Mrs. Grey heard this delicate flattery complacently. She had her streak of thrift, and wanted her business capacity recognized. She listened attentively.
“For this reason, I trust you will handle your Negro philanthropies judicially, as I know you will. There’s dynamite in this race problem for amateur reformers, but fortunately you have at hand wise and sympathetic advisers in the Cresswells.”
Mrs. Grey agreed entirely.
Mary Taylor, alone of the committee, took her commission so seriously as to be anxious to begin work.
“We are to visit the school this morning, you know,” she reminded the others, looking at her watch; “I’m afraid we’re late already.”
The remark created mild consternation. It seemed that Mr. Vanderpool had gone hunting and his wife had not yet arisen. Dr. Boldish was very hoarse, Mr. Easterly was going to look over some plantations with Colonel Cresswell, and Mr. Bocombe was engrossed in a novel.
“Clever, but not true to life,” he said.
Finally the clergyman and Mr. Bocombe, Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Vanderpool and Miss Taylor started for the school, with Harry Cresswell, about an hour after lunch. The delay and suppressed excitement among the little folks had upset things considerably there, but at the sight of the visitors at the gate Miss Smith rang the bell.
The party came in, laughing and chatting. They greeted Miss Smith cordially. Dr. Boldish was beginning to tell a good story when a silence fell.
The children had gathered, quietly, almost timidly, and before the distinguished company realized it, they turned to meet that battery of four hundred eyes. A human eye is a wonderful thing when it simply waits and watches. Not one of these little things alone would have been worth more than a glance, but together, they became mighty, portentous. Mr. Bocombe got out his note-book and wrote furiously therein. Dr. Boldish, naturally the appointed spokesman, looked helplessly about and whispered to Mrs. Vanderpool:
“What on earth shall I talk about?”
“The brotherhood of man?” suggested the lady.
“Hardly advisable,” returned Dr. Boldish, seriously, “in our friend’s presence,”—with a glance toward Cresswell. Then he arose.
“My friends,” he said, touching his finger-tips and using blank verse in A minor. “This is an auspicious day. You should be thankful for the gifts of the Lord. His bounty surrounds you—the trees, the fields, the glorious sun. He gives cotton to clothe you, corn to eat, devoted friends to teach you. Be joyful. Be good. Above all, be thrifty and save your money, and do not complain and whine at your apparent disadvantages. Remember that God did not create men equal but unequal, and set metes and bounds. It is not for us to question the wisdom of the Almighty, but to bow humbly to His will.
“Remember that the slavery of your people was not necessarily a crime. It was a school of work and love. It gave you noble friends, like Mr. Cresswell here.” A restless stirring, and the battery of eyes was turned upon that imperturbable gentleman, as if he were some strange animal. “Love and serve them. Remember that we get, after all, little education from books; rather in the fields, at the plough and in the kitchen. Let your ambition be to serve rather than rule, to be humble followers of the lowly Jesus.”
With an upward glance the Rev. Dr. Boldish sat down amid a silence a shade more intense than that which had greeted him. Then slowly from the far corner rose a thin voice, tremulously. It wavered on the air and almost broke, then swelled in sweet, low music. Other and stronger voices gathered themselves to it, until two hundred were singing a soft minor wail that gripped the hearts and tingled in the ears of the hearers. Mr. Bocombe groped with a puzzled expression to find the pocket for his note-book; Harry Cresswell dropped his eyes, and on Mrs. Vanderpool’s lips the smile died. Mary Taylor flushed, and Mrs. Grey cried frankly:
“Poor things!” she whispered.
“Now,” said Mrs. Grey, turning about, “we haven’t but just a moment and we want to take a little look at your work.” She smiled graciously upon Miss Smith.
Mrs. Grey thought the cooking-school very nice.
“I suppose,” she said, “that you furnish cooks for the county.”
“Largely,” said Miss Smith. Mrs. Vanderpool looked surprised, but Miss Smith added: “This county, you know, is mostly black.” Mrs. Grey did not catch the point.
The dormitories were neat and the ladies expressed great pleasure in them.
“It is certainly nice for them to know what a clean place is,” commented Mrs. Grey. Mr. Cresswell, however, looked at a bath-room and smiled.
