“Wait!” she cried shortly, and began to dress.
A new boy, she mused. Yes, every day they straggled in; every day came the call for more, more—this great, growing thirst to know—to do—to be. And yet that woman had sat right here, aloof, imperturbable, listening only courteously. When Miss Smith finished, she had paused and, flicking her glove—
“My dear Miss Smith,” she said softly, with a tone that just escaped a drawl—“My dear Miss Smith, your work is interesting and your faith—marvellous; but, frankly, I cannot make myself believe in it. You are trying to treat these funny little monkeys just as you would your own children—or even mine. It’s quite heroic, of course, but it’s sheer madness, and I do not feel I ought to encourage it. I would not mind a thousand or so to train a good cook for the Cresswells, or a clean and faithful maid for myself—for Helene has faults—or indeed deft and tractable laboring-folk for anyone; but I’m quite through trying to turn natural servants into masters of me and mine. I—hope I’m not too blunt; I hope I make myself clear. You know, statistics show—”
“Drat statistics!” Miss Smith had flashed impatiently. “These are folks.”
Mrs. Vanderpool smiled indulgently. “To be sure,” she murmured, “but what sort of folks?”
“God’s sort.”
“Oh, well—”
But Miss Smith had the bit in her teeth and could not have stopped. She was paying high for the privilege of talking, but it had to be said.
“God’s sort, Mrs. Vanderpool—not the sort that think of the world as arranged for their exclusive benefit and comfort.”
“Well, I do want to count—”
Miss Smith bent forward—not a beautiful pose, but earnest.
“I want you to count, and I want to count, too; but I don’t want us to be the only ones that count. I want to live in a world where every soul counts—white, black, and yellow—all. That’s what I’m teaching these children here—to count, and not to be like dumb, driven cattle. If you don’t believe in this, of course you cannot help us.”
“Your spirit is admirable, Miss Smith,” she had said very softly; “I only wish I could feel as you do. Good afternoon,” and she had rustled gently down the narrow stairs, leaving an all but imperceptible suggestion of perfume. Miss Smith could smell it yet as she went down this morning.
The breakfast bell jangled. “Five thousand dollars,” she kept repeating to herself, greeting the teachers absently—“five thousand dollars.” And then on the porch she was suddenly aware of the awaiting boy. She eyed him critically: black, fifteen, country-bred, strong, clear-eyed.
“Well?” she asked in that brusque manner wherewith her natural timidity was wont to mask her kindness. “Well, sir?”
“I’ve come to school.”
“Humph—we can’t teach boys for nothing.”
The boy straightened. “I can pay my way,” he returned.
“You mean you can pay what we ask?”
“Why, yes. Ain’t that all?”
“No. The rest is gathered from the crumbs of Dives’ table.”
Then he saw the twinkle in her eyes. She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.
“If you don’t hurry you’ll be late to breakfast,” she said with an air of confidence. “See those boys over there? Follow them, and at noon come to the office—wait! What’s your name?”
“Blessed Alwyn,” he answered, and the passing teachers smiled.
III
Miss Mary Taylor
Miss Mary Taylor did not take a college course for the purpose of teaching Negroes. Not that she objected to Negroes as human beings—quite the contrary. In the debate between the senior societies her defence of the Fifteenth Amendment had been not only a notable bit of reasoning, but delivered with real enthusiasm. Nevertheless, when the end of the summer came and the only opening facing her was the teaching of children at Miss Smith’s experiment in the Alabama swamps, it must be frankly confessed that Miss Taylor was disappointed.
Her dream had been a postgraduate course at Bryn Mawr; but that was out of the question until money was earned. She had pictured herself earning this by teaching one or two of her “specialties” in some private school near New York or Boston, or even in a Western college. The South she had not thought of seriously; and yet, knowing of its delightful hospitality and mild climate, she was not averse to Charleston or New Orleans. But from the offer that came to teach Negroes—country Negroes, and little ones at that—she shrank, and, indeed, probably would have refused it out of hand had it not been for her queer brother, John. John Taylor, who had supported her through college, was interested in cotton. Having certain schemes in mind, he had been struck by the fact that the Smith School was in the midst of the Alabama cotton-belt.
“Better go,” he had counselled, sententiously. “Might learn something useful down there.”
She had been not a little dismayed by the outlook, and had protested against his blunt insistence.
“But, John, there’s no society—just elementary work—”
John had met this objection with, “Humph!” as he left for his office. Next day he had returned to the subject.
“Been looking up Tooms County. Find some Cresswells there—big plantations—rated at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Some others, too; big cotton county.”
“You ought to know, John, if I teach Negroes I’ll scarcely see much of people in my own class.”
“Nonsense! Butt in. Show off. Give ’em your Greek—and study Cotton. At any rate, I say go.”
And so, howsoever reluctantly, she had gone.
The trial was all she had anticipated, and possibly a bit more. She was a pretty young woman of twenty-three, fair and rather daintily moulded. In favorable surroundings, she would have been an aristocrat and an epicure. Here she was teaching dirty children, and the smell of confused odors and bodily perspiration was to her at times unbearable.
Then there was the fact of their color: it was a fact so insistent, so fatal she almost said at times, that
