The House Behind the Cedars/XXVIII
XXVIII
THE LOST KNIFE
Rena had found her task not a difficult one so
far as discipline was concerned. Her pupils were
of a docile race, and school to them had all the
charm of novelty. The teacher commanded some
awe because she was a stranger, and some, perhaps,
because she was white; for the theory of blackness
as propounded by Plato could not quite counter-
balance in the young African mind the evidence of
their own senses. She combined gentleness with
firmness; and if these had not been sufficient,
she had reserves of character which would have
given her the mastery over much less plastic
material than these ignorant but eager young people.
The work of instruction was simple enough, for
most of the pupils began with the alphabet, which
they acquired from Webster's blue-backed spelling-
book, the palladium of Southern education at that
epoch. The much abused carpet-baggers had put
the spelling-book within reach of every child of
school age in North Carolina,--a fact which is
often overlooked when the carpet-baggers are held
up to public odium. Even the devil should have
his due, and is not so black as he is painted.
At the time when she learned that Tryon lived
in the neighborhood, Rena had already been subjected
for several weeks to a trying ordeal. Wain
had begun to persecute her with marked attentions.
She had at first gone to board at his house,--or,
by courtesy, with his mother. For a week or two
she had considered his attentions in no other light
than those of a member of the school committee
sharing her own zeal and interested in seeing the
school successfully carried on. In this character
Wain had driven her to the town for her examination;
he had busied himself about putting the
schoolhouse in order, and in various matters
affecting the conduct of the school. He had jocularly
offered to come and whip the children for her, and
had found it convenient to drop in occasionally,
ostensibly to see what progress the work was
making.
"Dese child'en," he would observe sonorously,
in the presence of the school, "oughter be monst'ous
glad ter have de chance er settin' under
yo' instruction, Miss Rena. I'm sho' eve'body in
dis neighbo'hood 'preciates de priv'lege er havin'
you in ou' mids'."
Though slightly embarrassing to the teacher,
these public demonstrations were endurable so long
as they could be regarded as mere official
appreciation of her work. Sincerely in earnest about
her undertaking, she had plunged into it with
all the intensity of a serious nature which love
had stirred to activity. A pessimist might have
sighed sadly or smiled cynically at the notion that
a poor, weak girl, with a dangerous beauty and a
sensitive soul, and troubles enough of her own,
should hope to accomplish anything appreciable
toward lifting the black mass still floundering
in the mud where slavery had left it, and where
emancipation had found it,--the mud in which,
for aught that could be seen to the contrary, her
little feet, too, were hopelessly entangled. It might
have seemed like expecting a man to lift himself
by his boot-straps.
But Rena was no philosopher, either sad or
cheerful. She could not even have replied to
this argument, that races must lift themselves,
and the most that can be done by others is to
give them opportunity and fair play. Hers was
a simpler reasoning,--the logic by which the
world is kept going onward and upward when
philosophers are at odds and reformers are not
forthcoming. She knew that for every child she
taught to read and write she opened, if ever so
little, the door of opportunity, and she was happy
in the consciousness of performing a duty which
seemed all the more imperative because newly
discovered. Her zeal, indeed, for the time being was
like that of an early Christian, who was more
willing than not to die for his faith. Rena had
fully and firmly made up her mind to sacrifice her
life upon this altar. Her absorption in the work
had not been without its reward, for thereby she
had been able to keep at a distance the spectre of
her lost love. Her dreams she could not control,
but she banished Tryon as far as possible from her
waking thoughts.
When Wain's attentions became obviously
personal, Rena's new vestal instinct took alarm, and
she began to apprehend his character more clearly.
She had long ago learned that his pretensions to
wealth were a sham. He was nominal owner of
a large plantation, it is true; but the land was
worn out, and mortgaged to the limit of its security
value. His reputed droves of cattle and hogs
had dwindled to a mere handful of lean and
listless brutes.
