Easterly stared at him.
“Good Lord!” he ejaculated; “you’re
crazy!”
But Taylor smiled a slow, thin smile, and put away
his papers. Easterly continued to stare at his
subordinate with a sort of fascination, with the awe
that one feels when genius unexpectedly reveals itself
from a source hitherto regarded as entirely ordinary.
At last he drew a long breath, remarking indefinitely:
“I’ll think it over.”
A stir in the parlor indicated departure.
“Well, you watch the Farmers’ League,
and note its success and methods,” counselled
John Taylor, his tone and manner unchanged. “Then
figure what it might do in the hands of—let
us say, friends.”
“Who’s running it?”
“A Colonel Cresswell is its head, and happens
also to be the force behind it. Aristocratic
family—big planter—near where
my sister teaches.”
“H’m—well, we’ll watch
him.”
“And say,” as Easterly was turning away,
“you know Congressman Smith?”
“I should say I did.”
“Well, Mrs. Grey seems to be depending on him
for advice in distributing some of her charity funds.”
Easterly appeared startled.
“She is, is she!” he exclaimed. “But
here come the ladies.” He went forward
at once, but John Taylor drew back. He noted Mrs.
Vanderpool, and thought her too thin and pale.
The dashing young Miss Easterly was more to his taste.
He intended to have a wife like that one of these
days.
“Mary,” said he to his sister as he finally
rose to go, “tell me about the Cresswells.”
Mary explained to him at length the impossibility
of her knowing much about the local white aristocracy
of Tooms County, and then told him all she had heard.
“Mrs. Grey talked to you much?”
“Yes.”
“About darky schools?”
“Yes.”
“What does she intend to do?”
“I think she will aid Miss Smith first.”
“Did you suggest anything?”
“Well, I told her what I thought about cooeperating
with the local white people.”
“The Cresswells?”
“Yes—you see Mrs. Vanderpool knows
the Cresswells.”
“Does, eh? Good! Say, that’s
a good point. You just bear heavy on it—cooeperate
with the Cresswells.”
“Why, yes. But—you see, John,
I don’t just know whether one could cooeperate
with the Cresswells or not—one hears such
contradictory stories of them. But there must
be some other white people—”
“Stuff! It’s the Cresswells we want.”
“Well,” Mary was very dubious, “they
are—the most important.”
Seven
When she went South late in September, Mary Taylor
had two definite but allied objects: she was
to get all possible business information concerning
the Cresswells, and she was to induce Miss Smith to
prepare for Mrs. Grey’s benevolence by interesting
the local whites in her work. The programme attracted
Miss Taylor. She felt in touch, even if dimly
and slightly, with great industrial movements, and
she felt, too, like a discerning pioneer in philanthropy.
Both roles she liked. Besides, they held, each,
certain promises of social prestige; and society, Miss
Taylor argued, one must have even in Alabama.