“How practical!” he said.
“Can you not stop and see some of the classes?” Sarah Smith knew in her heart that the visit was a failure, still she would do her part to the end.
“I doubt if we shall have time,” Mrs. Grey returned, as they walked on. “Mr. Cresswell expects friends to dinner.”
“What a magnificent intelligence office,” remarked Mr. Bocombe, “for furnishing servants to the nation. I saw splendid material for cooks and maids.”
“And plough-boys,” added Cresswell.
“And singers,” said Mary Taylor.
“Well, now that’s just my idea,” said Mrs. Grey, “that these schools should furnish trained servants and laborers for the South. Isn’t that your idea, Miss Smith?”
“Not exactly,” the lady replied, “or at least I shouldn’t put it just that way. My idea is that this school should furnish men and women who can work and earn an honest living, train up families aright, and perform their duties as fathers, mothers, and citizens.”
“Yes—yes, precisely,” said Mrs. Grey, “that’s what I meant.”
“I think the whites can attend to the duties of citizenship without help,” observed Mr. Cresswell.
“Don’t let the blacks meddle in politics,” said Dr. Boldish.
“I want to make these children full-fledged men and women, strong, self-reliant, honest, without any ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ to their development,” insisted Miss Smith.
“Of course, and that is just what Mr. Cresswell wants. Isn’t it, Mr. Cresswell?” asked Mrs. Grey.
“I think I may say yes,” Mr. Cresswell agreed. “I certainly want these people to develop as far as they can, although Miss Smith and I would differ as to their possibilities. But it is not so much in the general theory of Negro education as in its particular applications where our chief differences would lie. I may agree that a boy should learn higher arithmetic, yet object to his loafing in plough-time. I might want to educate some girls but not girls like Zora.”
Mrs. Vanderpool glanced at Mr. Cresswell, smiling to herself.
Mrs. Grey broke in, beaming:
“That’s just it, dear Miss Smith,—just it. Your heart is good, but you need strong practical advice. You know we weak women are so impractical, as my poor Job so often said. Now, I’m going to arrange to endow this school with at least—at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. One condition is that my friend, Mr. Cresswell here, and these other gentlemen, including sound Northern business men like Mr. Easterly, shall hold this money in trust, and expend it for your school as they think best.”
“Mr. Cresswell would be their local representative?” asked Miss Smith slowly with white face.
“Why yes—yes, of course.”
There was a long, tense silence. Then the firm reply,
“Mrs. Grey, I thank you, but I cannot accept your offer.”
Sarah Smith’s voice was strong, the tremor had left her hands. She had expected something like this, of course; yet when it came—somehow it failed to stun. She would not turn over the direction of the school, or the direction of the education of these people, to those who were most opposed to their education. Therefore, there was no need to hesitate; there was no need to think the thing over—she had thought it over—and she looked into Mrs. Grey’s eyes and with gathering tears in her own said:
“Again, I thank you very much, Mrs. Grey.”
Mrs. Grey was a picture of
the most emphatic surprise, and Mr. Cresswell moved to the window. Mrs. Grey looked helplessly at her companions.
“But—I don’t understand, Miss Smith—why can’t you accept my offer?”
“Because you ask me to put my school in control of those who do not wish for the best interests of black folk, and in particular I object to Mr. Cresswell,” said Miss Smith, slowly but very distinctly, “because his relation to the forces of evil in this community has been such that he can direct no school of mine.” Mrs. Vanderpool moved toward the door and Mr. Cresswell bowing slightly followed. Dr. Boldish looked indignant and Mr. Bocombe dove after his note-book. Mary Taylor, her head in a whirl, came forward. She felt that in some way she was responsible for this dreadful situation and she wanted desperately to save matters from final disaster.
“Come,” she said, “Mrs. Grey, we’ll talk this matter over again later. I am sure Miss Smith does not mean quite all she says—she is tired and nervous. You join the others and don’t wait for me and I will be along directly.”
Mrs. Grey was only too glad to escape and Mr. Bocombe got a chance to talk. He drew out his note-book.
