Zora watched it go, and her heart swelled and died within her. She walked to town, to the station. She did not see Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool arriving from New Orleans; but Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool saw her, and looked curiously at the tall, tragic figure that leaned so dolorously beside the freight car. The bales were loaded into the express car; the train pulled away, its hoarse snorting waking vague echoes in the forest beyond. But to the girl who stood at the End, looking outward to darkness, those echoes roared like the crack of doom. A passing band of contract hands called to her mockingly, and one black giant, laughing loudly, gripped her hand.
“Come, honey,” he shouted, “you’se a’dreaming! Come on, honey!”
She turned abruptly and gripped his hand, as one drowning grips anything offered‚ÅÝ‚Äîgripped till he winced. She laughed a loud mirthless laugh, that came pouring like a sob from her deep lungs.
“Come on!” she mocked, and joined them.
They were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. There were husky, big-limbed youths, and boldfaced, loud-tongued girls. Tomorrow they would start upcountry to some backwoods barony in the kingdom of cotton, and work till Christmas time. Today was the last in town; there was craftily advanced money in their pockets and riot in their hearts. In the gathering twilight they marched noisily through the streets; in their midst, wide-eyed and laughing almost hysterically, marched Zora.
Mrs. ¬ÝVanderpool meantime rode thoughtfully out of town toward Cresswell Oaks. She was returning from witnessing the Mardi Gras festivities at New Orleans and at the urgent invitation of the Cresswells had stopped off. She might even stay to the wedding if the new plans matured.