"Miss Lou"
by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #5309 · 635,816 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: "Miss Lou"
Author: Edward Payson Roe
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5309]
Most recently updated: September 8, 2012
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5309
Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "MISS LOU" ***
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE
VOLUME NINE
"MISS LOU"
ILLUSTRATED
In Loving Dedication
TO LITTLE MISS LOU MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I A GIRL'S PROTEST
CHAPTER II SOMETHING HAPPENS
CHAPTER III MAD WHATELY
CHAPTER IV AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY
CHAPTER V WHATELY'S IDEA OF COURTSHIP
CHAPTER VI THE STORM BEGINS
CHAPTER VII DANGERS THICKENING
CHAPTER VIII "WHEN?"
CHAPTER IX PARALYZED WITH SHAME
CHAPTER X A BAFFLED DIPLOMATIST
CHAPTER XI AUN' JINKEY'S WARNING
CHAPTER XII A WHIRLWIND OF EVENTS
CHAPTER XIII THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
CHAPTER XIV A THREAT
CHAPTER XV MISS LOU EMANCIPATED
CHAPTER XVI A SMILE ON WAR'S GRIM FACE
CHAPTER XVII THE JOY OF FREEDOM
CHAPTER XVIII A WELL-AIMED SLIPPER
CHAPTER XIX A GIRL'S APPEAL
CHAPTER XX SCOVILLE'S HOPE
CHAPTER XXI TWO STORMS
CHAPTER XXII CHUNK'S QUEST
CHAPTER XXIII A BOLD SCHEME
CHAPTER XXIV A HOME A HOSPITAL
CHAPTER XXV A TRIBUTE TO A SOUTHERN GIRL
CHAPTER XXVI A BACKGROUND OF EGOTISM
CHAPTER XXVII AUN' JINKEY'S SUPREME TEST
CHAPTER XXVIII TRUTH IF THE HEAVENS FALL
CHAPTER XXIX "ANGEL OF DEATH"
CHAPTER XXX GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS
CHAPTER XXXI THE DUELLISTS VANQUISHED
CHAPTER XXXII SAD TIDINGS
CHAPTER XXXIII CONSPIRATORS
CHAPTER XXXIV CHUNK PLAYS SPOOK
CHAPTER XXXV A VISITATION
CHAPTER XXXVI UNCLE LUSTHAH EXHORTS
CHAPTER XXXVII A NEW ROUTINE
"MISS LOU"
CHAPTER I
A GIRL'S PROTEST
A great, rudely built stone chimney was smoking languidly one
afternoon. Leaning against this chimney, as if for protection and
support, was a little cabin gray and decrepit with age. The door of the
cabin stood wide open, for the warm spring was well advanced in the
South. There was no need of a fire, but Aun' Jinkey, the mistress of
the abode, said she "kep' hit bunin' fer comp'ny." She sat by it now,
smoking as lazily as her chimney, in an old chair which creaked as if
in pain when she rocked. She supposed herself to be in deep meditation,
and regarded her corncob pipe not merely a solace but also as an
invaluable assistant to clearness of thought. Aun' Jinkey had the
complacent belief that she could reason out most questions if she could
only smoke and think long enough. Unfortunately, events would occur
which required action, or which raised new questions before she had had
time to solve those originally presented; yet it would be hard to fancy
a more tranquil order of things than that of which she was a humble
part.
The cabin was shaded by grand old oaks and pines, through which the
afternoon sun shone in mild radiance, streaming into the doorway and
making a broad track of light over the uneven floor. But Aun' Jinkey
kept back in the congenial dusk, oblivious to the loveliness of nature
without. At last she removed her pipe from her mouth and revealed her
mental processes in words.
"In all my projeckin' dat chile's wuss'n old mars'r en miss, en de wah,
en de preachin'. I kin kin' ob see troo dem, en w'at dey dribin' at,
but dat chile grow mo' quare en on'countable eb'y day. Long as she wus
took up wid her doll en tame rabbits en pony dar wa'n't no
circum'cutions 'bout her, en now she am all circum'cution. Not'n gwine
'long plain wid her. She like de run down dar--but win' en win' ez ef
hit had ter go on, en hit couldn't mek up hits min' which way ter go.
Sometime hit larfin' in de sun en den hit steal away whar you kyant
mos' fin' hit. Dat de way wid Miss Lou. She seem right hyar wid us--she
only lil gyurl toder day--en now she 'clinin' to notions ob her own, en
she steal away to whar she tink no one see her en tink on heaps ob
tings. Won'er ef eber, like de run, she wanter go way off fum us?
"Ole mars'r en ole miss dunno en doan see not'n. Dey kyant. Dey tinks
de worl' al'ays gwine des so, dat means de way dey tink hit orter go.
Ef hit go any oder way, de worl's wrong, not dey. I ain' sayin' dey is
wrong, fer I ain' des tink dat all out'n. 'Long ez she keeps her foots
on de chalk line dey mark out dey ain' projeckin' how her min' go yere
en dar, zigerty-zag wid notions ob her own."
The door darkened, if the radiant girl standing on the threshold could
be said to darken any door. She did not represent the ordinary Southern
type, for her hair was gold in the sun and her eyes blue as the violets
by the brook. They were full of mirth now as she said: "There you are,
Aun' Jinkey, smoking and 'projeckin' as usual. You look like an old
Voudoo woman, and if I didn't know you as my old mammy--if I should
just happen in as a stranger, I'd be afraid of you."
"Voudoo ooman! How you talks, Miss Lou! I'se a member ob de Baptis'
Church, en you knows it."
"Oh, I know a heap 'mo'n dat,' as you so often say. If you were only a
member of the Baptist Church I wouldn't be running in to see you so
often. Uncle says a member of the Baptist Church has been stealing some
of his chickens."
"I knows some tings 'bout de members ob HE church," replied Aun'
Jinkey, with a toss of her head.
"I reckon you do, more than they would like to see published in the
county paper; but we aren't scandal-mongers, are we, Aun' Jinkey?" and
the young visitor sat down in the doorway and looked across the green
meadow seen through the opening in the trees. A dogwood stood in the
corner of the rail fence, the pink and white of its blossoms well
matching the girl's fair face and her rose-dotted calico gown, which,
in its severe simplicity, revealed her rounded outlines.
Aun' Jinkey watched her curiously, for it was evident that Miss Lou's
thoughts were far away. "Wat you tinkin' 'bout, Miss Lou?" she asked.
"Oh, I hardly know myself. Come, Aun' Jinkey, be a nice old witch and
tell me my fortune."
"Wat you want ter know yo' fortin fur?"
"I want to know more than I do now. Look here, Aun' Jinkey, does that
run we hear singing yonder go round and round in one place and with the
same current? Doesn't it go on? Uncle and aunt want me to go round and
round, doing the same things and thinking the same thoughts--not my own
thoughts either. Oh, I'm getting so tired of it all!"
"Lor' now, chile, I wuz des 'parin' you ter dat run in my min'," said
Aun' Jinkey in an awed tone.
"No danger of uncle or aunt comparing me to the run, or anything else.
They never had any children and don't know anything about young people.
They have a sort of prim, old-fashioned ideal of what the girls in the
Baron family should be, and I must become just such a girl--just like
that stiff, queer old portrait of grandma when she was a girl. Oh, if
they knew how tired of it all I am!"
"Bless yo' heart, Miss Lou, you ain' projeckin' anyting?"
"No, I'm just chafing and beating my wings like a caged bird."
"Now see yere, Miss Lou, isn't you onreason'ble? You hab a good home;
mars'r en miss monstus pius, en dey bringin' you up in de nurter en
'monitions ob de Lawd." "Too much 'monition, Aun' Jinkey. Uncle and
aunt's religion makes me so tired, and they make Sunday so awfully
long. Their religion reminds me of the lavender and camphor in which
they keep their Sunday clothes. And then the pages of the catechism
they have always made me learn, and the long Psalms, too, for
punishment! I don't understand religion, anyway. It seems something
meant to uphold all their views, and anything contrary to their views
isn't right or religious. They don't think much of you Baptists."
"We ain' sufrin' on dat 'count, chile," remarked Aun' Jinkey, dryly.
"There now, Aun' Jinkey, don't you see? Uncle owns you, yet you think
for yourself and have a religion of your own. If he knew I was thinking
for myself, he'd invoke the memory of all the Barons against me. I
don't know very much about the former Barons, except that my father was
one. According to what I am told, the girl Barons were the primmest
creatures I ever heard of. Then uncle and aunt are so inconsistent,
holding up as they do for my admiration Cousin Mad Whately. I don't
wonder people shorten his name from Madison to Mad, for if ever there
was a wild, reckless fellow, he is. Uncle wants to bring about a match,
because Mad's plantation joins ours. Mad acted as if he owned me
already when he was home last, and yet he knows I can't abide him. He
seems to think I can be subdued like one of his skittish horses."
"You HAB got a heap on yo' min', Miss Lou, you sho'ly hab. You sut'ny
t'ink too much for a young gyurl."
"I'm eighteen, yet uncle and aunt act toward me in some ways as if I
were still ten years old. How can I help thinking? The thoughts come.
You're a great one to talk against thinking. Uncle says you don't do
much else, and that your thoughts are just like the smoke of your pipe."
Aun' Jinkey bridled indignantly at first, but, recollecting herself,
said quietly: "I knows my juty ter ole mars'r en'll say not'n gin 'im.
He bring you up en gib you a home, Miss Lou. You must reckermember dat
ar."
"I'm in a bad mood, I suppose, but I can't help my thoughts, and it's
kind of a comfort to speak them out. If he only WOULD give me a home
and not make it so much like a prison! Uncle's honest, though, to the
backbone. On my eighteenth birthday he took me into his office and
formally told me about my affairs. I own that part of the plantation on
the far side of the run. He has kept all the accounts of that part
separate, and if it hadn't been for the war I'd have been rich, and he
says I will be rich when the war is over and the South free. He said he
had allowed so much for my bringing up and for my education, and that
the rest was invested, with his own money, in Confederate bonds. That
is all right, and I respect uncle for his downright integrity, but he
wants to manage me just as he does my plantation. He wishes to produce
just such crops of thoughts as he sows the seeds of, and he would treat
my other thoughts like weeds, which must be hoed out, cut down and
burned. Then you see he hasn't GIVEN me a home, and I'm growing to be a
woman. If I am old enough to own land, am I never to be old enough to
own myself?"
"Dar now, Miss Lou, you raisin' mo' questions dan I kin tink out in a
yeah."
"There's dozens more rising in my mind and I can't get rid of them.
Aunt keeps my hands knitting and working for the soldiers, and I like
to do it. I'd like to be a soldier myself, for then I could go
somewhere and do and see something. Life then wouldn't be just doing
things with my hands and being told to think exactly what an old
gentleman and an old lady think. Of course our side is right in this
war, but how can I believe with uncle that nearly all the people in the
North are low, wicked and vile? The idea that every Northern soldier is
a monster is preposterous to me. Uncle forgets that he has had me
taught in United States history. I wish some of them would just march
by this out-of-the-way place, for I would like to see for myself what
they are like."
"Dar, dar, Miss Lou, you gittin' too bumptious. You like de fus' woman
who want ter know too much."
"No," said the girl, her blue eyes becoming dark and earnest, "I want
to know what's true, what's right. I can't believe that uncle and
aunt's narrow, exclusive, comfortless religion came from heaven; I
can't believe that God agrees with uncle as to just what a young girl
should do and think and be, but uncle seems to think that the wickedest
thing I can do is to disagree with him and aunt. Uncle forgets that
there are books in his library, and books make one think. They tell of
life very different from mine. Why, Aun' Jinkey, just think what a
lonely girl I am! You are about the only one I can talk to. Our
neighbors are so far away and we live so secluded that I scarcely have
acquaintances of my own age. Aunt thinks young girls should be kept out
of society until the proper time, and that time seems no nearer now
than ever. If uncle and aunt loved me, it would be different, but they
have just got a stiff set of ideas about their duty to me and another
set about my duty to them. Why, uncle laughed at a kitten the other day
because it was kittenish, but he has always wanted me to behave with
the solemnity of an old cat. Oh, dear! I'm SO tired. I wish something
WOULD happen."
"Hit brokes me all up ter year you talk so, honey, en I bless de Lawd
'tain' likely any ting gwinter hap'n in dese yere parts. De wah am
ragin' way off fum heah, nobody comin' wid news, en bimeby you gits mo'
settle down. Some day you know de valley ob peace en quietness."
"See here, Aun' Jinkey," said the girl, with a flash of her eyes, "you
know the little pond off in the woods. That's more peaceful than the
run, isn't it? Well, it's stagnant, too, and full of snakes. I'd like
to know what's going on in the world, but uncle of late does not even
let me read the county paper. I know things are not going to suit him,
for he often frowns and throws the paper into the fire. That's what
provokes me--the whole world must go just to suit him, or else he is
angry."
"Well, now, honey, you hab 'lieve yo' min', en I specs you feel bettah.
You mus' des promis yo' ole mammy dat you be keerful en not rile up ole
mars'r, kase hit'll ony be harder fer you. I'se ole, en I knows tings
do hap'n dough dey of'un come slowlike. You des gwine troo de woods
now, en kyant see fur; bimeby you come ter a clearin'. Dat boy ob mine
be comin' soon fer his pone en bacon. I'se gwinter do a heap ob tinkin'
on all de questions you riz."
"Yes, Aun' Jinkey, I do feel better for speaking out, but I expect I
shall do a heap of thinking too. Good-by," and she strolled away toward
the brook.
CHAPTER II
SOMETHING HAPPENS
It was a moody little stream which Miss Lou was following. She did not
go far before she sat down on a rock and watched the murmuring waters
glide past, conscious meantime of a vague desire to go with them into
the unknown. She was not chafing so much at the monotony of her life as
at its restrictions, its negation of all pleasing realities, and the
persistent pressure upon her attention of a formal round of duties and
more formal and antiquated circle of thoughts. Only as she stole away
into solitudes like the one in which she now sat dreaming could she
escape from the hard materialism of routine, and chiding for idleness
usually followed. Her aunt, with an abundance of slaves at her command,
could have enjoyed much leisure, yet she was fussily and constantly
busy, and the young girl could not help feeling that much which she was
expected to do was a mere waste of time.
The serene beauty of the evening, the songs of the mocking and other
birds, were not without their effect, however, and she said aloud: "I
might be very happy even here if, like the birds, I had the heart to
sing--and I would sing if I truly lived and had something to live for."
The sun was approaching the horizon, and she was rising wearily and
reluctantly to return when she heard the report of firearms, followed
by the sound of swiftly galloping horses. Beyond the brook, on the
margin of which she stood, rose a precipitous bank overhung with vines
and bushes, and a few rods further back was a plantation road
descending toward a wide belt of forest. A thick copse and growth of
young trees ran from the top of the bank toward the road, hiding from
her vision that portion of the lane from which the sounds were
approaching. Suddenly half a dozen cavalrymen, whom she knew to be
Federals from their blue uniforms, galloped into view and passed on in
the direction of the forest. One of the group turned his horse sharply
behind the concealing copse and spurred directly toward her. She had
only time to throw up her hands and utter an involuntary cry of warning
about the steep bank, when the horse sprang through the treacherous
shrubbery and fell headlong into the stream. The rider saw his peril,
withdrew his feet from the stirrups, and in an instinctive effort for
self-preservation, threw himself forward, falling upon the sand almost
at the young girl's feet. He uttered a groan, shivered, and became
insensible. A moment or two later a band in gray galloped by wholly
intent upon the Federals, who had disappeared spurring for the woods,
and she recognized her cousin, Madison Whately, leading the pursuit.
Neither he nor any of his party looked her way, and it was evident that
the Union soldier who had so abruptly diverged from the road behind the
screening copse had not been discovered. The sounds died away as
speedily as they had approached, and all became still again. The
startled birds resumed their songs; the injured horse moved feebly, and
the girl saw that it was bleeding from a wound, but the man at her feet
did not stir. Truly something had happened. What should she do?
Breaking the paralysis of her fear and astonishment, she stepped to the
brook, gathered up water in her hands, and dashed it into the face of
the unconscious man. It had no effect. "Can he be dead?" she asked
herself in horror. He was as pale as his bronzed features could become,
and her woman's soul was touched that one who looked so strong, who had
been so vital a moment before, should now lie there in pathetic and
appealing helplessness. Was that fine, manly face the visage of one of
the terrible, bloodthirsty, unscrupulous Yankees? Even as she ran to
Aun' Jinkey's cottage for help the thought crossed her mind that the
world was not what it had been represented to her, and that she must
learn to think and act for herself.
As she approached, Chunk, Aun' Jinkey's grandson, appeared coming from
the mansion house. He was nicknamed "Chunk" from his dwarfed stature
and his stout, powerful build. Miss Lou put her finger to her lips,
glanced hastily around, and led the way into the cabin. She hushed
their startled exclamations as she told her story, and then said, "Aun'
Jinkey, if he's alive, you must hide him in your loft there where Chunk
sleeps. Come with me."
In a few moments all three were beside the unconscious form. Chunk
instantly slipped his hand inside the soldier's vest over his heart.
"Hit done beats," he said, quickly, and without further hesitation he
lifted the man as if he had been a child, bore him safely to the cabin,
and laid him on Aun' Jinkey's bed. "Hi, granny, whar dat hot stuff you
gib me fer de belly misery?"
Aun' Jinkey had already found a bottle containing a decoction of the
wild ginger root, and with pewter spoon forced some of the liquid into
the man's mouth. He struggled slightly and began to revive. At last he
opened his eyes and looked with an awed expression at the young girl
who stood at the foot of the bed.
"I hope you feel better now," she said, kindly.
"Are you--am I alive?" he asked.
"Dar now, mars'r, you isn't in heb'n yet, dough Miss Lou, standin' dar,
mout favor de notion. Des you took anoder swaller ob dis ginger-tea, en
den you see me'n Chunk ain' angels."
Chunk grinned and chuckled. "Neber was took fer one in my bawn days."
The young man did as he was bidden, then turned his eyes wistfully and
questioningly from the two dark visages back to the girl's sympathetic
face.
"You remember," she said, "you were being chased, and turned your horse
toward a steep bank, which you didn't see, and fell."
"Ah, yes--it's all growing clear. You were the woman I caught glimpse
of."
She nodded and said: "I must go now, or some one will come looking for
me. I won't speak--tell about this. I'm not on your side, but I'm not
going to get a helpless man into more trouble. You may trust Aun'
Jinkey and her grandson."
"Dat you kin, mars'r," Chunk ejaculated with peculiar emphasis.
"God bless you, then, for a woman who has a heart. I'm quite content
that you're not an angel," and a smile so lighted up the soldier's
features that she thought she had never seen a pleasanter looking man.
