"Thinking the matter over," said Harry Cresswell to his father, "I'm inclined to advise drawing this Taylor out a little further."
The Colonel puffed his cigar and one eye twinkled, the lid of the other being at the moment suggestively lowered.
"Was she pretty?" he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and the father continued:
"I had a telegram from Taylor this morning, after you left. He'll be passing through Montgomery the first of next month, and proposes calling."
"I'll wire him to come," said Harry, promptly.
At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air. Outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest, and her interest in herself was not absorbing. Yet she had a curiously sweet way. Her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble.
"Good-morning," she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over to her father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.
"Did you get that novel for me, Harry?"—expectantly regarding her brother. "I forgot it, Sis. But I'll be going to town again soon."
The young lady showed that she was annoyed.
"By the bye, Sis, there's a young lady over at the Negro school whom I think you'd like."
"Black or white?"
"A young lady, I said. Don't be sarcastic."
"I heard you. I did not know whether you were using our language or others'."
"She's really unusual, and seems to understand things. She's planning to call some day— shall you be at home?"
"Certainly not, Harry; you're crazy." And she strolled out to the porch, exchanged some remarks with a passing servant, and then nestled comfortably into a hammock. She helped herself to a chocolate and called out musically:"Pa, are you going to town today?"
"Yes, honey."
"Can I go?"
"I'm going in an hour or so, and business at the bank will keep me until after lunch."
"I don't care, I just must go. I'm clean out of anything to read. And I want to shop and call on Dolly's friend—she's going soon."
"All right. Can you be ready by eleven?" She considered.
"Yes—I reckon," she drawled, prettily swinging her foot and watching the tree-tops above the distant swamp.
Harry Cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler.
"Still thinking of going, are you, Sam?" asked Cresswell, carelessly, when the servant appeared. He was a young, light-brown boy, his manner obsequious.
"Why, yes, sir—if you can spare me."
"Spare you, you black rascal! You're going anyhow. Well, you'll repent it; the North is no place for niggers. See here, I want lunch for two at one o'clock." The directions that followed were explicit and given with a particularity that made Sam wonder. "Order my trap," he finally directed.
Cresswell went out on the high-pillared porch until the trap appeared. "Oh, Harry! I wanted to go in the trap—take me?" coaxed his sister. "Sorry, Sis, but I'm going the other way."
"I don't believe it," said Miss Cresswell, easily, as she settled down to another chocolate. Cresswell did not take the trouble to reply.
Miss Taylor was on her morning walk when she saw him spinning down the road, and both expressed surprise and pleasure at the meeting.
"What a delightful morning!" said the school-teacher, and the glow on her face said even more.
"I'm driving round through the old plantation," he explained; "won't you join me?"
"The invitation is tempting," she hesitated; "but I've got just oodles of work."
"What! on Saturday?"
"Saturday is my really busy day, don't you know. I guess I could get off; really, though, I suspect I ought to tell Miss Smith."
He looked a little perplexed; but the direction in which her inclinations lay was quite clear to him.
"It—it would be decidedly the proper thing," he murmured, "and we could, of course, invite Miss—"
She saw the difficulty and interrupted him:
"It's quite unnecessary; she'll think I have simply gone for a long walk." And soon they were speeding down the silent road, breathing the perfume of the pines.
Now a ride of an early spring morning, in Alabama, over a leisurely old plantation road and behind a spirited horse, is an event to be enjoyed. Add to this a man bred to be agreeable and outdoing his training, and a pretty girl gay with new-found companionship—all this is apt to make a morning worth remembering.
They turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of ploughed and tumbled fields, and other fields brown with the dead ghosts of past years' cotton standing straggling and weather-worn. Long, straight, or curling rows of ploughers passed by with steaming, struggling mules, with whips snapping and the yodle of workers or the sharp guttural growl of overseers as a constant accompaniment.
"They're beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop," he explained. "What a wonderful crop it is!" Mary had fallen pensive.
"Yes, indeed—if only we could get decent returns for it."
"Why, I thought it was a most valuable crop." She turned to him inquiringly. "It is—to Negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters."
"But why don't the planters do something?"
"What can be done with Negroes?" His tone was bitter. "We tried to combine against manufacturers in the Farmers' League of last winter. My father was president. The pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars."Miss Taylor was perplexed, but eager. "You must correspond with my brother, Mr. Cresswell," she gravely observed. "I'm sure he—" Before she could finish, an overseer rode up. He began talking abruptly, with a quick side-glance at Mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of surprised curiosity.
"That old nigger, Jim Sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain't showed up again this morning."
Cresswell nodded. "I'll drive by and see," he said carelessly.
The old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in his hands. He was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair. One leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a cowed and furtive look.
"Well, Uncle Jim, why aren't you at work?" called Cresswell from the roadside. The old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the cabin, and clutched off his cap.
"It's my leg again, Master Harry—the leg what I hurt in the gin last fall," he answered, uneasily.
Cresswell frowned. "It's probably whiskey," he assured his companion, in an undertone; then to the man:
"You must get to the field to-morrow,"—his habitually calm, unfeeling positiveness left no ground for objection; "I cannot support you in idleness, you know."
"Yes, Master Harry," the other returned, with conciliatory eagerness; "I knows that—I knows it and I ain't shirking. But, Master Harry, they ain't doing me