“Awfully interesting,” he said, “awfully. Now—er—let’s see—oh, yes. Did you notice how unhealthy the children looked? Race is undoubtedly dying out; fact. No hope. Weak. No spontaneity either—rather languid, did you notice? Yes, and their heads—small and narrow—no brain capacity. They can’t concentrate; notice how some slept when Dr. Boldish was speaking? Mr. Cresswell says they own almost no land here; think of it? This land was worth only ten dollars an acre a decade ago, he says. Negroes might have bought all and been rich. Very shiftless—and that singing. Now, I wonder where they got the music? Imitation, of course.” And so he rattled on, noting not the silence of the others.
As the carriage drove off Mary turned to Miss Smith.
“Now, Miss Smith,” she began—but Miss Smith looked at her, and said sternly, “Sit down.”
Mary Taylor sat down. She had been so used to lecturing the older woman that the sudden summoning of her well known sternness against herself took her breath, and she sat awkwardly like the school girl that she was waiting for Miss Smith to speak. She felt suddenly very young and very helpless—she who had so jauntily set out to solve this mighty problem by a waving of her wand. She saw with a swelling of pity the drawn and stricken face of her old friend and she started up.
“Sit down,” repeated Miss Smith harshly. “Mary Taylor, you are a fool. You are not foolish, for the foolish learn; you are simply a fool. You will never learn; you have blundered into this life work of mine and well nigh ruined it. Whether I can yet save it God alone knows. You have blundered into the lives of two loving children, and sent one wandering aimless on the face of the earth and the other moaning in yonder chamber with death in her heart. You are going to marry the man that sought Zora’s ruin when she was yet a child because you think of his aristocratic pose and pretensions built on the poverty, crime, and exploitation of six generations of serfs. You’ll marry him and—”
But Miss Taylor leapt to her feet with blazing cheeks.
“How dare you?” she screamed, beside herself.
“But God in heaven help you if you do,” finished Miss Smith, calmly.
Seventeen
THE RAPE OF THE FLEECE
When slowly from the torpor of ether, one wakens to the misty sense of eternal loss, and there comes the exquisite prick of pain, then one feels in part the horror of the ache when Zora wakened to the world again. The awakening was the work of days and weeks. At first in sheer exhaustion, physical and mental, she lay and moaned. The sense of loss—of utter loss—lay heavy upon her. Something of herself, something dearer than self, was gone from her forever, and an infinite loneliness and silence, as of endless years, settled on her soul. She wished neither food nor words, only to be alone. Then gradually the pain of injury stung her when the blood flowed fuller. As Miss Smith knelt beside her one night to make her simple prayer Zora sat suddenly upright, white-swathed, dishevelled, with fury in her midnight eyes.
“I want no prayers!” she cried, “I will not pray! He is no God of mine. He isn’t fair. He knows and won’t tell. He takes advantage of us—He works and fools us.” All night Miss Smith heard mutterings of this bitterness, and the next day the girl walked her room like a tigress,—to and fro, to and fro, all the long day. Toward night a dumb despair settled upon her. Miss Smith found her sitting by the window gazing blankly toward the swamp. She came to Miss Smith, slowly, and put her hands upon her shoulders with almost a caress.
“You must forgive me,” she pleaded plaintively. “I reckon I’ve been mighty bad with you, and you always so good to me; but—but, you see—it hurts so.”
“I know it hurts, dear; I know it does. But men and women must learn to bear hurts in this world.”
“Not hurts like this; they couldn’t.”
“Yes, even hurts like this. Bear and stand straight; be brave. After all, Zora, no man is quite worth a woman’s soul; no love is worth a whole life.”
Zora turned away with a gesture of impatience.
“You were born in ice,” she retorted, adding a bit more tenderly, “in clear strong ice; but I was born in fire. I live—I love; that’s all.” And she sat down again, despairingly, and stared at the dull swamp. Miss Smith stood for a moment and closed her eyes upon a vision.
“Ice!” she whispered. “My God!”
Then, at length, she said to Zora:
“Zora, there’s only one way: do something; if you sit thus brooding you’ll go crazy.”
“Do crazy folks forget?”
“Nonsense, Zora!” Miss Smith ridiculed the girl’s fantastic vagaries; her sound common sense rallied to her aid. “They are the people who remember; sane folk forget. Work is the only cure for such pain.”