Worried indeed that she was returning so much later than usual, she
hastened homeward. Half-way up the path to the house she met a tall,
slender negro girl, who exclaimed, "Hi, Miss Lou, ole miss des gettin'
'stracted 'bout you, en mars'r sez ef you ain' at supper in five minits
he's gwine down to Aun' Jinkey en know what she mean, meckin' sech'
sturbence in de fambly."
"How absurd!" thought the girl. "Being a little late is a disturbance
in the family." But she hastened on, followed by the girl, who was
employed in the capacity of waitress. This girl, Zany by name, resented
in accordance with her own ideas and character the principle of
repression which dominated the household. She threw a kiss toward the
cabin under the trees and shook with silent laughter as she muttered,
"Dat fer you, Chunk. You de beat'nst nigger I eber see. You mos' ez
bro'd ez I is high, yit you'se reachin' arter me. I des like ter kill
mysef lafin' wen we dance tergeder," and she indulged in a jig-step and
antics behind Miss Lou's back until she came in sight of the windows,
then appeared as if following a hearse.
Miss Lou entered the rear door of the long, two-story house, surrounded
on three sides by a wide piazza. Mr. Baron, a stout, bald-headed old
gentleman, was fuming up and down the dining-room while his wife sat in
grim silence at the foot of the table. It was evident that they had
made stiff, old-fashioned toilets, and both looked askance at the
flushed face of the almost breathless girl, still in her simple morning
costume. Before she could speak her uncle said, severely, "Since we
have waited so long, we will still wait till you can dress."
The girl was glad to escape to her room in order that she might have
time to frame some excuse before she faced the inquisition in store for
her.
Constitutional traits often assert themselves in a manner contrary to
the prevailing characteristics of a region. Instead of the easy-going
habits of life common to so many of his neighbors, Mr. Baron was a
martinet by nature, and the absence of large, engrossing duties
permitted his mind to dwell on little things and to exaggerate them out
of all proportion. Indeed, it was this utter lack of perspective in his
views and judgments which created for Miss Lou half her trouble. The
sin of tardiness which she had just committed was treated like a great
moral transgression, or rather it was so frowned upon that it were hard
to say he could show his displeasure at a more heinous offence. The one
thought now in Mr. Baron's mind was that the sacred routine of the day
had been broken. Often there are no greater devotees to routine than
those who are virtually idlers. Endowed with the gift of persistence
rather than with a resolute will, it had become second nature to
maintain the daily order of action and thought which he believed to be
his right to enforce upon his household. Every one chafed under his
inexorable system except his wife. She had married when young, had
grown up into it, and supplemented it with a system of her own which
took the form of a scrupulous and periodical attention to all little
details of housekeeping. There was a constant friction, therefore,
between the careless, indolent natures of the slaves and the precise,
exacting requirements of both master and mistress. Miss Lou, as she was
generally called on the plantation, had grown up into this routine as a
flower blooms in a stiff old garden, and no amount of repression,
admonition and exhortation, not even in her younger days of punishment,
could quench her spirit or benumb her mind. She submitted, she yielded,
with varying degrees of grace or reluctance. As she increased in years,
her thoughts, as we have seen, were verging more and more on the border
of rebellion. But the habit of obedience and submission still had its
influence. Moreover, there had been no strong motive and little
opportunity for independent action. Hoping not even for tolerance, much
less for sympathy, she kept her thoughts to herself, except as she
occasionally relieved her mind to her old mammy, Aun' Jinkey.
She came into the dining-room hastily at last, but the expression of
her face was impassive and inscrutable. She was received in solemn
silence, broken at first only by the long formal grace which Mr. Baron
never omitted and never varied. In her rebellious mood the girl
thought, "What a queer God it would be if he were pleased with this old
cut-and-dried form of words! All the time uncle's saying them he is
thinking how he'll show me his displeasure."
Mr. Baron evidently concluded that his best method at first would be an
expression of offended dignity, and the meal began in depressing
silence, which Mrs. Baron was naturally the first to break. "It must be
evident to you, Louise," she said in a thin, monotonous voice, "that
the time has come for you to consider and revise your conduct. The fact
that your uncle has been kept waiting for his supper is only one result
of an unhappy change which I have observed, but have forborne to speak
of in the hope that your own conscience and the influence of your past
training would lead you to consider and conform. Think of the precious
moments, indeed I may say hours, that you have wasted this afternoon in
idle converse with an old negress who is no fit companion for you! You
are becoming too old--"
"Too old, aunt? Do you at last recognize the fact that I am growing
older?"
With a faint expression of surprise dawning in her impassive face Mrs.
Baron continued: "Yes, old enough to remember yourself and not to be
compelled to recognize the duties of approaching womanhood. I truly
begin to feel that I must forbid these visits to an old, ignorant and
foolish creature whose ideas are totally at variance with all that is
proper and right."
"Uncle thinks I have approached womanhood sufficiently near to know
something of my business affairs, and even went so far as to suggest
his project of marrying me to my cousin in order to unite in sacred--I
mean legal bonds the two plantations."
The two old people looked at each other, then stared at their niece,
who, with hot face, maintained the pretence of eating her supper.
"Truly, Louise," began Mr. Baron, solemnly, "you are indulging in
strange and unbecoming language. I have revealed to you your pecuniary
affairs, and I have more than once suggested an alliance which is in
accordance with our wishes and your interests, in order to prove to you
how scrupulous we are in promoting your welfare. We look for grateful
recognition and a wise, persistent effort on your part to further our
efforts in your behalf."
"It doesn't seem to me wise to talk to a mere child about property and
marriage," said the girl, breathing quickly in the consciousness of her
temerity and her rising spirit of rebellion.
"You are ceasing to be a mere child," resumed her uncle, severely.
"That cannot be," Miss Lou interrupted. "You and aunt speak to me as
you did years ago when I was a child. Can you expect me to have a
woman's form and not a woman's mind? Are women told exactly what they
must think and do, like little children? Aunt threatens to forbid
visits to my old mammy. If I were but five years old she couldn't do
more. You speak of marrying me to my cousin as if I had merely the form
and appearance of a woman, and no mind or wishes of my own. I have
never said I wanted to marry him or any one."
"Why, Louise, you are verging toward flat rebellion," gasped her uncle,
laying down his knife and fork.
"Oh, no, uncle! I'm merely growing up. You should have kept the library
locked; you should never have had me taught to read, if you expected me
to become the mere shell of a woman, having no ideas of my own."
"We wish you to have ideas, and have tried to inculcate right ideas."
"Which means only your ideas, uncle."
"Louise, are you losing your mind?"
"No, uncle, I am beginning to find it, and that I have a right to use
it. I am willing to pay all due respect and deference to you and to
aunt, but I protest against being treated as a child on one hand and as
a wax figure which can be stood up and married to anybody on the other.
I have patiently borne this treatment as long as I can, and I now
reckon the time has come to end it."
Mr. Baron was thunderstruck and his wife was feeling for her
smelling-bottle. Catching a glimpse of Zany, where she stood
open-mouthed in her astonishment, her master said, sternly, "Leave the
room!" Then he added to his niece, "Think of your uttering such wild
talk before one of our people! Don't you know that my will must be law
on this plantation?"
"I'm not one of your people," responded the girl, haughtily. "I'm your
niece, and a Southern girl who will call no man master."
At this moment there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for it to
be opened, a tall, lank man entered and said, hastily, "Mr. Baron, I
reckon there's news which yer orter hear toreckly." He was the overseer
of the plantation.
CHAPTER III
MAD WHATELY
Mr. Baron was one of the few of the landed gentry in the region who was
not known by a military title, and he rather prided himself on the
fact. "I'm a man of peace," he was accustomed to say, and his neighbors
often remarked, "Yes, Baron is peaceable if he has his own way in
everything, but there's no young blood in the county more ready for a
fray than he for a lawsuit." "Law and order" was Mr. Baron's motto, but
by these terms he meant the perpetuity of the conditions under which he
and his ancestors had thus far lived. To distrust these conditions was
the crime of crimes. In his estimation, therefore, a Northern soldier
was a monster surpassed only by the out-and-out abolitionist. While it
had so happened that, even as a young man, his tastes had been legal
rather than military, he regarded the war of secession as more sacred
than any conflict of the past, and was willing to make great sacrifices
for its maintenance. He had invested all his funds as well as those of
his niece in Confederate bonds, and he had annually contributed a large
portion of the product of his lands to the support of the army. Living
remote from the scenes of actual strife, he had been able to maintain
his illusions and hopes to a far greater extent than many others of
like mind with himself; but as the war drew toward its close, even the
few newspapers he read were compelled to justify their name in some
degree by giving very unpalatable information. As none are so blind as
those who will not see, the old man had testily pooh-poohed at what he
termed "temporary reverses," and his immunity from disturbance had
confirmed his belief that the old order of things could not materially
change. True, some of his slaves had disappeared, but he had given one
who had been caught such a lesson that the rest had remained quiet if
not contented.
The news brought by his overseer became therefore more disturbing than
the strange and preposterous conduct of his niece, and he had demanded
excitedly, "What on earth's the matter, Perkins?"
"Well, sir, fur's I kin mek out, this very plantation's been p'luted by
Yankee soldiers this very evenin'. Yes, sir."
"Great heavens! Perkins," and Mr. Baron sprang from his chair, then
sank back again with an expression suggesting that if the earth opened
next it could not be worse.
"Yes, sir," resumed Perkins, solemnly, "I drawed that much from Jute.
He seen 'em hisself. I noticed a s'pressed 'citement en talk in the
quarters this evenin', an' I follered hit right up an' I ast roun' till
I pinned Jute. He was over the fur side of the run lookin' fur a stray
crow, an' he seen 'em. But they was bein' chased lively. Mad
Whately--beg pardon--Mr. Madison was arter them with whip and spur.
Didn't yer hear a crack of a rifle? I did, and reckoned it was one o'
the Simcoe boys out gunnin', but Jute says hit was one o' our men fired
the shot, en that they chased the Yanks to'erds the big woods. They was
all mounted en goin' it lickity switch. The thing that sticks in my
crop isn't them few what Mr. Madison chased, but the main body they
belongs to. Looks as ef there's goin' to be a raid down our way."
"If that is so," said Mr. Baron, majestically, "Lieutenant Whately
proves that our brave men are not far off, either, and the way he
chased some of them shows how all the vile invaders will eventually be
driven out of the country. Be vigilant, Perkins, and let it be
understood at the quarters that Lieutenant Whately is within call."
The overseer bowed awkwardly and limped away. His lameness had secured
him immunity from military duty.
"Ah, that's a man for you," said Mr. Baron, glaring at his niece. "Your
cousin is a true scion of Southern chivalry. That is the kind of a man
you do not know whether you wish to marry or not--a brave defender of
our hearths and liberties."
"If he wishes to marry me against my will, he's not a defender of my
liberty," retorted the girl.
"If you had the spirit which should be your birthright your eyes would
flash with joy at the prospect of seeing a hero who could thus chase
your enemies from our soil. If you could only have seen him in his
headlong--"
"I did see him."
"What!"
"I saw Cousin Madison leading a dozen or more men in pursuit of half a
dozen. That does not strike me as sublimely heroic."
"Why haven't you told me of this? How could you have seen him?" and the
old man, in his strong excitement, rose from his chair.
"My reception when I entered was not conducive to conversation. I was
merely sitting by the run and saw both parties gallop past."
"You should have come instantly to me."
"I'm sure I came in hastily," she replied, crimsoning in the
consciousness of her secret, "but I was met as if I had been guilty of
something awful."
"Well, if I had known," began her uncle, in some confusion, mistaking
her color for an expression of anger.
"I think," remarked her aunt, coldly, "that Louise should have
recognized that she had given you just cause for displeasure by her
tardiness, unless it were explained, and she should have explained at
once. I have no patience with the spirit she is displaying."
But Mr. Baron's mind had been diverted to more serious and alarming
considerations than what he characterized mentally as "a girl's
tantrum."
"It makes my blood boil," he said, "to think that this Northern scum is
actually in our neighborhood, and might be at our doors but for my
brave nephew. Thanks to him, they met a righteous reception on this
plantation; thanks to him, in all probability, we are not now weltering
in our blood, with the roof that shelters us blazing over our heads. If
those marauders had found us unprotected, young woman, you would have
rued the day. Their capacity for evil is only equalled by their
opportunities. If your cousin had not flamed after them like an
avenging sword you might have cried loudly enough for the one of whom,
in your fit of unseemly petulance, you can speak so slightingly. I
advise you to go to your room and thank Heaven for your escape."
"Uncle, are the people of the North savages?"
"Its soldiers are worse than savages. Have you not heard me express my
opinion of them over and over again? Go to your room, and when you
appear again, I trust it will be with the meekness and submission
becoming in a young woman."
When the girl left Aun' Jinkey's cabin the young soldier looked after
her with an expression of deep interest. "Who is she?" he asked.
"Dat's Miss Lou," said the old negress, forcing into his mouth another
spoonful of her fiery decoction.
"Oh, that's enough, aunty, unless you wish to burn me out like a hollow
log," and he struggled to his feet to ease his tendency to strangle.
"Miss Lou? How should I know who she is?"
"Ob co'se," said Aun' Jinkey, dryly, "I ain' namin' her pedigree."
"You a Linkum man, ain' you?" Chunk asked, quickly.
"Yes, and Lincoln is a good friend of yours."
"Hi! I knows dat. W'at fer you so hidin'-in-de-grass, granny? No use
bein' dat away wid a Linkum man."
"I ain' talkin' 'bout my young mistis to folks ez drap down fum de
clouds."
"You wouldn't like me better if I came up from below, aunty. There now,
I'm not a very bad fellow, and I belong to the army that's going to
make you all free."
"I hasn't des tink out dis question ob bein' free yit. I'se too ole to
wuk much an' old mars'r's took keer on me long time."
"Well, I'se tink it out," put in Chunk, decidedly; "en I'se able to wuk
fer you en me too."
"You mighty peart, Chunk, co'tin' a gal lie a bean-pole a'ready. I
reck'n she spen' all you eber mek. You bettah boos' de Linkum man into
dat ar lof sud'n, kase ef Marse Perkins cotch 'im yere we all ain'
feelin' berry good bimeby."
"Dat ar truer'n preachin'," admitted Chunk, with alacrity. "Des you tek
hol' ob dem ladder rouns, mars'r, an' put yo' foots on my sho'lers.
Dat's hit. Nobody tink ob fin'in' you yere. I'se study how ter git yo'
hoss out of sight 'gin mawnin'."
"You stand by me, Chunk," said the soldier, "and you won't be sorry.
There's a lot of us coming this way soon, and I can be a good friend of
yours and all your people if you help me out of this scrape."
"I'se gwine ter stan' by you, boss. I'se mek up my min' ter be free dis
time, sho! Hi! w'at dat?"
He was wonderfully agile, for his arms were nearly as long as his legs.
In an instant he descended, drawing a trap-door after him. Then he
sauntered to the door, which he opened wide. A troop of horsemen were
coming single file by a path which led near the cabin, and the foremost
asked in a voice which the negro recognized as that of Lieutenant
Whately, "Is that you, Chunk?"
"Dat's me, mars'r. My 'specs."
"Be off, you skeleton. Make time for the house and help get supper for
me and the men. If you don't run like a red deer, I'll ride you down."
"Good Lawd! w'at gwine ter hap'n nex'?" groaned Chunk, as he
disappeared toward the mansion. He burst like a bombshell into the
kitchen, a small building in the rear of the house.
"Did you eber see de likes?" exclaimed Zany. "What yo' manners--"
"Hi, dar! talk 'bout manners! Marse Whately comin' wid a army, en want
supper fer um all in des one minute en er haf by de clock!"
Great, fat Aun' Suke threw up her hands in despair, and in the brief
silence the tramp of horses and the jingling of sabres were plainly
heard. They all knew Mad Whately, and it needed not that Mrs. Baron,
desperately flurried, should bustle in a few moments later with orders
that all hands should fly around. "What you doing here?" she asked
Chunk, sharply.
"I'se here ter hep, mistis. Dem's my orders from Marse Whately. He come
ridin' by granny's."
"Then go and kill chickens."
A few moments later the dolorous outcry of fowls was added to the
uproar made by the barking dogs.
With a chill of fear Miss Lou, in her chamber, recognized her cousin's
voice, and knew that he, with his band, had come to claim hospitality
at his uncle's hands. What complications did his presence portend?
Truly, the long months of monotony on the old plantation were broken
now. What the end would be she dared not think, but for the moment her
spirit exulted in the excitement which would at least banish stagnation.
In his secret heart Mr. Baron had hoped that his nephew would go on to
his own home, a few miles further; for applauding him as a hero was one
thing, and having him turn everything upside down at that hour another.
Routine and order were scattered to the winds whenever Mad Whately made
his appearance, but the host's second thoughts led him to remember that
this visitation was infinitely to be preferred to one from the terrible
Yankees; so he threw wide open the door, and, with his wife, greeted
his nephew warmly. Then he shouted for Perkins to come and look after
the horses.
"Ah, mine uncle," cried Whately, "where on earth is to be found a
festive board like yours? Who so ready to fill the flowing bowl until
even the rim is lost to sight, when your defenders have a few hours to
spare in their hard campaigning? You won't entertain angels unawares
to-night. You'd have been like Daniel in the den with none to stop the
lions' mouths, or rather the jackals', had we not appeared on the
scene. The Yanks were bearing down for you like the wolf on the fold.
Where's my pretty cousin?"
Mr. Baron had opened his mouth to speak several times during this
characteristic greeting, and now he hastened to the foot of the stairs
and shouted, "Louise, come down and help your aunt entertain our
guests." Meanwhile Whately stepped to the sideboard and helped himself
liberally to the sherry.
"You know me must maintain discipline," resumed Whately, as his uncle
entered the dining-room. "The night is mild and still. Let a long table
be set on the piazza for my men. I can then pledge them through the
open window, for since I give them such hard service, I must make
amends when I can. Ah, Perkins, have your people rub the horses till
they are ready to prance, then feed them lightly, two hours later a
heavier feed, that's a good fellow! You were born under a lucky star,
uncle. You might now be tied up by your thumbs, while the Yanks helped
themselves."
"It surely was a kind Providence which brought you here, nephew."
"No doubt, no doubt; my good horse, also, and, I may add, the wish to
see my pretty cousin. Ah! here she comes with the blushes of the
morning on her cheeks," but his warmer than a cousinly embrace and kiss
left the crimson of anger in their places.
She drew herself up indignantly to her full height and said, "We have
been discussing the fact that I am quite grown up. I will thank you to
note the change, also."
"Why, so I do," he replied, regarding her with undisguised admiration;
"and old Father Time has touched you only to improve you in every
respect."
