The Man in Gray | Page 7

weaving the warm cloth.
"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.
"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."
"Isn't it expensive?"
"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our family for a hundred years."
They passed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt. Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged him.
"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"
"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."
They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from the doors.
Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.
"What is it?" Custis asked.
"You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks married?"
The Southern boy laughed heartily.
"I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation boy's life."
"But isn't it awful when they're separated?"
"They're not separated."
"Never?"
"Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress are our friends. It's not done in our set."
"You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?"
"If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But it's the custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an unheard-of thing among our people."
The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean. There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And birds were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly as they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the hill. They passed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks was the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.
Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about them lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and could not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.
Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.
Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was contagious. His voice was music.
The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.
"You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!"
"Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?"
"It was a great combination."
"Yassah, dat's me, sah," the negro laughed. "I'se a great combination--yassah!"
He paused and threw his head back as if to recall the words. Then in a voice rich and vibrant with care-free joy he burst into song:
"Yassah!"
"When I goes out ter promenade I dress so fine and gay I'm bleeged to take my dog along Ter keep de gals away."
Again his laughter rang in peals of sonorous fun. They joined in his laugh.
A stable boy climbed the fence and called:
"Don't ye want yer hosses, Marse Custis?" He was jealous of Sam's popularity.
Custis glanced at Phil.
"Sure. Let's ride."
"All right, Ned--saddle them."
The boy leaped to the ground and in five minutes led two horses to the gate. As they galloped past the house for the long stretch of white roadway that led across the river to the city, Phil smiled as he saw Jeb Stuart emerge from the rose garden with Mary Lee. Custis ignored the unimportant incident.
CHAPTER III
Stuart led Mary to a seat beneath an oak, brushed the dust away with his cap and asked her to honor him. He bowed low over her hand and dared to kiss it.
She passed the gallant act as a matter of course and sat down beside him with quiet humor. She knew the symptoms. A born flirt, as every true Southern girl has always been, she eyed his embarrassment with surprise. She knew that he was going to speak under the resistless impulse of youth and romance, and that no hearts would be broken on either side no matter what the outcome.
She watched him indulgently. She had to like him. He was the kind of boy a girl couldn't help liking. He was vital, magnetic and