“I have it,” said Taylor. Cresswell sat up. “First, let Mr. Easterly get Smith.” Easterly turned to the telephone.
“Is that you, Smith?”
“Well, this is Easterly. … Yes—how about Mrs. Grey’s education schemes? … Yes … h’m—well—see here Smith, we must go a little easy there. … Oh, no, no—but to advertise just now a big scheme of Negro Education would drive the Cresswells, the Farmers’ League, and the whole business South dead against us. … Yes, yes indeed; they believe in education all right, but they ain’t in for training lawyers and professors just yet. … No, I don’t suppose her school is. … Well, then; see here. She’ll be reasonable, won’t she, and placate the Cresswells? … No, I mean run the school to suit their ideas. … No, no, but in general along the lines which they could approve. … Yes, I thought so … of course … goodbye.”
“Inclined to be a little nasty?” asked Taylor.
“A little sharp—but tractable. Now, Mr. Cresswell, the thing is in your hands. We’ll get this committee which Taylor suggests appointed, and send it on a junket to Alabama; you do the rest—see?”
“Who’ll be the committee?” asked Cresswell.
“Name it.”
Mr. Cresswell smiled and left.
The winter started in severely, and it was easy to fill two private cars with members of the new Negro Education Board right after Thanksgiving. Cresswell had worked carefully and with caution. There was Mrs. Grey, comfortable and beaming, Mr. Easterly, who thought this a good business opportunity, and his family. Mrs. Vanderpool liked the South and was amused at the trip, and had induced Mr. Vanderpool to come by stories of shooting.
“Ah!” said Mr. Vanderpool.
Mr. Charles Smith and John Taylor were both too busy to go, but bronchial trouble induced the Rev. Dr. Boldish of St. Faith’s rich parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment Temple Bocombe, the sociologist, consented to join.
“Awfully busy,” he said, “but I’ve been reading up on the Negro problem since you mentioned the matter to me last week, Mr. Cresswell, and I think I understand it thoroughly. I may be able to help out.”
The necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by Miss Taylor and Miss Cresswell, together with the silent Miss Boldish. They were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. Dr. Boldish pointed out the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones; Mr. Bocombe counted them and estimated the number of hours of work lost at ten cents an hour.
“Do they get that—ten cents an hour?” asked Miss Taylor.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Bocombe; “but suppose they do, for instance. That is an average wage today.”
“They look lazy,” said Mrs. Grey.
“They are lazy,” said Mr. Cresswell.
“So am I,” added Mrs. Vanderpool, suppressing a yawn.
“It is uninteresting,” murmured her husband, preparing for a nap.
On the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the moment they drew out of Jersey City to the afternoon when, in four carriages, they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all Toomsville and swept under the shadowed rampart of the swamp.
“The Christmas” was coming and all the Southern world was busy. Few people were busier than Bles and Zora. Slowly, wonderfully for them, heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and the tremor thrilled all lands and seas. Everything was good, all things were happy, and these two were happiest of all. Out of the shadows and hesitations of childhood they had stepped suddenly into manhood and womanhood, with firm feet and uplifted heads. All the day that was theirs they worked, picking the Silver Fleece—picking it tenderly and lovingly from off the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly yielded life and beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken tendril, this white beauty of the cotton. November came and flew, and still the unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit.
Today seemed doubly glorious, for Bles had spoken of their marriage; with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again seeking their mates, they walked the leafy way.
Unconscious, rapt, they stepped out into the Big Road skirting the edge of the swamp. Why not? Was it not the King’s Highway? And Love was King. So they talked on, unknowing that far up the road the Cresswell coaches were wheeling along with precious burdens. In the first carriage were Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Vanderpool, Mr. Cresswell and Miss Taylor. Mrs. Vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but Mrs. Grey was a little stiff from long travel and sat upright. Mr. Cresswell looked clean-cut and handsome, and Miss Taylor seemed complacent and responsible. The dying of the day soothed them all insensibly. Groups of dark little children passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and greeting timidly.
“There seems to be marrying and giving in marriage,” laughed Mrs. Vanderpool.
“Not very much,” said Mr. Cresswell drily.
“Well, at least plenty of children.”
“Plenty.”
“But where are the houses?” asked Mrs. Grey.
“Perhaps in the swamp,” said Mrs. Vanderpool lightly, looking up at the sombre trees that lined the left.
“They live where they please and do as they please,” Cresswell explained; to which Mrs. Vanderpool added: “Like other animals.”
Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage’s four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily.
Out through the wood Bles and Zora had come to the broad red road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place.
“You are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp,” he said.
“And yet look up to you,” she murmured.
“Your eyes are darkness dressed in night.”
“To see you brighter, dear,” she said.
“Your little hands
