A dogged look settled on Robert’s young bright face, and the speaker paused.
“What’s the use, Miss Smith—what opening is there for a—a nigger with an education?”
Miss Smith was shocked.
“Why—why, every chance,” she protested, “and where there’s none make a chance!”
“Miss Taylor says”—Miss Smith’s heart sank; how often had she heard that deadening phrase in the last year!—“that there’s no use. That farming is the only thing we ought to try to do, and I reckon she thinks there ain’t much chance even there.”
“Robert, farming is a noble calling. Whether you’re suited to it or not, I don’t yet know, but I’d like nothing better than to see you settled here in a decent home with a family, running a farm. But, Robert, farming doesn’t call for less intelligence than other things; it calls for more. It is because the world thinks any training good enough for a farmer that the Southern farmer is today practically at the mercy of his keener and more intelligent fellows. And of all people, Robert, your people need trained intelligence to cope with this problem of farming here. Without intelligence and training and some capital it is the wildest nonsense to think you can lead your people out of slavery. Look round you.” She told him of the visitors. “Are they not hard working honest people?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Yet they are slaves—dumb driven cattle.”
“But they have no education.”
“And you have a smattering; therefore are ready to pit yourself against the organized plantation system without capital or experience. Robert, you may succeed; you may find your landlord honest and the way clear; but my advice to you is—finish your education, develop your talents, and then come to your life work a full-fledged man and not a half-ignorant boy.”
“I’ll think of it,” returned the boy soberly. “I reckon you’re right. I know Miss Taylor don’t think much of us. But I’m tired of waiting; I want to get to work.”
Miss Smith laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder.
“I’ve been waiting thirty years, Robert,” she said, with feeling, and he hung his head.
“I wanted to talk about it,” he awkwardly responded, turning slowly away. But Miss Smith stopped him.
“Robert, where is the land Cresswell offers you?”
“It’s on the Tolliver place.”
“The Tolliver place?”
“Yes, he is going to buy it.”
Miss Smith dismissed the boy absently and sat down. The crisis seemed drawing near. She had not dreamed the Tolliver place was for sale. The old man must be hard pressed to sell to the Cresswells.
She started up. Why not go see him? Perhaps a mortgage on the strength of the endowment? It was dangerous—but—
She threw a veil over her hair, and opened the door. A woman stood there, who shrank and cowered, as if used to blows. Miss Smith eyed her grimly, then slowly stepped back.
“Come in,” she commanded briefly, motioning the woman to a chair.
But she stood, a pathetic figure, faded, worn, yet with unmistakable traces of beauty in her golden face and soft brown hair. Miss Smith contemplated her sadly. Here was her most haunting failure, this girl whom she first had seen twelve years ago in her wonderful girlish comeliness. She had struggled and fought for her, but the forces of the devil had triumphed. She caught glimpses of her now and then, but today was the first time she had spoken to her for ten years. She saw the tears that gathered but did not fall; then her hands quivered.
“Bertie,” she began brokenly. The girl shivered, but stood aloof.
“Miss Smith,” she said. “No—don’t talk—I’m bad—but I’ve got a little girl, Miss Smith, ten years old, and—and—I’m afraid for her; I want you to take her.”
“I have no place for one so young. And why are you afraid for her?”
“The men there are beginning to notice her.”
“Where?”
“At Elspeth’s.”
“Do you stay there now?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wants me to.”
“Must you do as he wants?”
“Yes. But I want the child—different.”
“Don’t you want to be different?”
The woman quivered again but she answered steadily: “No.”
Miss Smith sank into a chair and moistened her dry lips.
“Elspeth’s is an awful place,” she affirmed solemnly.
“Yes.”
“And Zora?”
“She is not there much now, she stays away.”
“But if she escapes, why not you?”
“She wants to escape.”
“And you?”
“I don’t want to.”
This stubborn depravity was so distressing that Sarah Smith was at an utter loss what to say or do.
“I can do nothing—” she began.
“For me,” the woman quickly replied; “I don’t ask anything; but for the child—she isn’t to blame.”
The older woman wavered.
“Won’t you try?” pleaded the younger.
“Yes—I’ll try, I’ll try; I am trying all the time, but there are more things than my weak strength can do. Goodbye.”
Miss Smith stood a long time in the doorway, watching the fading figure and vaguely trying to remember what it was that she had started to do, when the sharp staccato step of a mule drew her attention to a rider who stopped at the gate. It was her neighbor, Tolliver—a gaunt, yellow-faced white man, ragged, rough, and unkempt; one of the poor whites who had struggled up and failed. He spent no courtesy on the “nigger” teacher, but sat in his saddle and called her to the gate, and she went.
“Say,” he roughly opened up, “I’ve got to sell some land and them damn Cresswells are after it. You can have it for five thousand dollars if you git the cash in a week.” With a muttered oath he rode abruptly off; but not before she had seen the tears in his eyes.
All night Sarah Smith lay thinking, and all day she thought and dreamed. Toward dark she walked slowly out the gate and up the highway toward the Cresswell oaks. She had never been within the gates before, and she looked about thoughtfully. The great trees in their regular curving rows must have been planted more than half a century ago. The lawn was well tended and the flowers. Yes, there were signs of taste and wealth. “But it was built on a moan,” cried Miss Smith to herself, passionately, and she
