“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 note-book.
“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.
Seventeen
