“Yes—yes,” he said, with uncomfortable haste. “Any—er—information—of course—” Miss Taylor got out her notes.
“The leading landowners,” she began, sorting the notes searchingly, “I should like to know something about them.”
“Well, Colonel Cresswell is, of course, our greatest landlord—a high-bred gentleman of the old school. He and his son—a worthy successor to the name—hold some fifty thousand acres. They may be considered representative types. Then, Mr. Maxwell has ten thousand acres and Mr. Tolliver a thousand.”
Miss Taylor wrote rapidly. “And cotton?” she asked.
“We raise considerable cotton, but not nearly what we ought to; nigger labor is too worthless.”
“Oh! The Negroes are not, then, very efficient?”
“Efficient!” snorted Mr. Caldwell; at last she had broached a phase of the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor. “They’re the lowest-down, ornriest—begging your pardon—good-for-nothing loafers you ever heard of. Why, we just have to carry them and care for them like children. Look yonder,” he pointed across the square to the courthouse. It was an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and very dirty. Out of it filed a stream of men—some black and shackled; some white and swaggering and liberal with tobacco-juice; some white and shaven and stiff. “Court’s just out,” pursued Mr. Caldwell, “and them niggers have just been sent to the gang—young ones, too; educated but good for nothing. They’re all that way.”
Miss Taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a battery of eyes and ears. Everybody seemed craning and listening, and she felt a sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air. With one or two further perfunctory questions, and a hasty expression of thanks, she escaped into the air.
The whole square seemed loafing and lolling—the white world perched on stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black world filtering down from doorways to sidewalk and curb. The hot, dusty quadrangle stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town, as if doing obeisance to the courthouse. Down the courthouse steps the sheriff, with Winchester on shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner—a curly-headed boy with golden face and big brown frightened eyes.
“It’s one of Dunn’s boys,” said Bles. “He’s drunk again, and they say he’s been stealing. I expect he was hungry.” And they wheeled out of the square.
Miss Taylor was tired, and the hastily scribbled letter which she dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as she could wish.
A great-voiced giant, brown and bearded, drove past them, roaring a hymn. He greeted Bles with a comprehensive wave of the hand.
“I guess Tylor has been paid off,” said Bles, but Miss Taylor was too disgusted to answer. Further on they overtook a tall young yellow boy walking awkwardly beside a handsome, boldfaced girl. Two white men came riding by. One leered at the girl, and she laughed back, while the yellow boy strode sullenly ahead. As the two white riders approached the buggy one said to the other:
“Who’s that nigger with?”
“One of them nigger teachers.”
“Well, they’ll stop this damn riding around or they’ll hear something,” and they rode slowly by.
Miss Taylor felt rather than heard their words, and she was uncomfortable. The sun fell fast; the long shadows of the swamp swept soft coolness on the red road. Then afar in front a curled cloud of white dust arose and out of it came the sound of galloping horses.
“Who’s this?” asked Miss Taylor.
“The Cresswells, I think; they usually ride to town about this time.” But already Miss Taylor had descried the brown and tawny sides of the speeding horses.
“Good gracious!” she thought. “The Cresswells!” And with it came a sudden desire not to meet them—just then. She glanced toward the swamp. The sun was sifting bloodred lances through the trees. A little wagon-road entered the wood and disappeared. Miss Taylor saw it.
“Let’s see the sunset in the swamp,” she said suddenly. On came the galloping horses. Bles looked up in surprise, then silently turned into the swamp. The horses flew by, their hoof-beats dying in the distance. A dark green silence lay about them lit by mighty crimson glories beyond. Miss Taylor leaned back and watched it dreamily till a sense of oppression grew on her. The sun was sinking fast.
“Where does this road come out?” she asked at last.
“It doesn’t come out.”
“Where does it go?”
“It goes to Elspeth’s.”
“Why, we must turn back immediately. I thought—” But Bles was already turning. They were approaching the main road again when there came a fluttering as of a great bird beating its wings amid the forest. Then a girl, lithe, dark brown, and tall, leaped lightly into the path with greetings on her lips for Bles. At the sight of the lady she drew suddenly back and stood motionless regarding Miss Taylor, searching her with wide black liquid eyes. Miss Taylor was a little startled.
“Good—good evening,” she said, straightening herself.
The girl was still silent and the horse stopped. One tense moment pulsed through all the swamp. Then the girl, still motionless—still looking Miss Taylor through and through—said with slow deliberateness:
“I hates you.”
The teacher in Miss Taylor strove to rebuke this unconventional greeting but the woman in her spoke first and asked almost before she knew it—
“Why?”
V
Zora
Zora, child of the swamp, was a heathen hoyden of twelve wayward, untrained years. Slight, straight, strong, full-blooded, she had dreamed her life away in wilful wandering through her dark and sombre kingdom until she was one with it in all its moods; mischievous, secretive, brooding; full of great and awful visions, steeped body and soul in wood-lore. Her home was out of doors, the cabin of Elspeth her port of call for