"Very well, then," she replied, coldly, "I cannot help the touch of
Father Time, but I wish it understood that I am no longer a child."
"Neither am I, sweet cousin, and I like you as a woman far better."
She left the room abruptly to assist her aunt.
"Jove! uncle, but she has grown to be a beauty. How these girls blossom
out when their time comes! Can it be that I have been absent a year?"
"Yes, and your last visit was but a flying one."
"And so I fear this one must be. The Yanks are on the move, perhaps in
this direction, and so are we. It was one of their scouting parties
that we ran into. Their horses were fresher than ours and they
separated when once in the shadow of the woods. They won't be slow,
however, in leaving these parts, now they know we are here. I'm going
to take a little well-earned rest between my scoutings, and make love
to my cousin. Olympian humbugs! how handsome and haughty she has
become! I didn't think the little minx had so much spirit."
"She has suddenly taken the notion that, since she is growing up, she
can snap her fingers at all the powers that be."
"Growing up! Why, uncle, she's grown, and ready to hear me say, 'With
all my worldly goods I thee endow.'"
"But the trouble is, she doesn't act as if very ready."
"Oh, tush! she isn't ready to throw herself at the head of any one.
That isn't the way of Southern girls. They want a wooer like a cyclone,
who carries them by storm, marries them nolens volens, and then they're
happy. But to be serious, uncle, in these stormy times Lou needs a
protector. You've escaped for a long time, but no one can tell now what
a day will bring forth. As my wife, Cousin Lou will command more
respect. I can take her within our lines, if necessary, or send her to
a place of safety. Ah, here comes my blooming aunt to prepare for
supper."
"Welcome to The Oaks," she again repeated. "Never more welcome, since
you come as defender as well as guest."
"Yes, aunt; think of a red-whiskered Yank paying his respects instead
of me."
"Don't suggest such horrors, please."
The gentlemen now joined Miss Lou in the parlor, while under Mrs.
Baron's supervision Zany, and Chunk, as gardener and man-of-all-work,
with the aid of others soon set the two tables. Then began a procession
of negroes of all sizes bearing viands from the kitchen.
CHAPTER IV
AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY
Allan Scoville, for such was the Union soldier's name, fully realized
that he was in the enemy's country as he watched through a cranny in
the cabin the shadowy forms of the Confederates file past. Every bone
in his body ached as if it had been broken, and more than once he moved
his arms and legs to assure himself that they were whole. "Breath was
just knocked right out of me," he muttered. "I hope that's the worst,
for this place may soon become too hot for me. My good horse is not
only lost, but I may be lost also through him. That queer-looking
darky, Chunk, is my best hope now unless it is Miss Lou. Droll, wasn't
it, that I should take her for an angel? What queer thoughts a fellow
has when within half an inch of the seamy side of life! Hanged if I
deserve such an awakening as I thought was blessing my eyes on the
other side. From the way I ache, the other side mayn't be far off yet.
Like enough hours will pass before Chunk comes back, and I must try to
propitiate his grandam."
He crawled painfully to the trap-door and, finding a chink in the
boards, looked down into the apartment below. Aun' Jinkey was smoking
as composedly it might seem as if a terrible Yankee, never seen before,
was not over her head, and a band of Confederates who would have made
him a prisoner and punished her were only a few rods away. A close
observer, however, might have noticed that she was not enjoying languid
whiffs, as had been the case in the afternoon. The old woman had put
guile into her pipe as well as tobacco, and she hoped its smoke would
blind suspicious eyes if any were hunting for a stray Yankee. Chunk's
pone and bacon had been put near the fire to keep warm, and Scoville
looked at the viands longingly.
At last he ventured to whisper, "Aun' Jinkey, I am as hungry as a wolf."
"Hesh!" said the old woman softly. Then she rose, knocked the ashes
from her pipe with great deliberation, and taking a bucket started for
the spring. In going and coming she looked very sharply in all
directions, thus satisfying herself that no one was watching the cabin.
Re-entering, she whispered, "Kin you lif de trap-do'?"
Scoville opened it, and was about to descend. "No, you kyant do dat,"
interposed Aun' Jinkey, quickly. "Lie down up dar, en I han' you
Chunk's supper. He gits his'n at de big house. You's got ter play
possum right smart, mars'r, or you git cotched. Den we cotch it, too.
You 'speck I doan know de resk Chunk en me tookin?"
"Forgive me, Aunt Jinkey. But your troubles will soon be over and you
be as free as I am."
"I doesn't want no sech freedom ez you got, mars'r, hid'n en scrugin'
fum tarin' en rarin' red-hot gallopers ez Mad Whately en his men. Dey'd
des bun de ole cabin en me in't ef dey knowed you's dar. Bettah stop
yo' mouf wid yo' supper."
This Scoville was well contented to do for a time, while Aun' Jinkey
smoked and listened with all her ears. Faint sounds came from the house
and the negro quarters, but all was still about the cabin. Suddenly she
took her pipe from her mouth and muttered, "Dar goes a squinch-owl
tootin'. Dat doan mean no good."
"Aunt Jinkey," said Scoville, who was watching her, "that screech-owl
worries you, doesn't it?"
"Dere's mo' kin's ob squinch-owls dan you 'lows on, mars'r. Some toots
fer de sake ob tootin' en some toots in warnin'."
"That one tooted in warning. Don't be surprised if you hear another
very near." He crawled to the cranny under the eaves and Aun' Jinkey
fairly jumped out of her chair as she heard an owl apparently hooting
on the roof with a vigor and truth to nature that utterly deceived her
senses. Scoville repeated the signal, and then crept back to the chink
in the floor. The old woman was trembling and looking round in dismayed
uncertainty. "There," he said, with a low laugh, "that squinch-owl was
I, and the first you heard was one of my men. Now, like a good soul,
make pones and fry bacon for five men, and you'll have friends who will
take good care of you and Chunk."
"De Lawd he'p me! w'at comin' nex'? Miss Lou wuz a wishin' sump'n ud
hap'n--w'at ain' gwinter hap'n?"
"Nothing will happen to harm you if you do as I say. Our men may soon
be marching this way, and we'll remember our friends when we come."
"I des hope dere'll be sump'n lef ob me ter reckermember," said Aun'
Jinkey, but she rose to comply with the soldier's requirement, feeling
that her only course was to fall in with the wishes of whoever happened
to be uppermost in the troublous times now foreseen. She was in a
terribly divided state of mind. The questions she had smoked and
thought over so long now pressed with bewildering rapidity and urgency.
An old family slave, she had a strong feeling of loyalty to her master
and mistress. But they had been partially alienating Miss Lou, for whom
she would open her veins, while her grandson was hot for freedom and
looked upon Northern soldiers as his deliverers. Aun' Jinkey was not
sure she wished to be delivered. That was one of the points she was not
through "projeckin'" about. Alas! events would not wait for her
conclusions, although more time had been given her than to many others
forced to contemplate vast changes. With a shrewd simplicity she
decided that it would be wise to keep on friendly terms with all the
contending powers, and do what in her judgment was best for each.
"Hit des took all de 'visions we got," she remarked, disconsolately.
"You'll soon have visions of more to eat and wear than ever blessed
your eyes," said Scoville, encouragingly.
"Hi! granny," said Chunk, peeping in at the door.
"How you start me!" ejaculated the old woman, sinking into her chair.
"That you, Chunk?" asked Scoville. "Is the coast clear?"
"I reck'n. Keep shy yet a while, mars'r." A few words explained the
situation, and Chunk added: "You des feed dem Yankees big, granny. I'se
pervide mo'. I mus' go now sud'n. Made Aun' Suke b'lebe dat I knowed ob
chickens w'at roos' in trees, en dey tinks I'se lookin' fer um. High
ole times up ter de house," and he disappeared in the darkness.
In nervous haste Aun' Jinkey prepared the ample supper. Scoville hooted
again, a shadowy form stole to the cabin for the food, and disappeared
again toward the run. Then Aun' Jinkey prepared to compose her nerves
by another smoke.
"Hand me up a coal for my pipe, also," said Scoville, "and then we'll
have a sociable time."
"I des feared onsosh'ble times dis eb'nin'," remarked Aun' Jinkey.
"If you knew how my bones ached, you'd help me pass the time."
"Reck'n mine ache, too, 'fo' I troo wid dis bus'ness."
"No, Aunt Jinkey, you won't be punished for doing a good deed. Your
young mistress is on your side, anyway. Who is she?"
"Young mistis ain' got no po'r ef dey fin's out. She nuff ter do ter
hol' 'er own."
"How comes it she's friendly to 'we uns,' as you say down here?"
"She ain' friendly. You drap at her feet ez ef you wuz dead, en she hab
a lil gyurlish, soft heart, dat's all. Didn't she tole you dat she ain'
on yo' side?"
"Well, bless her heart, then."
"I circumscribe ter dat ar."
"Aren't you on our side?"
"I'se des 'twix en 'tween all de sides."
"You're all right, Aunt Jinkey. I'd trust you with my life."
"Reck'n you hab ter dis eb'nin'."
"Well, about Miss Lou--you say she has trouble to hold her own. How's
that?"
"Dem's fambly matters."
"And so none of my business, unless she tells me herself."
"How she gwine ter tol' you tings?"
"Ah, Aunt Jinkey, you've vegetated a great while in these slow parts. I
feel it in my bones, sore as they are, that some day I'll give you a
new dress that will make you look like a spike of red hollyhocks.
You'll see changes you don't dream of."
"My haid whirlin' now, mars'r. Hope ter grashus I kin do my wuk
ter-morrer in peace and quietness."
There was neither peace nor quietness at the mansion. Whately, with a
soldier's instincts to make the most of passing opportunities, added to
the hasty tendencies of his own nature, was not only enjoying the
abundant supper, but feasting his eyes meantime on the charms developed
by his cousin in his absence. He knew of his uncle's wish to unite the
two plantations, and had given his assent to the means, for it had
always been his delight to tease, frighten, and pet his little cousin,
whose promise of beauty had been all that he could desire. Now she
evoked a sudden flame of passion, and his mind, which leaped to
conclusions, was already engaged in plans for consummating their union
at once. He sought to break down her reserve by paying her extravagant
compliments, and to excite her admiration by accounts of battles in
which he would not have posed as hero so plainly had he not been
flushed with wine. There was an ominous fire in her eyes scarcely in
accord with her cool demeanor. Unused to the world, and distrusting her
own powers, she made little effort to reply, taking refuge in
comparative silence. This course encouraged him and her uncle. The
former liked her manifestation of spirit as long as he believed it to
be within control. To his impetuous, imperious nature the idea of a
tame, insipid bride was not agreeable; while Mr. Baron, still under the
illusion that she was yet but a submissive child, thought that her bad
mood was passing and would be gone in the morning. He little dreamed
how swiftly her mind was awakening and developing under the spur of
events. She did not yet know that her cousin was meditating such a
speedy consummation of his purpose, but was aware that he and all her
relatives looked upon her as his predestined wife. Now, as never
before, she shrank from the relation, and in the instinct of
self-preservation resolved never to enter into it.
Her long, rebellious reveries in solitude had prepared her for this
hour, and her proud, excited spirit surprised her by the intensity of
its passionate revolt. Not as a timid, shrinking maiden did she look at
her cousin and his men feasting on the piazza. She glanced at him, then
through the open windows at their burly forms, as one might face a
menace which brought no thought of yielding.
The family resemblance between Whately and herself was strong. He had
her blue eyes, but they were smaller than hers, and his expression was
bold, verging toward recklessness. Her look was steady and her lips
compressed into accord with the firm little chin.
Mrs. Baron's ideas of decorum soon brought temporary relief. She also
saw that her nephew was becoming too excited to make a good impression,
so she said, "Louise, you may now retire, and I trust that you will
waken tomorrow to the truth that your natural guardians can best direct
your thoughts and actions."
Whately was about to rise in order to bid an affectionate good-night,
but the girl almost fled from the room. In the hall she met Chunk, who
whispered, "Linkum man gittin' peart, Miss Lou."
"She'll be over her tantrum by morning," said Mr. Baron in an
apologetic tone. "Perhaps we'll have to humor her more in little
things."
"That's just where the trouble lies, uncle. You and aunt have tried to
make her feel and act as if as old as yourselves. She's no longer a
child; neither is she exactly a woman. All young creatures at her age
are skittish. Bless you, she wouldn't be a Baron if she hadn't lots of
red, warm blood. So much the better. When I've married her she'll
settle down like other Southern girls."
"I think we had better discuss these matters more privately, nephew,"
said Mrs. Baron.
"Beg pardon, I reckon we had, aunt. My advice, however, is that we act
first and discuss afterward."
"We'll talk it over to-morrow, nephew," said Mr. Baron. "Of course as
guardian I must adopt the best and safest plan."
Chunk's ears were long if he was short, and in waiting on a soldier
near the window he caught the purport of this conversation.
CHAPTER V
WHATELY'S IDEA OF COURTSHIP
When waiting on the table, Zany either stood like an image carved out
of black walnut or moved with the angular promptness of an automaton
when a spring is touched. Only the quick roll of her eyes indicated how
observant she was. If, however, she met Chunk in the hall, or anywhere
away from observation, she never lost the opportunity to torment him. A
queer grimace, a surprised stare, an exasperating derisive giggle, were
her only acknowledgments of his amorous attentions. "Ef I doesn't git
eben wid dat niggah, den I eat a mule," he muttered more than once.
But Chunk was in great spirits and a state of suppressed excitement.
"'Pears ez ef I mout own mysef 'fo' dis moon done waxin' en wanin'," he
thought. "Dere's big times comin,' big times. I'se yeard w'at hap'n
w'en de Yanks go troo de kentry like an ol bull in a crock'ry sto'." In
his duties of waiting on the troopers and clearing the table he had
opportunities of purloining a goodly portion of the viands, for he
remembered that he also had assumed the role of host with a very meagre
larder to draw upon.
Since the Confederates were greatly wearied and were doubly inclined to
sleep from the effects of a hearty supper and liberal potations, Mr.
Baron offered to maintain a watch the early part of the night, while
Perkins was enjoined to sleep with one eye open near the quarters.
Mattresses and quilts were brought down and spread on the piazza floor,
from which soon rose a nasal chorus, "des like," as Chunk declared, "a
frog-pon' in full blas'."
Whately, trained in alert, soldierly ways, slept on the sofa in the
parlor near his men. One after another the lights were extinguished,
and the house became quiet. Chunk was stealing away with his plunder
through the shrubbery in the rear of the house, when he was suddenly
confronted by Zany. "Hi! you niggah!" she whispered, "I'se cotch you
now kyarin' off nuff vittles ter keep you a mont. You gwinter run away."
"You wan ter run wid me?" asked Chunk, unabashed.
"What you took me fer?"
"Fer better er wuss, w'ite folks say. Reck'n it ud be fer wuss in dis
case."
"I reck'n de wuss ain' fur off. I des step ter ole mars'r an' tell 'im
ter 'vestigate yo' cabin dis eb'nin'," she said, and, with a great show
of offended dignity, she was about to move away.
"Look yere, Zany, doan yer be a fool. Doan you wanter be a free gyurl?"
"Ef you had me fer wuss I'd be des 'bout ez free ez Miss Lou w'en she
mar'ed ter Mad Whately."
"Hi! you year dat, too?"
"I got eyes, en I got years, en you ain' gwinter light out dis night en
lebe yo' granny en we uns. I sut'ny put a spoke in yo' wheel dat stop
hits runnin'."
Chunk was now convinced that he would have to take Zany into his
confidence. He looked cautiously around, then whispered rapidly in her
ear. "Hi!" she exclaimed, softly, "you got longer head dan body."
"I kin reach ter yo' lips," said Chunk, snatching a kiss.
"Stop dat foolishness!" she exclaimed, giving him a slight cuff.
"Zany, keep mum ez a possum. Dere's big times comin', en no un kin
hender um, dough dey kin git deysefs in a heap ob trouble by
blarnations. De Linkum men soon gwine ter be top of de heap an I'se
gwinter be on top wid um. Dar you be, too, ef you stan's by Miss Lou en
me."
"Ve'y well, but I'se gwinter keep my eye on you, Marse Chunk."
"Reck'n you will, kaze I am' gwinter be fur off; en ef you puts yo' eye
on some oder man, you soon fin' he ain' dar." With this ominous
assurance he stole away.
Soon afterward the hoot of an owl was heard again; shadows approached
the cabin; Scoville, assisted by Chunk, joined them, and there was a
whispered consultation. Scoville put the result in the following words:
"The chance is a good one, I admit. It is quite possible that we could
capture the Johnnies and their horses, but that's not what we're out
for. Besides, I'm too badly broken up. I couldn't ride to-night. You
must go back to camp, and leave me to follow. Chunk here has provisions
for you. Better be moving, for Whately will probably be out looking for
you in the morning."
So it was decided, and the shadows disappeared. Scoville was put into
Aun' Jinkey's bed, the old woman saying that she would sit up and
watch. Chunk rubbed the bruised and aching body of the Union scout till
he fell asleep, and then the tireless negro went to the spot where the
poor horse had died in the stream. He took off the saddle and bridle.
After a little consideration he diverted the current, then dug a hole
on the lower side of the animal, rolled him into it, and changed the
brook back into its old channel. Carefully obliterating all traces of
his work, he returned to the cabin, bolted the door, lay down against
it so that no one could enter, and was soon asleep.
The next morning dawned serenely, as if Nature had no sympathy with the
schemes and anxieties to which the several actors in our little drama
wakened. Whately was early on foot, for he felt that he had much to
accomplish. Mr. Baron soon joined him, and the young man found in his
uncle a ready coadjutor in his plans. They were both in full accord in
their desires, although governed by different motives. The old man was
actuated by his long-indulged greed for land, and wholly under the
dominion of his belief that one of the chief ends of marriage was to
unite estates. In this instance he also had the honest conviction that
he was securing the best interests of his niece. No one could tell what
would happen if the invaders should appear, but he believed that the
girl's future could best be provided for in all respects if she became
the wife of a Confederate officer and a representative of his family.
Sounds of renewed life came from all directions; the troopers rolled up
their blankets, and went to look after their horses; Mrs. Baron bustled
about, giving directions for breakfast; Chunk and Zany worked under her
eye as if they were what she wished them to be, the automatic
performers of her will; Aun' Suke fumed and sputtered like the bacon in
her frying-pan, but accomplished her work with the promptness of one
who knew that no excuses would be taken from either master or mistress;
Miss Lou dusted the parlor, and listened stolidly to the gallantries of
her cousin. He was vastly amused by her reserve, believing it to be
only maidenly coyness.
Breakfast was soon served, for Whately had announced to Mr. Baron his
intention of scouting in the woods where the Federals had disappeared;
also his purpose to visit his home and summon his mother to his
contemplated wedding. He and his men soon rode away, and the old house
and the plantation resumed their normal quiet aspect.
