worked. He called to his aid every artifice known to him. Valiantly, eagerly, desperately he toiled. Mary had been almost gone. After what seemed hours, she began to recover the ground she had lost while Kenneth gloated over his fancied revenge. My God! Just think I was about to let her die! May the Lord forgive me! …