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294 THE CRISIS

Thus it came about that he was on his way to Andy Wyatt's farm. For Andy was his mother's brother, and it was from here she had fled long ago. He was to be Andy's bookkeeper and general assistant. The cares of his estate were getting too heavy for the farmer, despite his robust health and virality. He wanted to train up a younger man to take up the burden when he should die, lest his wife and daughter be robbed by the unscrupulous of the fruits of his life's toil. Consequently, when Russell's letter of inquiry came unexpectedly to him one day, Andy asked the boy by return mail to come and live with him.

The buggy turned from the dusty road into a sheltered driveway and into the yard of Wyatt's home. It was a two-story frame building, typical of the old South. Around the doorway of the quaint old-fashioned porch twined honeysuckle and wild roses. Andy's wife, Clara, came out to meet him in her plain farmer's white clothes. His appearance surprised her. She had expected to see a very fair young man. But he was white, so white she was afraid, she was mistaken. Added to his natural complexion was the pallor of the city dweller and the indoor life. He kissed her in the simple Southern fashion, and she led the way into the front room which she had opened and aired for this occasion. Andy came in at the close of the day and the welcome was complete. Sitting that night before a wholesome country meal, Russell surveyed his new surroundings. He could see that these people were lovable, true and good, and he rejoiced that he was there. The household was small; the little girl, Ruby, 10 years of age, was the only other member.

Russell went to work daily with the men and worked along beside them. Though his bones ached night after night and he went wearily to bed, yet he perceived a quickening of strength, a healthier color in his face and a glow of vigor which he had never before known. He worked hard to please his uncle and his efforts won him not only esteem, but brought from the hearts of those two lovable people all that pent-up affection they had hoped to lavish on their own lost son.

A short way from the big house were the houses of tenants and immediate employees, and scattered here and there over these ten square miles were other tenant houses, barns and stables. A large ginhouse, around which were stored hundreds of bales of cotton, was down near the creek. The commissary at the back of Wyatt's house from which the whole section was fed completed the establishment. And a happy establishment it was. He had often heard of the songs of the Negroes on the farm. Coming home late in the evenings, as the sun died away to rest and all was clear and still, the men used to burst out into singing which floated off into the distance until the sweetness was absorbed by the trees and the flowers. He found himself joining in and singing with them. He had never seen such happy, care-free people. They were not troubled by any race problem, and bugaboo of social or political equality. They worked and earned their bread as God intended, lived in this out-of-doors all day and slept soundly at night and were happy. Ah! what he had missed away from this life so long. And now he was into it he meant to stay and live, forever and always, simple and honest as they. 

Some nights when he came home less fatigued in body and mind he would go into the front room of Andy's simple home and open the quaint old square piano that had lost none of its harmony, and accompany himself in some plaintive far-away song of the heart. His voice was a clear, sweet tenor and he had studied some at spare moments in New York. Sometimes, when he found himself drifting off into some sorrow song, little Ruby would come in quietly and lay her little head against him. "Don't play that way," she would say. "Do you think nobody loves you? Me and mama and papa all love you." 

"He is our boy now," Clara said as she laid her hand on her husband's shoulder one night; "we must be mother and father to him." 

"And such a boy!" responded Andy, his eyes glistening with pride. "Ah! he would make my old daddy feel good toward him, though he died heartbroken by his birth." He wiped away a tear, for the remembrance brought him sorrow. 

"He worked in the bottom to-day almost knee deep in the mud and water. Jones told me how all the men had fallen in love with him. It's the same everywhere; there isn't a man who wouldn't almost die for his mere approval. I think he's working too hard. To-morrow I'm going to send him off to Carter's for a change."

THE MAN WHO WON  295

Next day, in the dim gray light of morning, Russell set out to Carter's, ten miles away, on an errand of minor importance. He spent the middle of the day there and made an early start so as to be home in time to check off the incoming squad and to get the work planned for the morrow.

The ride had done him good and he felt at peace with the whole world. His errand quickly accomplished, and finding that he had plenty of time before him, he had let his pony drop into a walk and with his feet thrown carelessly on one side of the saddle he rode along singing. The woods caught up the echoes and sent his song back in grotesque snatches that made him laugh.

"How merry goes the day when the heart is young," he sang joyously, and rounding a corner of the woods he came upon another rider, a girl, fair of face and pretty, motionless in the road upon her horse and listening intently to his song. At sight of her he hesitated, then settling into his saddle prepared to strike up a faster gait and go on. But she stopped him.

"I heard you singing," she said in a soft, mellow voice, "and liked it; please don't stop; I want you to sing some more for me. I'm going your way, too" she added frankly.

Her simplicity and directness confused him. He scarcely knew how to reply, for instinctively he recognized her for whom she was: Colonel Edgefield's daughter Elsie. He had not seen either of these personages since his arrival here, though once in New York he had heard Edgefield speak to a large crowd in Cooper Union about the inherent inferiority of the Negro.

He tried to stammer out some reply to her words, but before he could do so something happened that made it unnecessary. Her pony, which had grown restless standing so long, seeing a rabbit cross the road, shied and jumped out of the roadway. He landed in a brush heap whose crackling twigs frightened him. Instantly he bounded down the road at full speed, the girl taken unawares, clinging desperately to the pommel of the saddle, the reins beyond her grasp.

It had happened so quickly that Russell did not take in the situation until horse and rider were started and making wildly for the steep rocky slope beyond the bend. But his own horse had felt the spirit of the chase and needed only the quick command, "Go, Benny, catch her!" Like a flash he sped after her and the woods echoed the clatter of horses' hoofs on the rugged road. Benny was young and just broken to the saddle and he could run. He was gaining on the girl every minute. But in the few seconds before Stanley took up the chase the girl's horse had covered several yards. Only a short distance away lay a rocky and treacherous slope, and if her horse took it at its present pace grim disaster would follow. No horse could hold its footing on that slope at even half such speed.

"Go, Benny! Go, boy, catch her!" he cried again into Benny's ears. One moment more and he dashed swiftly past her, grabbing the loosened reins as he went. It was the work of a few seconds then to stop both horses, dismount and lift her gently to the ground. She was nearly exhausted, but bore up bravely, refusing to faint, and shortly afterward was ready to resume her journey.

"How can I thank you?" she said simply.

"You should not ride so far alone and on such an animal," was his practical reply.

"Belle is usually good and gentle. I don't know what possessed her to-day. But I want my father to see you and thank you. I'm sure he would be happy to do so."

They had ridden quickly and were almost at the road that led off to Edgefield's home. "I live in that big house yonder," she said, pointing to a large white house half concealed behind a row of cedars leading up to the front door. "Won't you come up there now and let me introduce you to my father? His name is Colonel Edgefield, and I'm his daughter Elsie. But," she said hesitatingly, "I don't know your name yet."

"My name is Russell Stanley," he said slowly and firmly as he realized the crisis before him. "I live with my uncle, Andy Wyatt, across the way yonder. I cannot go with you because I'm a Negro and your father wouldn't like it."

She opened her eyes wide in astonishment and surprise, and looked at him strangely. "Why didn't you tell me this at first?" she demanded coldly. 

"You didn't give me a chance," he answered. "And then it ought not be necessary for me to tell it. I once heard your father say that there could be no mistaking Negro blood."

"That's quite true," she added, recovering her composure and becoming transformed in the minute. "My father was right. He hates Niggers and so do I." And touching the whip to her horse she was soon out of sight. 

(To be concluded in the May CRISIS)