It had been deemed best not to inform Miss Lou of her cousin's
immediate purpose until his plans were a little more certain and
matured. Circumstances might arise which would prevent his return at
once. Moreover, he had petitioned for the privilege of breaking the
news himself. He believed in a wooing in accordance with his nature,
impetuous and regardless at the time of the shy reluctance of its
object; and it was his theory that the girl taken by storm would make
the most submissive, contented and happy of wives; that women secretly
admired men who thus asserted their will and strength, if in such
assertion every form was complied with, and the impression given that
the man was resistless because he could not resist the charms which had
captivated him. "Why, uncle," he had reasoned, "it is the strongest
compliment that a man can pay a woman, and she will soon recognize it
as such. When once she is married, she will be glad that she did not
have to hesitate and choose, and she will always believe in the man who
was so carried away with her that he carried her away. My course is
best, therefore, on general principles, while in this particular
instance we have every reason for prompt action. Lou and I have been
destined for each other from childhood, and I'm not willing to leave
her to the chances of the hurly-burly which may soon begin. As my wife
I can protect her in many ways impossible now."
CHAPTER VI
THE STORM BEGINS
Of late years Aun' Jinkey's principal work had been the fine washing
and ironing of the family, in which task she had always been an adept.
For this reason she had been given the cabin near the run and an
unusually fine spring. Miss Lou felt a kindly solicitude and not a
little curiosity in regard to the man who in a sense had been thrown at
her feet for protection. So gathering up some of her laces, she made
them an excuse for another visit to Aun' Jinkey. Mrs. Baron readily
acquiesced, for she felt that if there was to be a wedding, the whole
house must be cleaned from top to bottom. Moreover, by such occupation
her mind could be diverted from the dire misgivings inspired by the
proximity of Yankees. Under the circumstances, it would be just as well
if her niece were absent.
As the girl passed down through the shrubbery, she found Chunk
apparently very busy. Without looking up he said, "Doan be afeard, Miss
Lou, I'se be on de watch. Marse Linkum man right peart dis mawnin'."
Aun' Jinkey was at her washtub near the door, and the cabin presented
the most innocent aspect imaginable. "Good-morning," said the girl,
affably. "How is your patient?"
"Recovering rapidly, thanks to your kindness and the good friends in
whose care you placed me," answered a hearty voice from the doorway.
Aun' Jinkey made a sort of rush to the door, exclaiming in tones that
were low, yet almost stern, "Marse Linkum man, ef you show yo'sef--ef
you doan stay by dat ar ladder so you git up sud'n, I des troo wid dis
bus'ness! Tain' far ter dem w'at's reskin' dere bodies en a'most dere
souls!"
"You are right, aunty," said Scoville, retreating. "It's wrong for me
to do anything which might bring trouble to you or Chunk; but I was so
eager to thank this other good Samaritan--"
"Well, den, sit by de ladder dar, en Miss Lou kin sit on de do'step.
Den a body kin feel tings ain' comin' ter smash 'fo' dey kin breve."
"Good Samaritan!" repeated Miss Lou, taking her old place in the
doorway where she had so recently wished something would happen; "you
have not fallen among thieves, sir."
"My fear has been that you would think that a thief had fallen among
the good Samaritans. I assure you that I am a Union soldier in good and
regular standing."
"I reckon my uncle and cousin would scout the idea that you, or any of
your army, had any standing whatever."
"That does not matter, so that I can convince you that I would not do
or say anything unbecoming a soldier."
"You are a Yankee, I suppose?" she asked, looking at him with strong
yet shyly expressed interest.
"I suppose I am, in your Southern vernacular. I am from New York State,
and my name is Allan Scoville."
"Uncle says that you Yankees are terrible fellows."
"Do I look as if I would harm you, Miss Lou? Pardon me, I do not know
how else to address you."
"Address me as Miss Baron," she replied, with a droll little assumption
of girlish dignity.
"Well, then, Miss Baron, you have acted the part of a good angel toward
me."
"I don't like such talk," she replied, frowning. "You were merely
thrown helpless at my feet. You didn't look as if you could do the
South much harm then. What I may feel to be my duty hereafter--"
"I have no fears at all of what YOU may do," he interrupted, with a
smile that made his expression very pleasing.
"How so?"
"Because you are incapable of betraying even an enemy, which I am not
to you. On the contrary, I am a grateful man, who would risk his life
to do you a service. The little unpleasantness between the North and
South will pass away, and we shall all be friends again."
"My uncle and cousin--indeed all the people I know--will never look
upon you Northern soldiers as friends."
"Never is a long time. I certainly feel very friendly toward you."
"I wish you to know that I am a Southern girl," she replied stiffly,
"and share in the feelings of my people."
"Well, I'm a Northern man, and share in the feelings of my people.
Can't we agree that this is fair and natural in each case?"
"But why do you all come marauding and trampling on the South?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Baron, but your question opens up all the
differences between the two sections. I have my views, but am not a
politician--simply a soldier. You and I are not at war. Let us talk
about something else. With your brave cousin enlisting your sympathies
against our side, what use would there be of my saying anything?"
"My brave cousin does not enlist any of my sympathies; but that,
certainly, is a matter which we cannot talk about."
"Pardon, but your reference to him made it natural--"
"There is no need of speaking of him," she interrupted, coldly. "I
merely meant that he and those with him in what you slightingly term an
unpleasantness can never be friendly to you. This war may be a small
thing to you, but suppose your home and family were in danger, as ours
are?"
"Can you think that this war is a holiday to me?" he asked, gravely.
"What stands between me now and death--perhaps a shameful and horrible
death--except your kindly, womanly impulses? I am hourly in danger of
being caught and treated as a spy."
"Oh, I didn't realize it," said the girl, simply and kindly.
"Everything looks so quiet and lovely. Aun' Jinkey, there, my old
mammy, is at work just as I have seen her for years, and Chunk is busy
yonder in the garden. It is hard to think how suddenly all might
change."
"A soldier must think and be prepared."
"Have you no fear?"
"Life is sweet to me. I know only one thing--I must do my duty and
trust in God. I have the consolation that no one is dependent on me; no
one would grieve for me very much. I'm quite alone in the world. My
crusty old guardian would inherit my property, and you may well guess
that Aunt Jinkey's tub yonder would hold all his tears if I should make
a sudden exit," and again he smiled in his pleasant way, as if with the
purpose to relieve his words of all sombreness.
"Are you an orphan, too?" she asked sympathetically.
"Such a mature, fully developed orphan as I am is not an object of
pity, Miss Baron," he replied, laughing. Then he added, a little
proudly: "I'm nearly twenty-two; I was twenty-one on my last birthday,
and I celebrated it by a ride only less risky than the one which landed
me at your feet. But your little word 'too' suggests that you are
somewhat alone, also. I hope that your father was not killed in this
war?"
"No, my father and mother died long before the war."
"I am glad of that--not glad that they died, but that you cannot
associate me with the causes of their death."
"But you and yours have caused death and suffering to so many Southern
people!"
"Yes, I'm sorry it is so, but things are pretty even on that score.
Your men give as many blows as they take."
"Why did you enter the army?"
"I suppose for about the same reasons that your cousin did."
"Oh, you aren't like my cousin at all. I don't wish you to keep
referring to him."
"Well, then, I thought it was right. There was an urgent call for men
and strong public feeling. I was at college. I couldn't see others go
and not go with them. I had no influence, no one to push my interests,
so I simply enlisted, and am trying to push my way by extra services.
Now, Miss Baron, think for yourself a little. Here we are, two young
people thrown together by a strange chance. We have been brought up
differently, surrounded by different influences. Even if you think me
wrong, can you not believe that I've followed my conscience and lived
up to such light as I had? I can believe this of you. I don't wish you
to think that we Yankees are monsters. Do I look like a monster? Why,
Miss Baron, if I should live to be a hundred years I should regard a
chance to do you a kindness as the best good-fortune that could befall
me."
As he spoke these words his face flushed, there was a slight quiver in
his dark mustache, betokening deep, honest feeling, and his expression
was one of frank admiration and respect. She looked at him in silent
wonder, and asked herself, "Can this be one of the Yankees of whom I
have heard such horrible things?"
She began saying, "I am trying to think for myself, but I have been so
shut out from the world that--" when she was suddenly interrupted.
Chunk appeared and said, "Marse Scoville, des git up de ladder en shut
de trap-do' quicker'n lightnin'. Miss Lou, kin'er peramberlate slow
to'rd de house, des nachel like ez ef you ain' keerin' 'bout not'n.
Wash away, granny. Play possum, ev'y one."
Miss Lou had gone but a little way before Mad Whately joined her,
having ordered his men to pass on before. "Chunk," he shouted, "take my
horse and rub him well, or you'll get rubbed down yourself."
The openings under the eaves in Aun' Jinkey's cabin were so many and
large that Scoville had fairly good opportunities for observing what
was going on in the immediate vicinity. In witnessing the meeting
between Whately and Miss Lou he was conscious of a peculiar
satisfaction when noting that her manner confirmed her words. The
dashing cousin evidently was not in favor. "Well," thought the scout,
with a decisive little nod toward him, "were I a young Southerner,
you'd have a rival that would put you to your best speed. What a
delicious little drawl she has in speaking, and how charmingly her
consonants shade off into vowels! I would be more readily taken for a
Southerner than she, if I did not speak. How blue her eyes are! and her
fluffy hair seemed a golden halo when the sunshine touched it through
the trees. And then how unsophisticated her face and expression! She is
a lady from instinct and breeding, and yet she is but a sweet-faced
child. Well! well! it was an odd chance to be pitched to the feet of a
girl like that. Very possibly I'd be there again of my own free will
should I see her often enough."
If Scoville were a rival now he certainly would have to take a wild
pace to keep up with Mad Whately in his wooing. His eyes were full of
resolute fire as he walked beside his cousin, and her quick intuition
took speedy alarm at his expression. "Well, sweet coz," he said, "the
Yanks have very prudently dusted back to the region from which they
came. My mother will give herself the pleasure of a visit at The Oaks
this afternoon. Can you guess her object in coming?"
"Why, as you say, to give herself the pleasure of a visit."
"Yes, and you and I will enhance her pleasure a thousand-fold."
"I shall do all that I can in courtesy."
"I'll do the rest, for I shall gladden her heart by marrying you."
"What!"
"Simply that, nothing more. Isn't that enough?"
"Far too much," replied the girl, hotly. "I don't like such jesting."
"Faith and it will prove the best joke of our lives, over which we will
often laugh at our fireside hereafter. Come now, cousin, make the best
of it; it is the best for you as well as for me. You know I always
intended to marry you, and I have the hearty sanction of all the high
contracting powers."
She stopped abruptly in the path, her face so rich in angry color that
it shamed the flowers blooming in the shrubbery near.
"Mr. Whately," she said, firmly, "there is one contracting power that
you have not consulted. How can you marry me when I WILL not marry you?"
"Nothing easier, pretty coz."
"But how--how?"
"Oh, that you will learn at the proper time. Everything shall go as
simply, naturally and merrily as fate. The blessing of parent and
guardian, the clergyman in robes, prayer-book, wedding feast--nothing
shall be wanting."
"This is absurd talk," she cried, and rushed to the house. In the upper
hall she encountered her aunt engaged in superintending a general
dusting and polishing of the old-fashioned furniture.
"What is the meaning of this wild talk of Cousin Madison?" the girl
asked, breathlessly.
"I've heard no wild talk," was the cool response.
"Well, come into my room and hear it, then."
Mrs. Baron reluctantly followed, rather aggrieved that she must bear
the first brunt of the storm.
"What are you putting the house in such wonderful order for?" asked
Miss Lou, with flashing eyes. "What do all these preparations mean?
What is Aunt Whately coming here for this evening?"
"It is very natural she should wish to be present at her son's
wedding," was the quiet and exasperating answer.
"When is this wedding to be?" was the next query, accompanied by a
harsh laugh.
"I think we can be ready by to-morrow evening."
"Are you a woman, that you can thus try to sacrifice the motherless
girl committed to your charge?"
"So far from sacrificing you, I am trying to further your best
interests, and at the same time carrying out the wishes of my husband
and your guardian. These are solemn times, in which you need every
safeguard and protection. We should be faithless, indeed, to our trust
did we not give a brave soldier the best right in the world to shield
and care for you."
"Bah!" cried the girl, now almost furious. "Where's uncle?"
"In his office, I suppose."
Whately had preceded her thither, and had already made known to Mr.
Baron the nature of his interview with his cousin, adding: "Our best
policy will be just to take our course as a matter of course, in a
genial, friendly way. We certainly are the girl's best friends, and it
won't be long before she acknowledges the fact. All we do is to secure
her safety, welfare and happiness. She will be as skittish as a blooded
filly over it all at first--a feature in the case which only increases
my admiration and affection. She doesn't and can't realize the need of
the step, how it's best for all concerned in general and herself in
particular. The thing to do, therefore, is to go right straight along.
Mother will be here this evening, and will do much toward talking her
into it. Lou's anger and revolt will probably be well over by
to-morrow, and all--"
Further predictions were interrupted by the swift entrance of the girl.
She stood still a moment and regarded the two men in silent scorn. "So
you are plotting?" she said at last.
"Oh, dear, no, sweet coz. Nothing is more foreign to my nature than
plotting. I am a man of action."
"If your words have any truth or meaning, you are bent on very
dishonorable action."
"Far from it. I shall have the sanction of both Church and State."
"This, then, is the boasted Southern chivalry of which I have heard so
much."
"It has been knightly in all times to protect and rescue lovely woman."
"I need no protection, except against you. Please leave the room. I
wish to speak to uncle."
He attempted to kiss her hand as he passed out, but she snatched it
away. "Uncle," she said, coming directly to him, "can it be that you
sanction anything so wicked as this? It seems as if you and aunt were
permitting my cousin to put upon me a cruel practical joke."
"Ahem! Your very words, Louise, prove how unfit you are to judge and
act in accordance with this emergency. You even dream that we are in a
mood for jesting at this time, when our days and even hours may be
numbered. No, indeed. I am resolved to unite with my protection all the
power and dignity vested in a Confederate officer."
"In other words, to shield me against some possible danger you will try
to inflict on me the worst thing that could happen."
"Hoity-toity! Is an honorable marriage which has always been
contemplated the worst that could happen? If we are driven forth by
hordes of Northern vandals, you would think it the best thing that had
happened."
"I don't fear these Northern vandals. I have"--and then she checked
herself in time.
"You don't fear them! Why, Louise, every word you speak makes it more
imperative that I should act for one so utterly inexperienced and
ignorant."
"Do you actually mean to say that you will try to marry me against my
will?"
"Certainly, against your present will. Do you suppose that I can be
guided in my solemn trust by your petulance, your ignorant notions of
life, and your almost childish passion? In France, the most civilized
country in the world, parents and guardians arrange these affairs as a
matter of course, and with the best results. It is the general method
all over the world. Far more than mere family and pecuniary interests
are concerned in this instance. We are giving you a protector in the
time of your deepest need."
"How could Lieutenant Whately protect me if the Yankees should come in
numbers?"
"In more ways than you can imagine. Moreover, he would probably be
permitted to escort you and your mother to a place of safety. You would
have his name, and the name of a Confederate officer would always
entitle you to respect."
"Oh, this is dreadful!" cried the girl, bewildered and almost paralyzed
by the old man's inexorable words and manner. So unsophisticated was
she, so accustomed to be governed, that the impression was strong that
she could be controlled even in this supreme crisis.
She rushed into the parlor, where her cousin was striding up and down
in a whirl of the glad excitement so congenial to his spirit. "Cousin
Madison," she exclaimed, "I know you are hasty and impetuous, but
generous impulses should go with such a nature. You surely will not use
your advantage against an orphan girl?"
"No, indeed, dear coz, not against, but for you. I love you too well to
leave you to the chances of war."
"Oh, but this is the certainty of evil. You know I do not love you. If
you would wait--if you would give me time to think it all over--"
"Why, so you shall when I've escorted you and mother to some place
where none can molest or make you afraid."
"Escort me, then, as I am, under your mother's care. Truly this would
be a better way to win my heart than such hasty violence to all my
feelings and wishes."
"My dear Louise, you may think me a hasty, inconsiderate wooer to-day,
but that is because you do not know all that I know. I must, like your
guardians, be guided by your best welfare. When you learn to know me as
a kind, loyal, considerate husband, you will appreciate my most
friendly and decisive action at this time. You are in great danger; you
may soon be homeless. In the case of one so young and fair as you are,
those who love you, as you know I do passionately, must act, not in
accordance with your passing mood, but in a way to secure your peace
and honor for all time."
"Oh, this is all a terrible dream! You can--you can protect me as your
cousin, should I need any such protection, which I cannot believe.
Northern soldiers are not savages. I know it! I know it!"
"How can you know it? Have I not seen more of them than you have? I
tell you that for the honor of our house I shall and will give you the
protection of my name at once. Your uncle and aunt feel as strongly as
I do about it, and your happiness will be the only result. We Southern
people take no chances in these matters."
Overwhelmed, frightened, bewildered, the girl left the room and
mournfully climbed to her own apartment. She was too utterly absorbed
in her own desperate plight to observe Zany whisking away in the
background.
CHAPTER VII
DANGERS THICKENING
Mr. Baron was scarcely less miserable than his ward, yet from wholly
different causes. His anxieties concerning her were deep indeed, his
very solicitude impelling him toward the plan which he was eager to
consummate. He was distracted by fears and forebodings of every kind of
evil; he was striving to fortify his mind against the dire misgiving
that the Confederacy was in a very bad way, and that a general breaking
up might take place. Indeed his mental condition was not far removed
from that of a man who dreads lest the hitherto immutable laws of
nature are about to end in an inconceivable state of chaos. What would
happen if the old order of things passed away and the abominable
abolitionists obtained fall control? He felt as if the door of Dante's
Inferno might be thrown wide at any moment. There was no elasticity in
his nature, enabling him to cope with threatening possibilities; no
such firmness and fortitude of soul as he might be required to exercise
within the next few hours. To start with, he was wretched and
distracted by the breaking up of the methodical monotony of his life
and household affairs. Since general wreck and ruin might soon ensue,
he had the impulses of those who try to secure and save what is most
valuable and to do at once what seems vitally important. Amid all this
confusion and excitement of mind his dominant trait of persistence
asserted itself. He would continue trying to the last to carry out the
cherished schemes and purposes of his life; he would not stultify
himself by changing his principles, or even the daily routine of his
life, as far as he could help himself. If events over which he had no
control hastened action, such action should be in harmony with previous
purpose to the extent of his power. The plan, therefore, of marrying
his niece immediately to her cousin doubly commended itself to him. It
would throw around her additional safeguards and relieve him in part
from a heavy responsibility; it would also consummate one of the
cherished intentions of his life. Things might take a happy turn for
the better, and then just so much would be gained and accomplished.
