Part 4 (1/2)
”Ya.s.sah, dat's me, sah,” the negro laughed. ”I'se a great combination--ya.s.sah!”
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:
”Ya.s.sah!”
”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, Ma.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 embarra.s.sment 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 exceptionally good looking. He sang and danced and flirted, but beneath the fun and foolishness slumbered a fine spirit, tender, reverent, deeply religious.
It was this undercurrent of strength that drew the girl. He was always humming a song, his heart bubbling over with joy. He had never uttered an oath or touched a drop of liquor amid all the gaiety of the times in which he lived.
”Miss Mary,” he began slowly.
”Now Jeb,” she interrupted. ”You don't _have_ to, you know--”
Stuart threw his head back, laughed, and sang a stanza from ”Annie Laurie” in a low, tender voice. He paused and faced his fair tormentor.
”Miss Mary, I've got to!”
”You don't have to make love to me just because you're my brother's cla.s.smate--”
”You know I'm not!” he protested.
”You're about to begin.”
”But not for that reason, Miss Mary--”
He held her gaze so seriously that she blushed before she could recover her poise. He saw his advantage and pressed it.