A few days later, Rena looked out of the window near her desk and saw a
low basket phaeton, drawn by a sorrel pony, driven sharply into the
clearing and drawn up beside an oak sapling. The occupant of the
phaeton, a tall, handsome, well-preserved lady in middle life, with
slightly gray hair, alighted briskly from the phaeton, tied the pony to
the sapling with a hitching-strap, and advanced to the schoolhouse door.
Rena wondered who the lady might be. She had a benevolent aspect,
however, and came forward to the desk with a smile, not at all
embarrassed by the wide-eyed inspection of the entire school.
"How do you do?" she said, extending her hand to the teacher. "I live
in the neighborhood and am interested in the colored people--a good
many of them once belonged to me. I heard something of your school,
and thought I should like to make your acquaintance."
"It is very kind of you, indeed," murmured Rena respectfully.
"Yes," continued the lady, "I am not one of those who sit back and
blame their former slaves because they were freed. They are free
now,--it is all decided and settled,--and they ought to be taught
enough to enable them to make good use of their freedom. But really,
my dear,--you mustn't feel offended if I make a mistake,--I am going to
ask you something very personal." She looked suggestively at the
gaping pupils.
"The school may take the morning recess now," announced the teacher.
The pupils filed out in an orderly manner, most of them stationing
themselves about the grounds in such places as would keep the teacher
and the white lady in view. Very few white persons approved of the
colored schools; no other white person had ever visited this one.
"Are you really colored?" asked the lady, when the children had
withdrawn.
A year and a half earlier, Rena would have met the question by some
display of self-consciousness. Now, she replied simply and directly.
"Yes, ma'am, I am colored."
The lady, who had been studying her as closely as good manners would
permit, sighed regretfully.
"Well, it's a shame. No one would ever think it. If you chose to
conceal it, no one would ever be the wiser. What is your name, child,
and where were you brought up? You must have a romantic history."
Rena gave her name and a few facts in regard to her past. The lady was
so much interested, and put so many and such searching questions, that
Rena really found it more difficult to suppress the fact that she had
been white, than she had formerly had in hiding her African origin.
There was about the girl an air of real refinement that pleased the
lady,--the refinement not merely of a fine nature, but of contact with
cultured people; a certain reserve of speech and manner quite
inconsistent with Mrs. Tryon's experience of colored women. The lady
was interested and slightly mystified. A generous, impulsive
spirit,--her son's own mother,--she made minute inquiries about the
school and the pupils, several of whom she knew by name. Rena stated
that the two months' term was nearing its end, and that she was
training the children in various declamations and dialogues for the
exhibition at the close.
"I shall attend it," declared the lady positively. "I'm sure you are
doing a good work, and it's very noble of you to undertake it when you
might have a very different future. If I can serve you at any time,
don't hesitate to call upon me. I live in the big white house just
before you turn out of the Clinton road to come this way. I'm only a
widow, but my son George lives with me and has some influence in the
neighborhood. He drove by here yesterday with the lady he is going to
marry. It was she who told me about you."
Was it the name, or some subtle resemblance in speech or feature, that
recalled Tryon's image to Rena's mind? It was not so far away--the
image of the loving Tryon--that any powerful witchcraft was required to
call it up. His mother was a widow; Rena had thought, in happier days,
that she might be such a kind lady as this. But the cruel Tryon who
had left her--his mother would be some hard, cold, proud woman, who
would regard a negro as but little better than a dog, and who would not
soil her lips by addressing a colored person upon any other terms than
as a servant. She knew, too, that Tryon did not live in Sampson
County, though the exact location of his home was not clear to her.
"And where are you staying, my dear?" asked the good lady.
"I'm boarding at Mrs. Wain's," answered Rena.
"Mrs. Wain's?"
"Yes, they live in the old Campbell place."
"Oh, yes--Aunt Nancy. She's a good enough woman, but we don't think
much of her son Jeff. He married my Amanda after the war--she used to
belong to me, and ought to have known better. He abused her most
shamefully, and had to be threatened with the law. She left him a year
or so ago and went away; I haven't seen her lately. Well, good-by,
child; I'm coming to your exhibition. If you ever pass my house, come
in and see me."
The good lady had talked for half an hour, and had brought a ray of
sunshine into the teacher's monotonous life, heretofore lighted only by
the uncertain lamp of high resolve. She had satisfied a pardonable
curiosity, and had gone away without mentioning her name.
Rena saw Plato untying the pony as the lady climbed into the phaeton.
"Who was the lady, Plato?" asked the teacher when the visitor had
driven away.
"Dat 'uz my ole mist'iss, ma'm," returned Plato proudly,--"ole Mis'
'Liza."
"Mis' 'Liza who?" asked Rena.
"Mis' 'Liza Tryon. I use' ter b'long ter her. Dat 'uz her son, my
young Mars Geo'ge, w'at driv pas' hyuh yistiddy wid 'is sweetheart."