Thus he reasoned, and his nephew spared no pains in confirming his
views. The truth urged by his niece that she did not love her cousin
seemed a small matter to the unemotional, legal mind of the old man
when safety and solid interests were concerned. "A child like Louise,"
he said, "must be taken care of, not humored." Mrs. Baron had long
since formed the habit of yielding complete deference to her husband,
and now was sincerely in accord with his views. She had never had much
heart; her marriage had satisfied her ambition, had been pleasing to
her kith and kin, and she saw no good reason why her niece should not,
under any circumstances, form a similar union. That the girl should
revolt now, in the face of such urgent necessity, was mere
perverseness. Sharing in her husband's anxieties and fears, she found
solace and diversion of mind in her beloved housekeeping. Neither of
the old people had the imagination or experience which could enable
them to understand the terror and distress of their niece, whom with
good intentions they were driving toward a hated union.
Dinner was served two hours later than usual--a fact in itself very
disturbing to Mr. Baron; while Aun' Suke, compelled to cook again for
the Confederate troopers, was in a state of suppressed irritation,
leading her satellites to fear that she might explode. Small, pale and
bloodless as "ole miss" appeared, none of her domestics dared to rebel
openly; but if any little darky came within the reach of Aun' Suke's
wooden spoon, she relieved her feelings promptly. In dining-room and
kitchen, therefore, was seething and repressed excitement. The very air
was electric and charged with rumors.
Perkins, the overseer, was at his wits' end, also, about the
field-hands. They were impassive or sullen before his face, and
abounding in whispers and significant glances behind his back. What
they knew, how much they knew, he could not discover by any ingenuity
of questioning or threatening, and he was made to feel that excessive
harshness might lead to serious trouble. Disturbing elements were on
all sides, in the air, everywhere, yet he could not lay his finger on
any particular culprit.
Of all the slaves on the plantation, Chunk appeared the most docile and
ready to oblige every one. He waited on the Confederate troopers with
alacrity, and grinned at their chaffing with unflagging good-nature. In
all the little community, which included an anxious Union scout, Chunk
was about the most serene and even-pulsed individual. Nature had
endowed him with more muscle than nerves, more shrewdness than
intellect, and had quite left out the elements of fear and imagination.
He lived intensely in the present; excitement and bustle were congenial
conditions, and his soul exulted in the prospect of freedom. Moreover,
the fact that he had proved himself to Zany to be no longer a mere
object for ridicule added not a little to his elation. Shrewd as
himself, she was true to her word of keeping an eye on him, and she was
compelled to see that he was acting his part well.
Miss Lou positively refused to come down to dinner. She had buried her
face in her pillow, and was almost crying her eyes out; for in the
confusion of her mind, resulting from her training and inexperience,
she feared that if all her kin insisted on her marriage, and gave such
reasons as had been urged upon her, she must be married. She was sorely
perplexed. Could the Yankees be such ravening wolves as her uncle and
cousin represented them to be? Certainly one was not, but then he might
be different from the others because he had been to college and was
educated.
"He said he would be glad to do me any kindness," she sobbed. "Oh, if
he could only prevent this marriage! Yet what can he do? I could not
even speak to a stranger of my trouble, much less to a Northern
soldier. I wish I could see my old mammy. She's the only one who in the
least understands me and feels a little like a mother toward me. Oh,
what a dreadful thing to be a motherless girl at such a time!"
The powers below stairs concluded that it would be best to leave Miss
Lou to herself for a time, that she might think over and become
reconciled to the need and reasonableness of their action, but Mrs.
Baron considerately sent up her dinner by Zany. The unhappy girl shook
her head and motioned the tray away.
"Hi, now, Miss Lou, w'at you tookin on so fer?" asked the diplomatic
Zany.
"For more than you can understand."
"I un'erstan's a heap mo'n you tink," said Zany, throwing off all
disguise in her strong sympathy. "Marse Whately des set out ter mar'y
you, ez ef you wuz a post dat cud be stood up en mar'd to enybody at
eny time. Hi! Miss Lou, I'se bettah off dan you, fer I kin pick en
choose my ole man."
"Everybody in the world is better off than I am."
"I wudn't stan' it, Miss Lou. I sut'ny wudn't. I'd runned away."
"How could I run away? Where could I go to?"
"See yere, Miss Lou," and Zany sank her voice to a whisper, "dere's a
Linkum man"--
"Hush! how did you know that?"
"Chunk en me's fren's. Don' be 'feard, fer I'd like ter see de gyurl
dat kin beat me playin' possum. Dat Linkum man he'p you ter run away."
"For shame, Zany! The idea of my going away with a stranger!"
"'Pears to me I'se rudder runned away wid one man dan hab anoder man
runned away wid me."
"Don't ever speak to me of such a thing again."
"Well, den, Miss Lou, de niggahs on dis plantashon des lub you, en dey
ain' hankerin' arter Marse Whately. Ef you say de wud, I des belebe dey
riz right up again dis mar'age."
"Oh, horrible!" said the girl, in whose mind had been instilled the
strong and general dread of a negro insurrection. "There, Zany, you and
Chunk mean kindly, but neither you nor any one can help me. If either
does or says anything to make a disturbance I'll never forgive you. My
cousin and the men with him would kill you all. I'd rather be left
alone, for I must think what to do."
"I ain' sayin' not'n, Miss Lou, sence dat yo' 'quest, but doan you gib
up," and Zany took her departure, resolving to have a conference with
Chunk at the earliest possible moment.
The impossible remedies suggested by Zany depressed Miss Lou all the
more, for they increased her impression of the hopeless character of
her position. She felt that she was being swept forward by
circumstances hard to combat, and how to resist or whether she could
resist, were questions which pressed for an immediate answer. She
possessed a temperament which warned her imperatively against this
hasty marriage, nor was there any hesitancy in her belief that it would
blight her young life beyond remedy. She was not one to moan or weep
helplessly very long, however, and the first gust of passion and grief
having passed, her mind began to clear and face the situation. Looking
out of her window, she saw that her cousin and his men were mounted and
were about to ride away again. Having waited till they had disappeared,
she bathed her eyes and then descended to her uncle.
"Where has Lieutenant Whately gone?" she asked.
"Your cousin does not forget, even at such a time, that he is a
soldier, and he is scouting the country far and wide. Moreover, it is
his intention to ask the Rev. Dr. Williams to be here to-morrow
evening, and a few friends also. I trust that by that time your
perverse mood will pass away, and that you will unite with your kindred
in their efforts in your behalf."
"Is there no use of reasoning with you, uncle--no use of pleading with
you?"
Perkins stood in the door and knocked to announce his presence.
"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Baron, nervously.
"Have you heard anything, sir?"
"Good heavens, no! Heard what?"
"Well, sir, I dunno. The field-hands are buzzing like bees, en I kyant
get nothin' out of 'em."
"Well, Perkins, be watchful. Do your best. God only knows what's
coming. You are well armed, I suppose?"
"You may reckon that, sir, en I'll use 'em too, ef need be. The hands
are cute, mighty cute. I kyant lay my finger on any one in particular,
but they're all a sort of bilin' up with 'citement."
"Best to stay among them and be stern and vigilant." When Perkins
withdrew Mr. Baron said to his niece with strong emotion, "You see we
are beset with danger, and you talk of reasoning and pleading against
my best efforts for your safety. There! I'm too harassed, too
overwhelmed with weighty subjects for consideration, to discuss this
matter further. I must give my attention to securing some papers of
vital importance."
Miss Lou departed with the feeling that dangers were thickening on
every hand, and that she was only one of the causes for anxiety in her
uncle's mind. She knew it would be useless to say anything to her aunt;
and with a longing for a little sympathy and advice, she resolved on
another visit to her old mammy, Aun' Jinkey.
The Union soldier had a remote place in the background of her thoughts,
and yet she felt that it was preposterous to hope for anything from him.
CHAPTER VIII
"WHEN?"
The vigilant eyes and constant demands of her mistress prevented Zany
from giving Chunk more than a few significant hints, but he was quick
to comprehend the situation. When he saw Miss Lou bending her steps
toward his granny's cottage, he thanked his stars that the garden was
in that direction also, and soon apparently was very busy at a good
point from which to observe the cabin. In view of the approaching
wedding Mrs. Baron had given Aun' Jinkey much to do, and she was busily
ironing when Miss Lou again stood within the door. The old woman's
fears had been so greatly aroused that she had insisted that Scoville
should remain in the loft. "Folks 'll be comin' en gwine all the
eb'nin', en ole miss hersef mout step dis away."
At the same time her heart ached for the young girl. At sight of the
sweet, troubled face the faithful creature just dropped into a chair,
and throwing her apron over her head, rocked back and forth, moaning
"You po' chile, you po' chile!"
"Yes, mammy," cried Miss Lou, forgetting for the moment that a stranger
was within hearing. "I'm in desperate straits, and I don't know what to
do."
The trap-door was lifted instantly, and Scoville was about to descend.
"You mustn't do dat!" exclaimed Aun' Jinkey. "We's all in mis'ry anuff
now."
"I hope that in no sense I am the cause of it," said Scoville,
earnestly.
"Oh, no," replied Miss Lou, wiping her eyes hastily, "not directly.
Pardon me, I forgot for the moment that you were here. My trouble is
with my family, and you have nothing to do with it except as you
Yankees are coming South and making trouble of every kind."
"Well, Miss Baron," said the scout, regarding her sympathetically
through the open door, "it is too late to talk about our coming South.
Isn't there something I can do for you, to show my gratitude and
good-will?"
"Oh, no, indeed!"
"De bes' ting you kin do, Marse Scoville, is ter shet dat do' an' kep
still; den git back ter yo' folks soon ez you kin trabble. We uns got
des ez much ez we kin stan' up un'er, en ef dey foun' you yere, hit ud
be de worl' comin' ter smash."
"If Miss Baron would tell me her trouble, she might find that I am not
so powerless to help as I seem. Since she has done so much for me, I
have a certain kind of right to do what I can in return."
"You forget, sir, that we are strangers and aliens."
"No one is an alien to me from whom I am accepting life and safety,"
and his glance was so kind and friendly that, in her dire extremity,
she was induced to ask a question.
"If you feel that you owe anything to me," she said, hesitatingly,
"tell me truly, if your people came to this plantation, would our home
be burned and we all be in danger of insult and death?"
"Is that all you fear?" he asked, smiling.
"But answer me on your word and honor."
"No, Miss Baron, not from our regular troops. There are vile wretches
connected with all armies, on your side as well as ours, who act
without orders or any control except their lawless will. If you and
your friends are tortured by the fear of Northern soldiers, should they
come this way, you may set your mind comparatively at rest. I must add,
however, that our troops have to live off the country, and so take food
for man and beast. They also help themselves to better horses when they
find them. I have told you the truth. Why, believe me, Miss Baron, I
would defend you with my life against any one."
"Oh, dear!" cried the girl, with another rush of tears, "my uncle
believes that our house will be burned and we all murdered, and they
are going to marry me to my cousin against my will, so that he can take
me to a place of safety."
"When?" asked Scoville, excitedly.
"To-morrow evening."
Aun' Jinkey in her trepidation had stepped to the door, and there, sure
enough, was Mrs. Baron coming down the path with her hand full of
crumpled muslins. She had appeared so silently and suddenly before
Chunk that he had started and stared at her. When he tried to edge off
toward the cabin, she had said, sharply, "Keep at your work. What is
the matter with you? I reckon your granny is smoking instead of doing
my work," and she hastened her steps to surprise the supposed
delinquent.
Entering the cabin, she saw only Aun' Jinkey ironing, and her niece
sitting with her handkerchief to her face. "Ah!" said the old lady to
her laundress, "I'm glad you realize the importance of doing my work
when it's needed." Then followed a few brief directions in regard to
the articles she had brought. "Louise, I wish you to come with me. This
is no place for you," concluded Mrs. Baron, turning to depart.
The girl rose and followed submissively, for she was overwhelmed by a
confused sense of danger, not merely to the Union soldier, but also to
her old mammy, who was sheltering him. The extremity of her fears and
the fact that Chunk had not come to warn them led her to dread that her
aunt's suspicions were already aroused. Chunk gave her a very anxious
look as she passed, but she only shook her head slightly, as much as to
say, "I don't know."
The negro's elation and confidence now passed utterly; he became deeply
alarmed, not only for the scout, but for himself and grandmother as
well. He was not long in coming to a decision. Whately and his troopers
were absent, and now, perhaps, was the best time to act. After
satisfying himself that he was not observed, he slipped away to the
cabin.
When Mrs. Baron finally disappeared, Aun' Jinkey sank into a chair
almost in a state of collapse. "O good Lawd!" she gasped, "I des
tremblin' so in my knee-jints I kyant stan'."
"Courage, Aunt Jinkey," said Scoville, through the chink in the floor.
"Try to get Chunk here as soon as possible."
"I des done beat. I kyant lif my han' no mo'."
"Granny," said Chunk, sauntering in, "you des watch at de do'," and
without waiting for a word he went up the ladder, lifted the door and
closed it.
"Ah, Chunk, I wanted you badly," said Scoville. "Do you think it
possible for me to get away at once?"
"Dat des w'at I come ter see 'bout, mars'r, en I'se gwine wid you.
Marse Whately and he men all done gone till eb'nin'."
"Well, there's no need of further words. See what you can do about
getting horses and a good start. I will explain on the way. Hoot like
an owl when the coast is clear and you are ready."
A few moments later Chunk emerged from the cabin, with careless mien,
eating a pone of hoecake.
"Go back to yer work," shouted Perkins, who was passing in the distance.
This Chunk did, his eyes following the overseer until the hated form
was lost to sight in a distant field where a squad of hands were at
work. Perkins was simply trying to be ubiquitous that day. Chunk's next
step was to steal to the rear of the stables. To his delight he found
that Whately had left his horse in order that it might rest for further
hard service, and had borrowed one of his uncle's animals for the
afternoon ride. As Chunk was stealthily putting on a bridle, a gruff
voice asked, "What yer doin' thar?"
The negro's heart stood still. Turning quickly, he saw, to his dismay,
one of the Confederate soldiers lying on a pile of straw. A closer
scrutiny revealed that the man was drowsy from partial intoxication,
and Chunk, feeling that he was in for it now, said boldly: "Marse
Whately tole me at dinner ter tek his hoss ter de run fer a drink en
ter limber his jints 'bout dis time in de eb'nin'."
"Very well; bring 'im back safe en sud'n or I'll make you a head
shorter'n you air."
"Ob co'se, mars'r, I do ez I tol'. I des ride ole bay down, too. Mout
ez well took 'im ter water de same time."
The soldier making no response Chunk slipped away with the horses,
trembling as if in an ague fit. Nothing was left for him now but to get
away and take his chances. Fortune in this instance, as it often does,
favored the bolder course. The Confederate soldier was familiar with
Chunk, since he had been the waiter at the troopers' mess; moreover,
his faculties were confused and blunted and he was soon asleep again.
Perkins' back was turned and every one at the mansion deeply
preoccupied. Even Zany, who had been charged not to leave the
dining-room, was not on the watch.
Chunk hastened the horses down the lane toward the run, which having
reached, he looked cautiously around, then hooted in fairly successful
imitation of the ominous bird of night. Aun' Jinkey dropped into her
chair again with an ejaculation of terror.
"Look out of the door and tell me if you see any one," said Scoville,
quickly.
Mechanically she obeyed, saying, "No, mars'r, but dat squinch-owl des
shook me like a ghos'."
Before she knew it he was beside her, his eyes shining with excitement.
"There," he said, putting into the hand he pressed a ten-dollar bill,
"I'll see you again, and you won't be sorry. Good-by," and with a swift
glance around he strode away toward the run. A moment or two later he
was mounted on the bare back of Mad Whately's horse, following Chunk
down the stream so that the flowing water might obliterate the
hoof-prints. They soon left the water and put their horses to a gallop
toward the forest, within whose shades they disappeared. Both had
deemed best not to tell Aun' Jinkey of their departure, so that she
might honestly plead ignorance.
With the unerring instinct of a scout the soldier led the way hour
after hour toward the point where he expected to find the Union cavalry
force. On the way he and Chunk compared notes, and thus Scoville more
truly understood Miss Lou's position. "We must be back to-morrow
afternoon," he said, "in time to prevent this marriage. So, Chunk, be
careful. You must not get sleepy or let your horse stumble."
Leaving them to pursue their way to the northwest, we can return to The
Oaks. Miss Lou followed her aunt into the house, burdened for the
moment with a new and pressing anxiety. Did the resolute old lady
suspect that one of the class which she most detested had been
concealed within earshot of her voice, and would a search be
instituted? The girl's sympathies had gone out to the stranger, and the
fact that he so trusted her appealed strongly to her woman's nature. In
her alienation from her relatives she was peculiarly isolated and
lonely at just the period in life when she most craved appreciative
understanding, and her intuitions led her to believe that this stranger
could both understand and respect her feelings. His genial, kindly
smile warmed her sore, lonely heart, and convinced her that there was a
world of human affections and simple faith as well as of imperious
wills and formal beliefs. His words in regard to himself and the North
was another shock to her confidence in her uncle and aunt, and another
proof that there was no good reason for the marriage they were forcing
upon her.
For a brief time she watched with keen-eyed interest to see if her aunt
would take any steps to have Aun' Jinkey's cabin searched. Her mind was
soon relieved on this score, for she became convinced that her uncle
was distracted by various anxieties; while Mrs. Baron, from force of
habit and with the purpose of diverting her mind from all she feared,
was pursuing her preparations with restless energy, keeping every one
in her employ as busy as herself. It was evident that her niece's idle
hands and perturbed wanderings to and fro annoyed her, and at last she
broke out: "Louise, it would be much more becoming in you to unite with
me in my efforts. The idea of your sitting and idly bemoaning your case
in that foolish old woman's cabin! I'm glad you had the grace to show
obedience to me before her, for this is a time when to our people the
example of obedience is most necessary, and you should be the first to
set it in all respects. It will only increase the trouble which your
uncle and Perkins are having if our people see that you are rebellious.
There is much that you should be doing and seeing to, for your uncle
says that it may be best for you to leave the plantation with Mrs.
Whately and her son immediately after your marriage."
"I am not married yet. I shall appeal to Aunt Whately, and if she has a
woman's heart she will not sanction the marriage."
"You will find that because she has a woman's heart, and a Baron's
heart, she will sanction it and insist upon it."
"We shall see," replied the girl, turning to go to her room.
"Louise, it is my wish that you should put your things in order to be
packed hastily, if need be."
