The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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him to your party, Virginia,” she added mischievously.
“Do you think I would have him in my house?” cried Virginia.
Miss Russell was likewise courageous—“I don't see why not. You have Judge Whipple every Sunday dinner, and he's an Abolitionist.”
Virginia drew herself up.
“Judge Whipple has never insulted me,” she said, with dignity.
Puss gave way to laughter. Whereupon, despite her protests and prayers for forgiveness, Virginia took to her mare again and galloped off. They saw her turn northward on the Bellefontaine Road.
Presently the woodland hid from her sight the noble river shining far below, and Virginia pulled Vixen between the gateposts which marked the entrance to her aunt's place, Bellegarde. Half a mile through the cool forest, the black dirt of the driveway flying from Vixen's hoofs, and there was the Colfax house on the edge of the gentle slope; and beyond it the orchard, and the blue grapes withering on the vines—and beyond that fields and fields of yellow stubble. The silver smoke of a steamboat hung in wisps above the water. A young negro was busily washing the broad veranda, but he stopped and straightened at sight of the young horsewoman.
“Sambo, where's your mistress?”
“Clar t' goodness, Miss Jinny, she was heah leetle while ago.”
“Yo' git atter Miss Lilly, yo' good-fo'-nuthin' niggah,” said Ned, warmly. “Ain't yo' be'n raised better'n to stan' theh wif yo'mouf open?”
Sambo was taking the hint, when Miss Virginia called him back.
“Where's Mr. Clarence?
“Young Masr? I'll fotch him, Miss Jinny. He jes come home f'um seein' that thar trottin' hose he's gwine to race nex' week.”
Ned, who had tied Calhoun and was holding his mistress's bridle, sniffed. He had been Colonel Carvel's jockey in his younger days.
“Shucks!” he said contemptuously. “I hoped to die befo' the day a gemman'd own er trottah, Jinny. On'y runnin' hosses is fit fo' gemmen.”
“Ned,” said Virginia, “I shall be eighteen in two weeks and a young lady. On that day you must call me Miss Jinny.”
Ned's face showed both astonishment and inquiry.
“Jinny, ain't I nussed you always? Ain't I come upstairs to quiet you when yo' mammy ain't had no power ovah yo'? Ain't I cooked fo' yo', and ain't I followed you everywheres since I quit ridin' yo' pa's bosses to vict'ry? Ain't I one of de fambly? An' yit yo' ax me to call yo' Miss Jinny?”
“Then you've had privileges enough,” Virginia answered. “One week from to-morrow you are to say 'Miss Jinny.'”
“I'se tell you what, Jinny,” he answered mischievously, with an emphasis on the word, “I'se call you Miss Jinny ef you'll call me Mistah Johnson. Mistah Johnson. You aint gwinter forget? Mistah Johnson.”
“I'll remember,” she said. “Ned,” she demanded suddenly, “would you like to be free?”
The negro started.
“Why you ax me dat, Jinny?”
“Mr. Benbow's Hester is free,” she said.
“Who done freed her?”
Miss Virginia flushed. “A detestable young Yankee, who has come out here to meddle with what doesn't concern him. I wanted Hester, Ned. And you should have married her, if you behaved yourself.”
Ned laughed uneasily.
“I reckon I'se too ol' fo' Heste'.” And added with privileged impudence, “There ain't no cause why I can't marry her now.”
Virginia suddenly leaped to the ground without his assistance.
“That's enough, Ned,” she said, and started toward the house.
“Jinny! Miss Jinny!” The call was plaintive.
“Well, what?”
“Miss Jinny, I seed that than young gemman. Lan' sakes, he ain' look like er Yankee.”
“Ned,” said Virginia, sternly, “do you want to go back to cooking?”
He quailed. “Oh, no'm—Lan' sakes, no'm. I didn't mean nuthin'.”
She turned, frowned, and bit her lip. Around the corner of the veranda she ran into her cousin. He, too, was booted and spurred. He reached out, boyishly, to catch her in his arms. But she drew back from his grasp.
“Why, Jinny,” he cried, “what's the matter?”
“Nothing, Max.” She often called him so, his middle name being Maxwell. “But you have no right to do that.”
“To do what?” said Clarence, making a face.
“You know,” answered Virginia, curtly. “Where's Aunt Lillian?”
“Why haven't I the right?” he asked, ignoring the inquiry.
“Because you have not, unless I choose. And I don't choose.”
“Are you angry with me still? It wasn't my fault. Uncle Comyn made me come away. You should have had the girl, Jinny, if it took my fortune.”
“You have been drinking this morning, Max,” said Virginia.
“Only a julep or so,” he replied apologetically. “I rode over to the race track to see the new trotter. I've called him Halcyon, Jinny,” he continued, with enthusiasm. “And he'll win the handicap sure.”
She sat down on the veranda steps, with her knees crossed and her chin resting on her hands. The air was heavy with the perfume of the grapes and the smell of late flowers from the sunken garden near by. A blue haze hung over the Illinois shore.
“Max, you promised me you wouldn't drink so much.”
“And I haven't been, Jinny, 'pon my word,” he replied. “But I met old Sparks at the Tavern, and he started to talk about the horses, and—and he insisted.”
“And you hadn't the strength of character,” she said, scornfully, “to refuse.”
“Pshaw, Jinny, a gentleman must be a gentleman. I'm no Yankee.”
For a space Virginia answered nothing. Then she said, without changing her position:
“If you were, you might be worth something.”
“Virginia!”
She did not reply, but sat gazing toward the water. He began to pace the veranda, fiercely.
“Look here, Jinny,” he cried, pausing in front of her. “There are some things you can't say to me, even in jest.”
Virginia rose, flicked her riding-whip, and started down the steps.
“Don't be a fool, Max,” she said.
He followed her, bewildered. She skirted the garden, passed the orchard, and finally reached a summer house perched on a knoll at the edge of the wood. Then she seated herself on a bench, silently. He took a place on the opposite side, with his feet stretched out, dejectedly.
“I'm tired trying to please you,” he said. “I have been a fool. You don't care that for me. It was all right when I was younger, when there was no one else to take you riding, and jump off the barn for your amusement, Miss. Now you have Tom Catherwood and Jack Brinsmade and the Russell boys running after you, it's different. I reckon I'll go to Kansas. There are Yankees to shoot in Kansas.”
He did not see her smile as he sat staring at his feet.
“Max,” said she, all at once, “why don't you settle down to something? Why don't you work?”
Young Mr. Colfax's