“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 notebook. 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 notebook.
“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.
XVII
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