Miss Lou made no answer.
CHAPTER IX
PARALYZED WITH SHAME
So far from obeying her aunt's injunctions, Miss Lou sat down by her
window, but she did not note the smiling spring landscape over which
the western sun was throwing its long, misty rays. Tears so blurred her
eyes and blinded her vision that she could scarcely see at all. At last
she was aroused by the crunching of wheels, and became aware that Mrs.
Whately had arrived. From what she knew of this aunt she had a good
deal of hope from her appeal, for Mrs. Whately had always seemed a
kind-hearted woman. True, she had been over-indulgent to her son, and,
in her blind idolatry of this only child, blind to his faults, always
comforting herself with the belief that he was merely high-spirited and
would settle down when he grew older.
Miss Lou wished to speak to the mother before the son returned, and in
the hope of securing a merciful ally in the lady, went down immediately
to receive her. Mr. Baron was on the back porch calling, "Chunk, where
in the mischief are you?" Where, indeed, with the start he had gained
for the Union lines?
"My dear niece," cried Mrs. Whately, effusively, "how glad I am to see
you, and to take you in my arms on this deeply interesting occasion!"
but the matron was troubled at the girl's red eyes and pallid face.
"I will show you to your room at once," said Mrs. Baron to her guest,
decisively and significantly.
Miss Lou was right in believing that the situation and the unhappy
appearance of the prospective bride would be explained. She had been
forestalled in her chance to make an appeal. Mrs. Baron emphatically
sustained her husband's purpose, concluding: "My dear sister, in this
crisis you will have to take a firm stand with the rest of us. Louise
is acting like a perverse child, and no more realizes the necessity and
wisdom of our course than a baby."
Meantime the outcry for Chunk increased, and Miss Lou was troubled that
he did not respond. Taking advantage of the fact that her mistress was
upstairs, Zany stole swiftly, with many a misgiving, to Aun' Jinkey's
cabin.
"Whar dat gran'boy o' you'n?" she asked, breathlessly.
"Ain' he in de gyardin?"
"No, he ain'. Does you KNOW whar he is? Bettah tell me de truf. Mout
sabe you a heap ob trouble."
"Des you min' yo' business, en doan cum trapesin' yere 'bout Chunk. You
talks ez ef you own 'im."
"Ole mars'r tinks he own 'im, en he des a yellin' fer 'im. De oberseer
hollerin', too, en de lil niggahs runnin' yere, dar, en yander lookin'
fer 'im. Yere one ob um now."
With new and direful forebodings Aun' Jinkey declared loudly: "I doan
know what he be. He ain' say not'n ter me 'bout gwine anywhar."
Uttering an angry and contemptuous exclamation, Zany sped back, and,
with a scared look, said to Miss Lou, "Aun' Jinkey 'clar she dunno
not'n 'bout Chunk's doin's. Ef she ain' foolin' me, I des belebe he's
runned away."
At these tidings and at this suggestion the young girl was almost
distracted. She went instantly to the cabin, supposing that it would
soon be searched.
"Mammy!" she exclaimed, "where's Chunk?"
"Fo' de Lawd, honey, I doan know. I des gwine all ter pieces wid de
goin's on."
"But people will be here looking. Is he up there?" asked the girl in a
whisper.
"No, he des lit out two hour ago, en he guv me dis" (showing the
money), "en say he see me agin. I'se feared he'n Chunk gwine off
togeder."
"Well, you don't know. Hide the money and declare you don't know
anything. I'll stand by you as far as I can."
As she hastened back she saw a Confederate soldier running toward the
house and Perkins limping after him as fast as possible. Entering the
rear door she heard the soldier demanding fiercely of her uncle,
"Where's that cursed nigger you call Chunk?"
"Whom are you addressing, sir?" asked Mr. Baron, indignantly.
"Well, see yere, boss," was the excited reply, "this ere ain't no time
fer standin' on nice words. That cursed nigger o' your'n took the
lieutenant's horse ter the run fer a drink, an one o' your'n 'long of
him, en me en Perkins kyant find nary one of 'em."
"Yes, sir," added Perkins in great wrath, "we uns follered the
hoof-prints ter the run en inter the water, en there's no hoof-prints
comin' back. That infernal nigger has lit out with the two horses."
"Why don't you go after him then?" shouted Mr. Baron, distracted with
anger and accumulating perplexities. "He can't be far yet."
"I'd like ter see the hoss on this place that could ketch the
lieutenant's black mare. Oh, why didn't I shoot the nigger?" and the
soldier strode up and down as if demented.
"You deserve to be shot yourself, sir, if you, who had been placed on
guard, permitted that black rascal to take the horses."
"Yes," replied the soldier, desperately, "en the lieutenant is ther man
ter shoot me--cuss his red-hot blood!" and he stalked away toward the
stables as if possessed by a sudden resolve.
Turning to enter the house, Mr. Baron encountered his niece, who had
been a witness to the scene, which explained everything to her. "You
see, you see," cried the old man, "everything going to rack and ruin!
Would to Heaven you could be married to-night and sent away to a place
of safety!"
"Uncle," said the girl, almost fiercely, "did you not hear that man say
of my cousin, 'curse his red-hot blood'? Is that the kind of a
protector you would force upon me?"
"Yes," almost shouted the angry man, "because he has the spirit to deal
justly with such reprobates. He's just the kind of protector you need
in these lurid times, when it seems as if no one could be trusted. To
think that that boy Chunk, who has been treated so well, could play us
such an infernal trick! His old crone of a grandam must know something
about it, and I'll make her tell. Perkins!" and Mr. Baron rushed toward
the door again.
The ladies had now descended and joined the excited group on the
veranda. Zany was listening with craned neck from the dining-room door,
and other "yard folks," great and small, were gathering also.
"What IS the matter?" cried Mrs. Baron.
Paying no heed to her, Mr. Baron said to his overseer, "Aun' Jinkey
must know about this rascally flight and theft. Bring her here."
"Uncle," said Miss Lou, firmly, "Aun' Jinkey doesn't know anything
about Chunk's disappearance. I've been to her cabin and asked her."
"As if the cunning old witch would tell you anything! Bring her here, I
say, Perkins. It's time the spirit of insubordination on this place
received a wholesome check."
"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, "it seems but a little while ago that
Chunk was working quietly in the garden."
"En I reckon hit ain't much more'n two hours gone sence I seed 'im
comin' out o' the cabin, lazin' and eatin' hoe-cake," added Perkins as
he started angrily to obey his orders.
"He had mischief in his mind, though, now I think of it." resumed Mrs.
Baron, "for he seemed startled when he saw me, and tried to edge away
to the cabin. I thought he was afraid I would catch his granny smoking
instead of doing urgent work. Louise, you were in the cabin at the
time. Why should Chunk be so anxious to get there before I did?"
"I have not spoken to him this afternoon, and know nothing of his
movements except what I have heard," replied the girl, coldly.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Whately, "what troublous times we've fallen
upon!"
In the silence which followed they heard the gallop of a horse. A
moment later a negro came running up and exclaiming, "Dat sojer in de
stable des saddle he hoss en put out ez ef de debil wuz arter 'im!"
Miss Lou smiled bitterly as she thought, "He evidently doesn't think it
wise to wait for my protector."
At this moment Mad Whately appeared cantering smartly up the avenue at
the head of his men. Throwing his reins to a colored boy, he strode
smilingly up the steps, exclaiming, "Why, this is a regular committee
of reception. I am doubled honored since my fair cousin is present
also."
Miss Lou made no reply, and the expression on all faces led him to ask
quickly, "Why, what's the matter?"
The young man's brow grew black as Mr. Baron gave a hasty explanation.
A half-suppressed oath rose to his lips as he turned on his heel and
shouted to his men, "Halt, there! Let every man mount and await orders.
Simson, you and two others follow the guard I left with my horse.
Where's that nigger who saw him start? Here, you, put these men on his
track as you value your life! Simson, take him, dead or alive!"
The men saluted, and departed at once. The galloping of their horses
soon died away in the distance. "Now for this beldam," said Whately,
sternly, as Aun' Jinkey approached, tottering in her excess of fear and
accompanied by Perkins.
Miss Lou saw that her cousin was terribly excited; indeed, that he
fairly trembled with passion. She was scarcely less stirred herself,
for she possessed much of the hot blood of her kindled, and during the
last twenty-four hours nearly all that had, occurred tended to fire her
spirit. Now that she saw her own dear old mammy led cowering under the
hostile eyes of every one, she was almost beside herself with pity and
anger. Unaccustomed to conventional restraint, reacting from long years
of repression, a child still in some respects, in others a passionate
woman revolting at a fate from which her whole nature shrank, she was
carried far above and beyond her normal condition, and was capable of
following her impulses, whatever they might be.
Aun' Jinkey turned her eyes appealingly, and was awed, even in that
terrible moment, by the intensity of the girl's expression, as she half
consciously drew nearer and nearer. The field-hands, deeply excited,
had also edged up from the quarters. Mr. Baron and his overseer
observed yet tolerated this, thinking that it might be just as well to
have the negroes learn from Aun' Jinkey's experience that authority
would still be sternly enforced.
Whately's headlong temperament was so overcome by anger that he noted
nothing except the presence of one whom he believed the aider and
abetter in his great loss, for a favorite and trusty horse is one of
the dearest possessions of a cavalryman.
"Where's your grandson?" he demanded, fiercely.
"'Fo' de Lawd, I dunno," gasped Aun' Jinkey.
"The truth, now, or you'll be sorry."
"I dunno, I dunno. Ef he gone, he ain' say neber a word ter me, not
eben good-by."
"No use of your lying. You knew the rascal's purpose. Why didn't you
tell Mr. Baron? Which way did he go?"
"I des declar, mars'r, I dunno."
"You DO know," cried Whately, driven almost to frenzy, "and I'll cut
the truth out of you."
His whip fell before he could arrest it, but it struck the arm and
shoulder of Miss Lou. She had drawn very near, and, swift as light, had
sprung forward and encircled the form of her mammy. There were startled
exclamations from those near, echoed by a groan from the negroes, and
then the girl spoke in stern, deep tones, "You thought to strike ONE
woman, and you have struck TWO."
Whately dropped his whip and stood with bowed head, paralyzed with
shame. There were wild cries and a swaying of the field-hands toward
the house. The mounted soldiers drew their revolvers and looked from
the thronging black faces to that of their commander, but he paid no
heed to them. Perkins did not wait, however, but drawing his weapon,
began to limp toward the threatening mass, with oaths and orders to
disperse. As for Mr. Baron and the ladies, they were just helpless in
the whirl of events.
Although Miss Lou's back was toward this new phase of the drama, she
instantly and instinctively comprehended it. With a fear almost
hereditary, as well as one vaguely dreaded from childhood, she
recognized the possible horrors of an insurrection, her own action the
indirect cause. She turned and sprang forward so swiftly to interpose
that her comb fell away, and her golden hair streamed behind her. She
stood between the blacks and those who could harm them; also those
whom, in their wild excitement, they were ready to attack.
"Silence!" she cried; then in the deep hush that followed she called
out, in clear, ringing tones: "Every friend of mine will go back to
quarters, keep quiet, and obey orders. I promise that no harm shall
come to any of you."
The men doffed their ragged hats, and a voice from the crowd answered,
"We 'bey you, Miss Lou, en we won' let no harm come ter you, noder."
Then as the dense, angry mass of a hundred or more men and women melted
away toward the quarters, it was seen that many a heavy club was
carried among them. Miss Lou watched them silently two or three
moments, the rest looking on in wonder and suppressed anger mingled
with fear. The girl returned, and taking her mammy by the hand, was
about to lead her into the house. Whately started as she essayed to
pass him unheedingly, and seized her hand. "Lou, Cousin Lou, forgive
me!" he cried. "You know I meant you no such indignity."
"I know you mean me a greater one," she replied, coldly, withdrawing
her hand.
"See! I ask your forgiveness on my knees!" he urged, passionately.
But her heart was steeled against him, for her very soul was hot with
indignation. "Come, mammy," she said, firmly, "such shelter and
protection as I still have in this house you shall share."
"Louise, this is monstrous!" began Mrs. Baron.
"NO!" cried the girl. "This poor creature is the nearest approach I
have ever known to a mother. She doesn't know about her grandson, and
no one shall try to cut the truth out of her. Come, mammy," and she led
the trembling old negress up to her room. When hidden from all eyes her
courage and excitement gave way, and she cried on her mammy's breast
like the child she was.
CHAPTER X
A BAFFLED DIPLOMATIST
Miss Lou left consternation, confusion and deep anxiety below stairs.
Mad Whately had his own code of ethics, and he felt as if he had
committed the unpardonable sin. His mother was shocked and pained
beyond measure. She understood the feelings of her son, and sympathized
with him. Drawing him into the parlor, she soothed and cheered him with
the assurance that when his cousin's anger passed she would explain and
intercede.
"Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, "I did love her honestly before, but now I
adore her. I must marry her, and by a lifetime of devotion wipe out the
wrong I did not intend to inflict."
"It will all come about right yet, my boy," she whispered. "I never
understood Louise before. I fear they have been too strict and
unsympathetic in her bringing up, and so she has naturally rebelled
against all their plans. You didn't think at the time--indeed, in our
excitement we all forgot--that Aun' Jinkey was her mammy, and you know
how strong that tie is, even in your case, and you have always had a
mother's love."
"Oh, fool, fool that I was in my mad anger! Brave, grand, heroic girl!
I'd have done as much for my old mammy; or rather I'd have struck down
a general before he should harm her. Oh, mother, mother!" concluded the
much-indulged youth, "I must marry her. She is just the bride for a
soldier."
"Rather than have her fall into the hands of the enemy, we will lead
her to see that it is the only thing to be done," replied Mrs. Whately.
Perkins had a consultation with Mr. Baron, as far as that desperately
perturbed old gentleman was capable of holding one, the result of which
was the decision to let the negroes alone, provided they kept quiet and
obeyed. It was evident to both of them that the approach of Union
forces, though yet comparatively distant, had produced the usual
demoralizing effects. The government at The Oaks had not been harsh,
but it had been strict and animated by a spirit which alienated
sympathy. The situation was now seen to be too critical to admit of
severity, all the more as the protection of Whately and his troopers
might soon be withdrawn.
It was a silent and depressing meal to which they sat down that
evening, long after the accustomed hour, a fact which Mr. Baron would
not forget, even in the throes of an earthquake. He groaned over it; he
groaned over everything, and especially over his niece, who had
suddenly developed into the most unmanageable element in the whole
vexed problem of the future. He felt that they owed her very much, and
that she held the balance of power through her influence over the
negroes; and yet he was incensed that she was not meek and submissive
as a young woman should be under all circumstances. An angry spot
burned in each of Mrs. Baron's cheeks, for she felt that Miss Lou's
conduct reflected very unfavorably on her bringing up. She was so
scandalized and vexed that she could scarcely think of anything else.
Mrs. Whately was all deprecation and apology, trying to pour oil on the
troubled waters in every way, while her son was as savagely angry at
himself as he had been at poor Aun' Jinkey and her grandson.
Most fortunately the main feature in the case remained undiscovered.
The fact that a Union scout had been hidden and permitted to depart
would have been another bombshell, and the consequences of its
explosion would have been equally hard to predict or circumscribe. As
it was, Miss Lou and Aun' Jinkey received a certain remorseful sympathy
which they would have forfeited utterly had the truth been revealed.
And the secret did tremble on the lips of Zany. She was not only
greatly aggrieved that Chunk had "runned away" after all, without her,
and had become a sort of hero among his own kind on the plantation, but
she also felt keenly her own enforced insignificance when she knew so
much more than that Chunk had merely decamped. Her mistress little
dreamed, as the girl waited stolidly and sullenly on the table, that
she was so swelling with her secret as to be like a powder magazine.
But fear rather than faith finally sealed Zany's lips. She was aware
that the first question asked would be, "If you knew so much, why
didn't YOU tell?" and she could give no reason which would save her
from condign punishment. Moreover, she hoped that Chunk would soon
return with no end of "Linkum men," and then her silence would be
rewarded.
Supper was sent up to Miss Lou and her guest, and the old woman, having
at last some sense of security, made her first good meal since "things
began to happen." Then she hankered after her pipe. "I'll get it for
you," said the warm-hearted girl. She stole to the head of the landing,
and, the hall below being clear at the moment, she flitted down and out
at the back door, reaching the deserted cabin unobserved. How desolate
it looked in the fading twilight! The fire was out on the hearth, and
the old creaking chair was empty. But Miss Lou did not think of Aun'
Jinkey. Her thoughts were rather of a stranger whose face had been
eloquent of gratitude as he offered to shield her with his life. Then
she remembered his excited question as to the time of the marriage.
"When?" Had her answer anything to do with the sudden and bold
departure? Her heart was in a sudden flutter. She snatched the corncob
pipe and tobacco pouch, and sped back again in a strange blending of
fear and hope. She felt guilty that she could dare hope to see him, a
Yankee, again. "But his smile was so pleasant and frank!" she murmured.
"Oh, I never remember to have had such genial, honest, unreserved
good-will looked at me by any one except mammy, and she's so old and
wrinkled that she can't look much of anything. What handsome, kind,
dark eyes he had! Yet they would all say, 'He's a monster!'"
She made her way back in safety until she reached the head of the
stairs, and then came plump upon her aunt. "Where have you been?" asked
Mrs. Baron, sharply.
"After Aun' Jinkey's pipe."
"Horrible! I forbid her smoking in this house."
"I shall permit her to smoke in my room."
"You have no right."
"Very well; then I'll go with her to her cabin."
"My dear sister," said Mrs. Whately, putting her hand on the irate
lady's arm, "I think it will be better to let our niece have her way in
such little things. We must remember that she is no longer a child."
"I think she is acting like a very perverse and foolish one; but then
rather than have any more scenes"--and looking unutterable things she
passed on down the stairs.
"My dear, I wish to see you by and by. Won't you let me?" said Mrs.
Whately. "I wish to see you--I must see you before I sleep," replied
the girl, decisively.
"I'll come up soon, then, dear."
Mrs. Baron reported to her husband what had occurred, but he only
groaned. He was scarcely able to do much else now.
"Oh, hang it!" exclaimed Whately, "what fiend directs my luck this
evening? If I had only known she had gone to the cabin, I could have
compelled her to listen to me and to my apologies."
"No worse luck could have happened," said his mother, entering. "You
must curb your impatience, and so--pardon me for saying it--must you,
brother and sister. You are driving the girl to lengths she would never
have thought of going. She is excited and almost beside herself. You
forget, brother, that she is a Southern girl and a Baron, and has all
the spirit of our race. She is one to be coaxed, to yield to gentle
pressure and firm reasoning, and not to be driven."