Her clear eye, when once set to take Wain's
measure, soon fathomed his shallow, selfish soul,
and detected, or at least divined, behind his mask
of good-nature a lurking brutality which filled her
with vague distrust, needing only occasion to
develop it into active apprehension,--occasion which
was not long wanting. She avoided being alone
with him at home by keeping carefully with the
women of the house. If she were left alone,--and
they soon showed a tendency to leave her on any
pretext whenever Wain came near,--she would
seek her own room and lock the door. She preferred
not to offend Wain; she was far away from home
and in a measure in his power, but she dreaded his
compliments and sickened at his smile. She was
also compelled to hear his relations sing his praises.
"My son Jeff," old Mrs. Wain would say, "is
de bes' man you ever seed. His fus' wife had de
easies' time an' de happies' time er ary woman in
dis settlement. He's grieve' fer her a long time, but
I reckon he's gittin' over it, an' de nex' 'oman w'at
marries him'll git a box er pyo' gol', ef I does say
it as is his own mammy."
Rena had thought Wain rather harsh with his
household, except in her immediate presence. His
mother and sister seemed more or less afraid of
him, and the children often anxious to avoid him.
One day, he timed his visit to the schoolhouse
so as to walk home with Rena through the woods.
When she became aware of his purpose, she called
to one of the children who was loitering behind the
others, "Wait a minute, Jenny. I'm going your
way, and you can walk along with me."
Wain with difficulty hid a scowl behind a
smiling front. When they had gone a little distance
along the road through the woods, he clapped his
hand upon his pocket.
"I declare ter goodness," he exclaimed, "ef I
ain't dropped my pocket-knife! I thought I felt
somethin' slip th'ough dat hole in my pocket jes'
by the big pine stump in the schoolhouse ya'd.
Jinny, chile, run back an' hunt fer my knife, an'
I'll give yer five cents ef yer find it. Me an'
Miss Rena'll walk on slow 'tel you ketches us."
Rena did not dare to object, though she was afraid
to be alone with this man. If she could have had
a moment to think, she would have volunteered to
go back with Jenny and look for the knife, which,
although a palpable subterfuge on her part, would
have been one to which Wain could not object;
but the child, dazzled by the prospect of reward,
had darted back so quickly that this way of escape
was cut off. She was evidently in for a declaration
of love, which she had taken infinite pains to
avoid. Just the form it would assume, she could
not foresee. She was not long left in suspense.
No sooner was the child well out of sight than
Wain threw his arms suddenly about her waist
and smilingly attempted to kiss her.
Speechless with fear and indignation, she tore
herself from his grasp with totally unexpected
force, and fled incontinently along the forest path.
Wain--who, to do him justice, had merely meant
to declare his passion in what he had hoped might
prove a not unacceptable fashion--followed in
some alarm, expostulating and apologizing as he
went. But he was heavy and Rena was light, and
fear lent wings to her feet. He followed her until
he saw her enter the house of Elder Johnson, the
father of several of her pupils, after which he
sneaked uneasily homeward, somewhat apprehensive
of the consequences of his abrupt wooing,
which was evidently open to an unfavorable
construction. When, an hour later, Rena sent one of
the Johnson children for some of her things, with
a message explaining that the teacher had been
invited to spend a few days at Elder Johnson's,
Wain felt a pronounced measure of relief. For an
hour he had even thought it might be better to
relinquish his pursuit. With a fatuousness born of
vanity, however, no sooner had she sent her excuse
than he began to look upon her visit to Johnson's as
a mere exhibition of coyness, which, together with
her conduct in the woods, was merely intended to
lure him on.
Right upon the heels of the perturbation caused
by Wain's conduct, Rena discovered that Tryon
lived in the neighborhood; that not only might she
meet him any day upon the highway, but that he
had actually driven by the schoolhouse. That he
knew or would know of her proximity there could
be no possible doubt, since she had freely told his
mother her name and her home. A hot wave of
shame swept over her at the thought that George
Tryon might imagine she were following him, throwing
herself in his way, and at the thought of the
construction which he might place upon her actions.
Caught thus between two emotional fires, at the
very time when her school duties, owing to the
approaching exhibition, demanded all her energies,
Rena was subjected to a physical and mental strain
that only youth and health could have resisted, and
then only for a short time.