“But there’s nothing to do—nothing I want to do—nothing worth doing—now.”
“The Silver Fleece?”
The girl sat upright.
“The Silver Fleece,” she murmured. Without further word, slowly she arose and walked down the stairs, and out into the swamp. Miss Smith watched her go; she knew that every step must be the keen prickle of awakening flesh. Yet the girl walked steadily on.
It was the Christmas—not Christmas-tide of the North and West, but Christmas of the Southern South. It was not the festival of the Christ Child, but a time of noise and frolic and license, the great Pay-Day of the year when black men lifted their heads from a year’s toiling in the earth, and, hat in hand, asked anxiously: “Master, what have I earned? Have I paid my old debts to you? Have I made my clothes and food? Have I got a little of the year’s wage coming to me?” Or, more carelessly and cringingly: “Master, gimme a Christmas gift.”
The lords of the soil stood round, gauging their cotton, measuring their men. Their stores were crowded, their scales groaned, their gins sang. In the long run public opinion determines all wage, but in more primitive times and places, private opinion, personal judgment of some man in power, determines. The Black Belt is primitive and the landlord wields the power.
“What about Johnson?” calls the head clerk.
“Well, he’s a faithful nigger and needs encouragement; cancel his debt and give him ten dollars for Christmas.” Colonel Cresswell glowed, as if he were full of the season’s spirit.
“And Sanders?”
“How’s his cotton?”
“Good, and a lot of it.”
“He’s trying to get away. Keep him in debt, but let him draw what he wants.”
“Aunt Rachel?”
“H’m, they’re way behind, aren’t they? Give her a couple of dollars—not a cent more.”
“Jim Sykes?”
“Say, Harry, how about that darky, Sykes?” called out the Colonel.
Excusing himself from his guests, Harry Cresswell came into the office.
To them this peculiar spectacle of the market place was of unusual interest. They saw its humor and its cro
wding, its bizarre effects and unwonted pageantry. Black giants and pigmies were there; kerchiefed aunties, giggling black girls, saffron beauties, and loafing white men. There were mules and horses and oxen, wagons and buggies and carts; but above all and in all, rushing through, piled and flying, bound and baled—was cotton. Cotton was currency; cotton was merchandise; cotton was conversation.
All this was “beautiful” to Mrs. Grey and “unusually interesting” to Mrs. Vanderpool. To Mary Taylor it had the fascination of a puzzle whose other side she had already been partially studying. She was particularly impressed with the joy and abandon of the scene—light laughter, huge guffaws, handshakes, and gossipings.
“At all events,” she concluded, “this is no oppressed people.” And sauntering away from the rest she noted the smiles of an undersized smirking yellow man who hurried by with a handful of dollar bills. At a side entrance liquor was evidently on sale—men were drinking and women, too; some were staggering, others cursing, and yet others singing. Then suddenly a man swung around the corner swearing in bitter rage:
“The damned thieves, they’se stole a year’s work—the white—” But some one called, “Hush up, Sanders! There’s a white woman.” And he threw a startled look at Mary and hurried by. She was perplexed and upset and stood hesitating a moment when she heard a well-known voice:
“Why, Miss Taylor, I was alarmed for you; you really must be careful about trusting yourself with these half drunken Negroes.”
“Wouldn’t it be better not to give them drink, Mr. Cresswell?”
“And let your neighbor sell them poison at all hours? No, Miss Taylor.” They joined the others, and all were turning toward the carriage when a figure coming down the road attracted them.
“Quite picturesque,” observed Mrs. Vanderpool, looking at the tall, slim girl swaying toward them with a piled basket of white cotton poised lightly on her head. “Why,” in abrupt recognition, “it is our Venus of the Roadside, is it not?”
Mary saw it was Zora. Just then, too, Zora caught sight of them, and for a moment hesitated, then came on; the carriage was in front of the store, and she was bound for the store. A moment Mary hesitated, too, and then turned resolutely to greet her. But Zora’s eyes did not see her. After one look at that sorrow-stricken face, Mary turned away.
The Quest of the Silver Fleece Page 15