"Oh, curse it! we've made a mess of it, I fear," groaned Whately, who
was capable of violent alternations of mood, and now was in the valley
of humiliation and almost despair.
"Well, you must all let me manage a little now," resumed Mrs. Whately,
somewhat complacently, "or else there is no telling what trouble you
may have."
"Yes, yes," cried her son, "I insist on mother's managing. She has
always obtained what I wanted, and I shall certainly throw my life away
if I don't marry Cousin Lou."
"Madison," said his mother, tearfully, "am I, who have so loaded you
with kindness, of no account?"
"Oh, forgive me, mother, I can't do anything but blunder to-night. I'm
all broken up, distracted by conflicting duties and feelings. I picked
up important information this evening. The Yankee column, halting in
the rich valley to the northwest, have been ranging the country far and
near, loading their wagons and resting their horses. They will make a
move soon, and will come this way just as likely as not. Our forces are
coming up from the South, and there certainly will be a fight soon
somewhere in this region. I received a secret despatch at the
court-house, after seeing the minister, who will be here early
to-morrow evening. After the wedding I intend to escort mother and my
wife south to Cousin Sam Whately's. They certainly will be out of the
Yankee line of march there. Perhaps you and aunt had better go too."
"No," said Mr. Baron. "I intend to stay and face it out here. I shall
stand or fall on my own hearth."
"And I shall remain with my husband," added Mrs. Baron, firmly.
"Well, nothing worse may happen than a general sack of the place, but I
cannot leave mother and the girl who is to be my wife. I shall ride
over to our place in the morning for the best horse on it, and to see
the overseer. I'll bring back a few papers which I will put in your
charge, uncle."
Thus they discussed the emergency till Mrs. Whately thought she could
venture to Miss Lou's room. Her son accompanied her to the door and
called out, "I give you my word, cousin, that Aun' Jinkey can go to her
cabin, and that no one shall disturb her"; then he retreated to the
parlor again.
When Mrs. Whately entered the room, she witnessed what was not
reassuring. Miss Lou's white shoulder was bare, and upon it was the
long red mark of the whip. Aun' Jinkey was bathing the bruise with some
lotion. "My poor child!" said the lady, "Madison is almost beside
himself with grief and self-reproach."
"Please tell him," replied the girl, "that I'm glad the blow fell on me
instead of mammy."
"Ah, well, my dear, he has asked forgiveness and is profoundly sorry."
"Hit soon be well, honey. Wish ter grashus hit wuz me dat hab it! en
you barin' hit so patient, too, w'en I smokin'. Dar, I kiver hit up
now, en hit ain' dar in de mawnin'. I reck'n I go back ter de cabin
now, honey. I kin'er used ter my own chimbly corner. Miss Whately got
sump'n ter say ter comfort you."
"Very well, mammy. I'll see that you have no trouble," and the old
woman departed.
"Surely, Louise, you cannot expect any more trouble, after my son has
said there would not be any," said Mrs. Whately, in a somewhat
aggrieved tone.
"You must have seen," was the reply, "that Cousin Madison hasn't just
the kind of self-control which inspires confidence."
"I assure you, Louise, that he regrets his act as much as you can. You
should, in charity, remember his great provocation."
"Well, then," Miss Lou burst out, "let him make amends. Here I am, a
defenceless girl, with all my kindred against me. He should be the
first to defend me."
"So he wishes to do, my dear; and he only craves the most sacred right
to defend you."
"Yes, in his own way, and without any regard to my feelings and wishes."
"Indeed, my dear, you misjudge him. You have only to yield one point in
order to make him a slave to your wishes."
"But that is yielding everything. Oh, aunt, how can you urge a girl
toward a loveless marriage?"
"Now, my dear, just listen patiently to me for a few moments," began
Mrs. Whately in a wheedling tone. "I am older than you are. I know
young girls are apt to have romantic notions, but when they reach my
age they find that it is ever best to act in view of good and
sufficient reasons. Apart from the terrible emergency that is upon us,
you know that we all have had our hearts set on this marriage almost
ever since you were born, and we have made no secret of the fact. It
would be a terrible disappointment to us if it should not take place. I
fear that life has been too strict and narrow for you here, but you
know that in my home you will dwell in an atmosphere of kindness and
indulgence. I will give up to you whenever you are ready to take the
reins after these sore troubles are over. But, Louise, you do not
realize that we are in the midst of a terrible emergency. You ought not
to remain here. Madison has arranged that we both go south to his
cousin Sam's."
"I don't wish to go!" cried the girl, wringing her hands.
"Now, my dear, can't you just believe that we, who are more experienced
and know the danger, wish to do what is best for you and what you will
soon see was best?"
"No, I cannot! I cannot! I just feel that I can't marry my cousin
without perjuring myself."
"Surely you don't love any one else, Louise?"
"What chance have I had to love anyone, except my old mammy? I don't
know anything about the love which I feel should lead to marriage. I
have just been treated like a child, and then without any girlhood at
all I'm to be married to one that I shrink from. I feel in my very soul
that it's all wrong and unjust."
"But, my dear, you won't feel so after you are a wife and safe in your
own home. You will then feel that you have reached woman's true place
and sphere, without incurring the risks and misfortunes which befall so
many. Your guardians might have shown more tact, perhaps, but they
meant well, and they wish you well, and are seeking only your welfare.
They feel in honor bound to do what is best for you, and not what, in
your inexperience, you may wish at the moment. As for my son, a
warmer-hearted fellow does not breathe. He loves you fondly. You can
influence him, you can control him as no other can, you have the
strongest hold upon him."
"Alas!" said the girl, divining the ultimate truth, "you love him
blindly and wholly; you would sacrifice me, yourself and everything to
him, and because he has always had everything his own way, he would
have me in spite of the whole protest of my being. No one truly cares
for me; no one understands me. I have been thrown back upon books and
my own nature for such knowledge as I now so desperately need, and I
feel that if I am false to my interests, to what I believe is right, my
life is spoiled. I don't wish to marry any one, and as to all these
dangers you so vaguely threaten, I believe that if there is a good God,
he will take care of me."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Whately, striving to hide the fact that she
was baffled, "we won't talk any more about it to-night. You are excited
and worried, and incapable of wise judgment. Rest and sleep are what
you need now," and she kissed the girl, who did not return the caress.
"Wise judgment!" she muttered, bitterly, "what fine words they use! So
you, too, are hopelessly against me. You would give me to your son just
as you used to give him everything he cried for when a child. Well,
then, I'll appeal to the minister himself. I don't believe he can marry
me against my will. At any rate, I shall never give my consent, never;
and perhaps somebody may come in time. My people are teaching me to
fear them even more than the Yankees."
CHAPTER XI
AUN' JINKEY'S WARNING
The night passed like a lull in the storm. Perkins reported that the
negroes were quiet, contenting themselves with whispering and
watchfulness. Aun' Jinkey smoked and dozed in her chair, listening to
every sound, but no "squinch-owl" renewed her fears. The family at the
mansion were too perturbed to sleep much, for all knew that the morrow
must bring decisive events. The three soldiers sent after the recreant
trooper returned from a bootless chase and were allowed to rest, but
Whately saw to it that there was a vigilant watch kept by relief of
guards on the part of the others. He was not very greatly encouraged by
his mother's report, but as the hours passed the habits of his life and
the tendencies of his nature asserted themselves with increasing force.
He would marry his cousin on the morrow; he would not be balked in his
dearest hope and wish. The very resistance of the girl stimulated his
purpose, for throughout all his life nothing so enhanced his desire for
anything as difficulty and denial. The subduing the girl's high spirit
into subservience to his own was in itself a peculiarly alluring
prospect, and he proved how little he appreciated her character by
whiling away part of the night over "Taming of the Shrew." A creature
of fitful impulse, nurtured into an arrogant sense of superiority, he
banished all compunctions, persuading himself easily into the belief
that as soldier, officer, and lover he was taking the manly course in
going straight forward. "The idea of consulting a whimsical girl at
such a time," he muttered, "when a Yankee horde may descend on the
plantation within forty-eight hours."
Miss Lou was quite as sleepless as himself, and also did a great deal
of thinking. She had too much pride to hide and mope in her room. Her
high, restless spirit craved action, and she determined to brave
whatever happened with the dignity of courage. She would face them all
and assert what she believed to be her rights before them all, even the
clergyman himself. She therefore appeared at the breakfast table with
just enough color in her cheeks and fire in her eyes to enhance her
beauty.
"Ah, this is something like," exclaimed her uncle. "I knew sleep and
thought would bring back good sense."
Mrs. Whately kissed her effusively and Mrs. Baron formally, the girl
submitting with like mien in both instances. Her cousin, in accordance
with his mood and the policy he had adopted, bowed gallantly and with a
touch of grandiloquence in his tone said, "I again apologize before all
for my most unfortunate act last evening."
She only bowed silently in reply.
Then Whately assumed the air of one who had many and weighty matters on
his mind, his whole conversation conforming to the accepted belief that
they were facing a terrible emergency, and that he, as the practical
head of the family at such a time, must act decisively for the best
good and safety of all. "If I could be governed in this instance," he
said, "only by patriotic feeling I would advise the destruction of all
the forage on the place if convinced that the Yanks were coming this
way, but that would incite them to every possible outrage. Still, I
truly believe that it would be best for you and aunt to go with us this
evening."
"No," said Mr. Baron, "I've settled that."
"Haven't you negroes that you can trust to take the stock off into the
woods for concealment?"
"After Chunk's rascality I won't trust any of them."
"Well, I shall adopt that plan at our place this morning, and leave as
little of value within reach as I can help."
By a sort of tacit agreement it was thought best not to say anything to
Miss Lou except as Mrs. Whately broached the subject, it being believed
that a quiet ignoring of her will and a manifest purpose to carry out
their own would have the most weight in breaking down her opposition.
Indeed it was a shrewd policy, hard for the young girl to bear up
against. Mrs. Baron had been enjoined not to cross her in little
things. The busy housekeeper was too preoccupied to do so had she been
disposed, but it troubled and incensed the girl to the last degree to
see her bustling about, preparing for the wedding as if it would take
place as a matter of course. Mrs. Whately's affectionate smiles and
encouraging words were even harder to endure. That good lady acted as
if Miss Lou were a timid and coy maiden, who merely needed heartening
and reassuring in order to face a brief ordeal, and then all would be
well. Her cousin gallantly lifted her hand to his lips and then rode
away with part of his men, saying cheerfully, "I'll manage everything
for the best."
A vague terror seized upon the girl and she again sought the refuge of
Aun' Jinkey's cabin. She must have some one to speak to who understood
her, who felt for her. She found that Mrs. Baron had been there before
her, urging the completion of certain tasks. Indeed, the old woman was
ironing a white muslin dress which looked very bridal-like. Miss Lou
recognized it as her own gown, which might naturally be worn on such an
occasion.
"Who brought that here?" she asked quickly.
"Ole miss, honey. She said you cud war dis or de one you hab on, des ez
you pleases."
"Aun' Jinkey," said the girl in an awed whisper, "do you think they can
marry me against my will?"
"Miss Lou, I declar ter you I'se been smokin' en projeckin' ober dat
mos' all night."
"Well?"
"Hit 'pears ter me a orfully mux-up question. Yere yo' gyardins, ole
mars'r en ole miss. Dey's des had dere gay on dis plantashon sence I
wuz a gyurl. You wuz trus' ter dem ter be took keer on en you tole me
how he manage yo' prop'ty. He call you he ward. I des dunno w'at po'r
dat ward business gib 'im. I'se yeared en my day ob young gyurls mar'ed
yere en mar'ed dar en dey aim' sayin' much 'bout who dey mar'y. Folks
say dat wuz de way wid ole miss. I reckermember dem days en I year ole
mars'r's fader talk'n wid her fader 'bout w'at dey call set'l'ments en
po'tions. Den ole miss's mammy tole me how her young miss wuz cool ez a
cowcumber, en how she say her folks know bes' en she sat'sfied; en den
how she gib her min' ter w'at she call her trosso. Why honey, I des
doin' up tings ob dat ar trosso yit."
"That's just the trouble with aunt," said Miss Lou scornfully. "I don't
believe she ever had heart enough to love with."
"Well, I reck'n ole mars'r is projeckin' dis away. Ole miss, she settle
down en tuck hole strong. She des kin'er fall inter he ways en mek
tings hum wid de yard en house folks. She des a nachel-bawn
housekeeper, en we uns all had ter stan 'roun' en do ez she sed sud'n,
we sutn'y did; en ole mars'r, he tink hit be des de same wid you."
"But it won't, mammy. I'm not like my aunt."
"Dat you ain', honey, bless de Lawd! Ole miss neber stan' 'twix me en a
whip, en she neber run fer my pipe en let her shol'er ache whiles I
smokes like a ole himage. I'se only des a s'plainin' how dey feels
'bout yo' mar'age."
"Ah, but mammy, you know how I feel about it. I won't marry my cousin
if I can help it."
"Hit's yo' feelin's, honey, w'at des riles up my in'erds so I kyant
hardly wuk. Dat's whar my projeckin' gins out, en I'se kin'er stump'd
'bout hit. Dey's gwine right 'long wid dere prep'rations des ez ef dey
cud do ez dey pleased. Dunno w'at de law is 'bout hit ef dere is any
law in dese mux-up times. I'se des took clar off my foots wid all de
goin's on. De fiel'-han's at de quarters is bilin' ober wid 'citement,
en dey's sayin' de Linkum men's comin' ter upset ebryting. Whar dey get
de news fum I dunno. Dey sez ole mars'r is 'stracted en ole miss des
put her thin lips tergedder ez ef she gwine ter hab her way ter de las'
minit. Ez fer Marse Whately, you knows he al'ays hab his way, en ef
dere isn't eny way he mek it. You sez de min'ster en folks is comin'?
Hit des stumps me fer dem ter go on so ef dey hasn't de po'r."
"Well, then," said the girl desperately, "they will have to use force
all the way through. I'll never give my consent."
"P'raps w'en de min'ster see dat he woan mar'y you."
"That's just my hope," said the girl, "I--"
A quick step was heard and a moment later Mrs. Baron entered the cabin.
Ostensibly she came for some of the articles which Aun' Jinkey had
ironed, but Miss Lou knew she was under surveillance and she departed
without a word. On entering her room she found that her little trunk
had been packed and locked in her absence and that the key was gone.
She felt that it was but another indignity, another phase of the strong
quiet pressure urging her toward the event she so dreaded. A hunted,
half-desperate look came into her eyes, but she did not waver in her
purpose.
Mrs. Whately knocked, but the girl would not admit her.
Meanwhile Mrs. Baron said to Aun' Jinkey in parting, "See to it that
you don't put foolish notions in my niece's head. We are none of us in
a mood for trifling to-day."
Then the old woman's wrath burst out. "You 'speck I'se feared ter speak
fer dat chile w'at stan' by me so? Bettah be keerful yosef, mistis; you
alls gittin' on ve'y scarey groun' wid Miss Lou. You tink you kin do
wid her w'at you pleases des ez ef she a lil gyurl baby. I reck'n her
moder come out'n her grabe ter look arter you ef you ain' keerful."
"What do you mean by such language?"
"I mean des dis, mistis. Ef you tinks Miss Lou ole anuff ter mar'y you
know she ain' a chile. Ef she ain' a chile she a woman. Does you tink
you kin tromple on a woman? You kin tromple on me en I am' sayin'
not'n, but you kyant tromple on a wi'te woman like yosef. I tells you
you gittin' on scarey groun' wid Miss Lou."
"If you both had sense you would know we are getting her off scarey
ground, as you call it. All you have to do is to obey my orders and not
meddle."
"Ve'y well, mistis, I'se warn you," said Aun' Jinkey, sullenly
returning to her work.
"Warn me of what?" But the old woman would not vouchsafe another word.
Mrs. Baron returned to the house, her lips compressed with a firmer
purpose to maintain discipline on deck till the ship went down, if that
was to be the end. Combined with her cold, unimaginative temperament
was a stronger and more resolute spirit than that of her husband, who
now was chiefly governed by his lifelong habit of persistence. He
adhered to his purposes as a man at sea clings to the ship which he
feels is going to pieces beneath him.
Chunk and Scoville reached the Union camp in the gray dawn of the
morning, and the latter soon had an audience with the commanding
officer, with whom he was a favorite scout. The small party which had
been compelled to leave Scoville behind had brought important
information, gained chiefly by the young man's daring and address, and
the general was very glad to see him again and to be assured of his
escape.
"We are ready to move," said the commander, "and the information
brought in by your party has decided me to bear off to the southeast in
order to meet the enemy approaching from the southwest. As soon as you
are rested, Lieutenant Scoville--"
"Sir! what?"
"Yes, I had recommended you for promotion and the order has come."
"If zeal in your service, sir"--began the scout flushing proudly.
"Yes, yes, I understand all that. I remember the men who serve me well.
As soon as you're able to start out in the same direction again I would
like you to do so."
"I'm able now," said Scoville eagerly, and then he briefly related the
situation of affairs at The Oaks, concluding, "If I had twenty-five men
I believe I could not only prevent the marriage but capture all the
Confederates with their information. They have been scouting up toward
us just as we were toward the enemy."
"All right," said the general, laughing. "Perhaps the marriage may come
off yet, only with another groom."
"No, sir," said Scoville, gravely. "The girl befriended me in my sore
need. She is as good and innocent as a child, and I would shield and
respect her as I would my own sister."
"That's the right spirit, Lieutenant. I was not sure how far matters
had gone--in fact, was only jesting."
Scoville made a hearty breakfast, and within an hour, at the head of
over a score of men, was rapidly retracing his steps, Chunk following
in a state of wild elation. They both had been furnished with fresh
horses, and the tough, elastic sinews of the newly-fledged officer were
tense with an unwonted excitement. If those tearful blue eyes of Miss
Lou should welcome him as deliverer this would be the most memorable
day of his life.
CHAPTER XII
A WHIRLWIND OF EVENTS
Whately returned wearing a rather gloomy and angry aspect. He had
threatened his negroes and stormed at them; they had listened in sullen
silence. The overseer had said, "Hit's the old story. They have heard
that the Yanks are near and may come this way. Fact is, one doesn't
know what they haven't heard. They hold together and keep mum. You can
see that all discipline is at an end among 'em."
Whately could only give the man such directions as the emergency
dictated, obtain some valuables, and return chafed and all the more
bent upon securing out of the possible wreck the one object he most
coveted. But Miss Lou puzzled him and perplexed them all. She had taken
refuge in almost absolute silence, and was as unresponsive to Mrs.
