The Colonel saw her, too, and was uneasy, for he knew that Miss Smith had a sharp tongue and a most disconcerting method of argument, which he, as a Southern gentleman, courteous to all white females, even if they did eat with “niggers,” could not properly answer. He received her with courtesy, offered a chair, laid aside his cigar, and essayed some general remarks on cotton weather. But Miss Smith plunged into her subject:
“Colonel Cresswell, I’m thinking of raising some money from a mortgage on our school property.”
The Colonel’s face involuntarily lighted up. He thought he saw the beginning of the end of an institution which had been a thorn in his flesh ever since Tolliver, in a fit of rage, had sold land for a Negro school.
“H’m,” he reflected deprecatingly, wiping his brow.
“I need some ready money,” she continued, “to keep from curtailing our work.”
“Indeed?”
“I have good prospects in a year or so”—the Colonel looked up sharply, but said nothing—“and so I thought of a mortgage.”
“Money is pretty tight,” was the Colonel’s first objection.
“The land is worth, you know, at least fifty dollars an acre.”
“Not more than twenty-five dollars, I fear.”
“Why, you wanted seventy-five dollars for poorer land last year! We have two hundred acres.” It was not for nothing that this lady had been born in New England.
“I wouldn’t reckon it as worth more than five thousand dollars,” insisted the Colonel.
“And ten thousand dollars for improvements.”
But the Colonel arose. “You had better talk to the directors of the Jefferson Bank,” he said politely. “They may accommodate you—how much would you want?”
“Five thousand dollars,” Miss Smith replied. Then she hesitated. That would buy the land, to be sure; but money was needed to develop and run it; to install tenants; and then, too, for new teachers. But she said nothing more, and, nodding to his polite bow, departed. Colonel Cresswell had noticed her hesitation, and thought of it as he settled to his cigar again.
Bles Alwyn arose next morning and examined the sky critically. He feared rain. The season had been quite wet enough, particularly down on the swamp land, and but yesterday Bles had viewed his dykes with apprehension for the black pool scowled about them. He dared not think what a long heavy rain might do to the wonderful island of cotton which now stood fully five feet high, with flowers and squares and budding bolls. It might not rain, but the safest thing would be to work at those dykes, so he started for spade and hoe. He heard Miss Smith calling, however.
“Bles—hitch up!”
He was vexed. “Are you—in a hurry, Miss Smith?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” she replied, with unmistakable positiveness.
He started off, and hesitated. “Miss Smith, would Jim do to drive?”
“No,” sharply. “I want you particularly.” At another time she might have observed his anxiety, but today she was agitated. She knew she was taking a critical step.
Slowly Bles hitched up. After all it might not rain, he argued as they jogged toward town. In silence they rode on. Bles kept looking at the skies. The south was getting darker and darker. It might rain. It might rain only an hour or so, but, suppose it should rain a day—two days—a week?
Miss Smith was looking at her own skies and despite the promised sunrise they loomed darkly. Five thousand was needed for the land and at least another thousand for repairs. Two thousand would “buy” a half dozen desirable tenants by paying their debts to their present landlords. Then two thousand would be wanted for new teachers and a carpenter shop—ten thousand dollars!
It was a great temptation. And yet, once in the hands of these past-masters of debt-manipulation, would her school be safe? Suppose, after all, this Grey gift—but she caught her breath sharply just as a wet splash of rain struck upon her forehead. No. God could not be so cruel. She pushed her bonnet back: how good and cool the water felt! But on Bles as he raised the buggy top it felt hot and fiery.
He felt the coming of some great calamity, the end of a dream. This rain might stay for days; it looked like such a downpour; and that would mean the end of the Silver Fleece; the end of Zora’s hopes; the end of everything. He gulped in despairing anger and hit the staid old horse the smartest tap she had known all summer.
“Why, Bles, what’s the matter?” called Miss Smith, as the horse started forward. He murmured something about getting wet and drew up at the Toomsville bank.
Miss Smith was invited politely into the private parlor. She explained her business. The President was there and Colonel Cresswell and one other local director.
“I have come for a mortgage. Our land is, as you know, gentlemen, worth at least ten thousand dollars; the buildings cost fifteen thousand dollars; our property is, therefore, conservatively valued at twenty-five thousand dollars. Now I want to mortgage it for”—she hesitated—“five thousand dollars.”
Colonel Cresswell was silent, but the president said:
“Money is rather scarce just now, Miss Smith; but it happens that I have ten thousand dollars on hand, which we prefer, however, to loan in one lump sum. Now, if the security were ample, I think perhaps you might get this ten thousand dollars.”
Miss Smith grew white; it was the sum she wanted. She tried to escape the temptation, yet the larger amount was more than twice as desirable to her as the smaller, and she knew that they knew it. They were trying to tempt her; they wanted as firm a hold on the school property as possible. And yet, why should she hesitate? It was a risk, but the returns would be enormous—she must do it. Besides, there was the endowment; it was certain; yes—she felt forced to close the bargain.
“Very well,” she declared her decision, and they handed her the preliminary