Whately's endearments as to her uncle and aunt's expostulations, while
toward Whately she was positively freezing in her coldness. Troubled
and inwardly enraged, he was yet more than ever determined to carry out
his purpose. His orders to his men were given sharply and sternly, and
his mood was so fierce that there was no longer any affectation or
assumption on his part. The girl's heart fluttered with nameless fears,
but she had the strength of will to maintain the cold, impassive
demeanor she had resolved upon. She felt that it would be useless to
make further effort to influence her kindred, and that if she revealed
her purpose to appeal to the clergyman, they might so prejudice his
mind against her that he would not listen favorably. Fearing that this
might be the case anyway, she found her thoughts turning with
increasing frequency to the possible intervention of the Union scout.
She both hoped for and feared his coming, supported as he would be, in
this instance, by followers who might be so different from himself. She
could not free her mind from the influence of the stories about
Northern soldiers, and yet she was sure that as far as his power went,
they would all be protected. Indeed, one danger menaced so closely and
threateningly she could scarcely think of anything else than escape and
relief from it.
As the sun began to sink in the west her uncle came to her door and
said authoritatively, "Louise, I wish you to come down."
She obeyed without a word and entered the parlor where all were
assembled, noting with dismay that the Rev. Dr. Williams was already
present. Her cousin sought to meet her gallantly, but she evaded him
and took a seat. Mr. Baron began a sort of harangue. "Louise," he said,
"as your guardian and in obedience to my sense of duty in a great
responsibility, I have approved of this marriage. I am convinced that
the time will speedily come when you will be glad that I--that we
all--were firm at this time. Both I and your aunt are growing old.
Troubles, sore indeed even for the young to endure, are upon us. I am
not sure that a roof will cover our gray hairs much longer. Perhaps in
the dead of this very night the ruthless enemy may come. Now, your aunt
Whately's carriage is at the door. A gallant soldier and a Confederate
officer, the choice of all your kindred, is eager to give you his name
and loving protection. He will take you far away from war's rude
alarms, with its attendant and horrible perils. We have no common foe
to deal with, but monsters animated by unquenchable hatred and a
diabolical spirit. I should betray my trust and be recreant to my duty
did I not avail myself of the one avenue of safety still open to you.
See, your cousin's brave men are mounted, armed, and ready to act as
your escort. Dr. Williams is here to perform his good offices, although
other invited friends have not ventured from home in this time of peril
which recent tidings prove to be increasing every hour. In a few
moments you will be an honored wife, on your way to a place of refuge,
instead of a helpless girl whose defenders may soon be scattered or
dead."
"Truly, Miss Baron," said the clergyman, rising and approaching, "you
cannot hesitate in circumstances like these."
Miss Lou felt her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth, and could
only say in a hoarse whisper, "But I do not love my cousin--I do not
wish to marry."
"That may be your feeling at this moment. Indeed, circumstances are not
conducive to gentle amatory feelings, and all may seem sudden and hasty
to you, but you must consider that your relatives in this
emergency--indeed that all your neighbors--are doing many things and
taking many precautions that would not be thought of in a time of
security. I have already sent my own family further South, and now in
your case and Mrs. Whately's I feel that time is pressing. Will you
please rise and take your cousin by the hand?"
She shook her head and remained motionless. Whately advanced
decisively, took her hand, and sought gently to draw her into position
before the clergyman. His touch broke the spell, the paralysis of
dread, and she burst out, "No, no, you cannot marry me when my whole
soul protests. I will not be married!"
"Louise, I command you," began Mr. Baron excitedly.
"It makes no difference. I will not! I will not!" was the passionate
and almost despairing response.
"Oh, come, cousin, you are just excited, frightened, and off your
balance," said Whately soothingly.
"My dear Miss Baron," added the clergyman, "let me reassure you. It is
evident that you are a little nervous and hysterical. Pray be calm and
trust your relatives to do what is best for you. I do not wonder that
your nerves have given way and that--"
"My nerves have not given way. Unfriended child that I am, I must not
lose self-control. God grant that my WILL does not give way."
"Unfriended!" exclaimed Mrs. Whately reproachfully. "Few girls in these
times have so many to care and think for them. We are all bent on
securing your welfare at every cost."
"Yes, at every cost to me."
"Dr. Williams sees the wisdom and reasonableness of our course. My son
is even straining his sense of military duty to escort us to a place of
safety, where you will still be among relatives."
"Then let him escort me as his cousin, not his wife," cried the girl.
"But, Miss Baron, in the turmoil and confusion which may ensue you will
be far safer as his wife," Dr. Williams urged. "I would have been glad
if I could have given my daughter like protection. Truly, it is not
wise to be swayed by mere nervous excitement at such a time."
"Oh, even you, from whom I hoped so much, are against me!"
"No, my dear child," replied the minister, earnestly and sincerely, "I
am for you always, but I cannot help seeing, with your relatives, that
at present you are not in the quiet state of mind which would enable
you to act wisely for yourself. What earthly motive could I have except
your safety, welfare and happiness?"
"Well, then," said the girl, with a swift glance around and as if
turning into stone, "do your worst. I will never give my consent,
NEVER!"
They looked at each other perplexedly and inquiringly, as if to ask
what should be done, when Perkins burst in at the back door of the
hallway shouting, "The Yanks!"
The girl sank into a chair and covered her burning face for an instant.
Deep in her soul she divined who her rescuer was, yet in the midst of
her hope she felt a certain consciousness of guilt and fear. Mr. Baron,
Dr. Williams, and the ladies, half-paralyzed, yet drawn by a dreadful
fascination, approached the open windows. Mad Whately now played a
better part. He was in full uniform and his horse stood saddled
without. He went to it, mounted with almost the swiftness of light, and
was just in time to see the Federals sweep around the drive which led
to the stables. Scoville had brought his little force by the familiar
way of Aun' Jinkey's cabin. Furious at being forestalled, and in
obedience to a headlong courage which none disputed, Whately's sabre
flashed instantly in the rays of the sinking sun, and his command,
"Charge!" rang clear, without a second's hesitancy.
The order echoed in the girl's heart and she felt that she had too much
at stake not to witness the conflict. Her own high spirit also prompted
the act, and in a moment she was out on the veranda. She saw her cousin
spur directly toward the leader of the Federals, in whom she recognized
the Union scout. His men came galloping after him, but seemed more
inclined to envelop and surround the Confederates than to engage in
hand-to-hand conflicts. The latter were experienced veterans and
quickly recognized that they were being overpowered and that there was
no use in throwing away their lives. Hasty shots were fired, a few
sabres clashed, but the demand, "Surrender!" heard on all sides, was so
well enforced by the aspect of the situation that compliance soon
began. Scoville and Whately, with those immediately about them,
maintained the conflict. The two young officers were evenly matched as
swordsmen, although the Federal was the larger, stronger, and cooler
man. As a result, their duel was quickly terminated by the loss of
Whately's sabre, wrenched from his hand. Then the point of his foe's
weapon threatened his throat, and the word "Surrender!" was thundered
in his ears.
Instead of complying, he fell from his horse as if shot, lay still an
instant, and then in the confusion of the melee glided through an
adjacent basement door and disappeared. Seeing him fall, his mother
uttered a wild shriek and gave way to almost hysterical grief. A
backward glance revealed to Whately that the fight was lost, or rather
that it had been hopeless from the first, and his one thought now was
to escape and lead back a larger force for the purposes of both rescue
and vengeance. Gaining a rear door, a bound took him to some shrubbery.
A second later he was behind the kitchen. Aun' Suke saw him, threw up
her hands, and uttered an inarticulate cry. A moment or two more and he
was in the stable, leading out a horse. All attention was now so
concentrated in front of the mansion that he was not observed. He took
only time to slip on a bridle, then springing on the animal's bare
back, he struck into a field behind a clump of trees. Putting the horse
to a run, he was soon beyond successful pursuit. Some of his own men
had seen him fall before they were driven back, and believed that he
was either wounded or dead; thronging Federals, unaware of the
circumstances, occupied the ground, and only Miss Lou, with an immense
burden lifted from her heart, saw his ruse and flight. She wished him
well sincerely if he would only leave her to herself. Hastening to Mrs.
Whately she speedily restored the lady with assurances of her son's
escape, then with her joined the group on the veranda. Mr. Baron, in
the crisis of his affairs and as the head of the family, maintained a
dignity and composure which of late had been lacking.
Scoville paid no heed to them until every vestige of resistance had
ceased and the Confederates were disarmed and collected as prisoners.
Then sitting on his horse in front of the piazza steps he rapidly gave
his orders. His first act was to send a vedette down the avenue toward
the main road; then he selected five men, saying, "Take charge of the
stables, barn, and out-buildings. Keep them as they are and permit no
one to approach without my written orders."
At this moment the field-hands, who had been surging nearer and nearer,
sent forward a sort of improvised deputation. They approached bowing,
with hats in hand and wistful looks in their eyes. Were these in truth
the messengers of freedom of whom they had heard so much? Mr. Baron
almost gnashed his teeth as he witnessed this action on the part of his
property.
"Mars'r," said the spokesman, "I reck'n you got good news for we uns."
"Yes, good news. You are all free." His words rang out so that they
were heard by every one. Shouts and cries of exultation followed like
an echo, and ragged hats were tossed high in joy.
The young soldier raised his hand with a warning and repressive
gesture. In the silence that ensued he added, "My men here are both
free and white, yet they must obey orders. So must you. Go back to your
quarters and prove yourselves worthy of freedom by quiet behavior and
honesty. If I find any one, black or white, acting the part of a thief
while I am in charge it will go hard with him. The general will be here
to-morrow and he will advise you further."
His words found immediate acceptance, the negroes returning to the
quarters, laughing and chatting joyously, not a few wiping tears of
deep emotion from their eyes. The long-expected day had come. They
little knew what the future had in store for them, but this was the
beginning of a new era and the fulfilment of a great hope.
Scoville now dismounted and gave the reins to Chunk, who stood near
with a droll assumption of soldier-like stiffness and oblivion to all
the well-known faces. Mounting the steps, cap in hand, the young
officer approached Mr. Baron, who was becoming a little assured that
the orders thus far heard had not included a general application of the
torch.
"Mr. Baron, I presume?" said Scoville.
"Yes, sir," was the stiff reply.
"The ladies of your household, I suppose?"
"They are."
Scoville bowed ceremoniously to each, giving Miss Lou no other sign of
recognition than a humorous twinkle in his eye. "Ladies," he began,
"since it is the fortune of war that I must have command here for a
brief time, I hasten to assure you that we shall give as little
annoyance as possible. A few men on both sides were wounded, and I fear
that the officer commanding your men was killed. At least I saw him
fall. The night is warm and still and I can make a hospital here on the
piazza with a little aid from you. Please dismiss all further fears.
Unless we are attacked, the night shall pass quietly. Each and every
one will be treated with respect and courtesy. I must request of you,
however, sir," addressing Mr. Baron, "food for myself and men and
forage for our horses."
"I suppose you will take them anyway," growled the unwilling host.
"Certainly," replied Scoville, giving him a steady look. "Do you expect
us to go hungry? I shall do my duty as a soldier and an officer, as
well as deport myself as a gentleman."
There was nothing left but for Mr. Baron to give his directions to
Perkins, or for the ladies to make preparations for the improvised
hospital. Miss Lou gratefully recognized that Scoville did not intend
to compromise her in the least nor reveal his previous acquaintance
unless it should become known through no fault of his. She lingered a
moment as Dr. Williams stepped forward and asked, "May I be permitted
to return to my home?"
"I trust so, certainly, sir, but my duty requires brief explanation on
your part and pledges that you will take no hostile action. We are not
among friends, you know."
"I can very readily account for myself, sir," was the stiff response.
"I was summoned here to perform a wedding ceremony which your most
inopportune arrival prevented. I am a man of peace, not of war, yet I
cannot and will not give any pledges."
"It is scarcely fair then, sir, for you to take refuge in your calling,
but I will waive that point. I must warn you, however, that we can give
protection to those only who do not seek to harm us. You are at
liberty. Good-evening, sir."
He had extracted from the clergyman the fact that he had arrived in
time, and he again gave the girl in the doorway a mirthful glance, then
turned on his heel to attend to his military duties.
Miss Lou hastened to her room with hot cheeks.
CHAPTER XIII
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
Scoville soon learned that his opponent, so far from being killed or
even wounded, had escaped. He was not much worried by this fact,
believing that before the Confederate officer could reach his friends
and bring back an attacking force, the Federal column would be on the
ground. Indeed, he was glad that the family upon which he had quartered
himself could not associate him with so terrible a calamity. The young
girl might not wish to marry her cousin, yet be sorry if he were
fatally or even seriously wounded, while the rest of the household
would be plunged in the deepest distress. Although a resolute soldier,
Scoville was a kind-hearted fellow, and disposed to take the most
genial views of life that circumstances permitted. There was a humor
about his present situation which he relished exceedingly. He was
buoyant over the interrupted wedding, and bent upon disappointing Mr.
Baron in all his grewsome expectations in regard to the Yankees. There
should be discipline, order, quiet, and an utter absence of all
high-tragedy. He cautioned his men against the slightest tendency to
excess, even forbidding the chaffing of the negroes and noisiness. A
steer, a pig, and some fowls were killed for supper, and the wood for
cooking it was taken from an ample pile in the rear of the house.
Happily, none were seriously wounded, and being veterans were able to
do much for one another, while an elderly man in the troop who had some
rude surgical experience, supplemented their efforts. Miss Lou speedily
joined her aunts in rummaging for old linen for bandages, and the
performance of human duty by the elderly ladies dulled the edge of the
terrible truth that they were in the hands of the Yankees. True, they
had to admit to themselves that the young soldier did not appear like a
"ruthless monster" and that his conduct thus far had been almost
ceremoniously polite; yet all this might be but a blind on the part of
a cunning and unscrupulous foe.
When they came down to the veranda with the materials required, the
unscrupulous foe met them, cap in hand, thanked them courteously, and
gave his entire attention to the wounded, treating the men of both
sides alike. Mrs. Whately, in glad reaction from overwhelming fear
concerning her son's safety, offered her services in behalf of the few
wounded Confederates and they were readily accepted. Before she was
aware of it she found herself conferring with the young officer and the
surgical trooper in regard to the best treatment of the injuries.
Having long been mistress of a plantation and accustomed to act
promptly when any of her slaves were hurt, she now proved a valuable
auxiliary. When the soldiers with whom she sympathized were attended
to, her kindness of heart led her on to the Federals, who thanked her
as gratefully as if they were not depraved Yankees.
Mr. and Mrs. Baron had retired to the parlor, where they sat in state,
awaiting in gloomy fortitude the darker developments of what they
deemed the supreme tragedy of their lives. Miss Lou was flitting in and
out, getting lint and other articles required by Mrs. Whately. She
found it no easy matter to maintain the solemnity of aspect which her
guardians thought appropriate to the occasion, but was assisted in this
effort by her genuine pity for the wounded. In her joyous relief at
escape from a hated union her heart was light indeed. She had,
moreover, no slight sense of humor, and was just bubbling over with
mirth at the fact that although the Yankee monsters, from whom it was
said she must be rescued at every cost, were masters of the situation,
they were engaged in nothing more ruthless than feeding their horses,
preparing supper, and caring for the wounded. The most delicious thing
of all was that one of the chief prophets of evil, her Aunt Whately,
was aiding in the last-named task. Her exultation was increased when
she brought the last article required and Scoville said with his genial
smile, so well remembered, "I think I can assure you now, Miss Baron,
that all will do very well. We are deeply indebted to this lady (bowing
to Mrs. Whately) whose services have been as skilful as humane."
Now one of the things on which Mrs. Whately most prided herself was the
generally accepted belief that she was as good as a country physician
in an emergency, and she could not refrain from a slight and gracious
acknowledgment of Scoville's words. As they drew near to the door she
said hesitatingly, "Perhaps, sir, I should make an acknowledgment of
deep indebtedness to you. I saw your sabre raised and pointed at my
son's throat. Could you not have killed him had you so wished?"
"Ah! this is Mrs. Whately. Believe me, madam, we are not so
bloodthirsty as to wish to kill, or even to injure, except so far as
the necessities of war require. If you witnessed the brief conflict you
must have observed that my effort was to capture rather than to destroy
your son's force."
"We all could not help seeing that," cried Miss Lou eagerly.
"I could not help seeing also, Miss Baron, that you exposed yourself to
danger like a veteran, and I was anxious indeed lest a stray bullet
might harm you. It was well you were not armed or we might have fared
worse," and there was so much mirth in his dark eyes that she turned
away to hide her conscious blushes.
"Well, sir," resumed Mrs. Whately with emotion, "it is not easy to
bless our enemies in this cruel war of aggression, but I must express
my gratitude to one who stayed his hand when my son's life was within
his power."
"I trust, madam, he may live to care for you in your declining years,
and to become a good loyal citizen."
"He is loyal, sir," replied Mrs. Whately with gentle dignity, "to the
only authority he recognizes," and with a bow she retired.
Miss Lou lingered a moment and said earnestly, "I thank you. You are
very considerate."
His face so lighted up that it was almost boyish in its expression of
pleasure as he answered with the pride and confidence of one sure of
sympathy, "This is a jolly day for me. I was made an officer this
morning, and now, best of all, I am paying a little of my debt to you."
She put her finger on her lips and shook her head, but the smile she
gave him over her shoulder was reassuring. He promptly started on a
round among his men again to see that the prisoners were properly
guarded, and that all was going as he wished.
"Louise," said Mrs. Baron, as the girl appeared in the parlor door, "it
would be far more decorous if you would remain here with your uncle and
myself."
Miss Lou took a seat in the darkest corner that she might be less open
to observation while she calmed the tumult of her feelings. So much had
happened that she must catch her breath and think what it all meant.
Mr. Baron began gloomily, "Well, the dreaded hour which I hoped and
prayed never to see has come. We are helpless and in the hands of our
enemies. Only God knows what an hour will bring forth--"
"He has brought deliverance," cried Mrs. Whately, entering. "I
questioned Aun' Suke, thinking that she might have seen Madison if he
left the house. She did see him safe and sound. She also saw him get a
horse and ride away."
"Ah, poor boy! how different was his departure from what he had every
reason to hope and expect!" replied Mr. Baron. "I should think your
heart would be remorseful, indeed, Louise, when you picture your cousin
flying from his kindred and home, alone and sad, tortured meanwhile by
thoughts of the fate which has overtaken us."
"I'm sure, uncle, we are all sitting quietly in the parlor. That does
not seem very dreadful."
"You little know, young woman, you little realize the cunning
depravity--"
"There now, brother," interposed Mrs. Whately, "we must not think evil
until we see more evidence of it, even in Yankees. I admit that I am
most wonderfully and agreeably disappointed. The young officer in whose
hands we are might have killed my son, but did not. I must at least be
just to such a man."
"And you know he has been polite to us all, and told us to dismiss our
fears," added Miss Lou demurely.
"It would almost seem, Louise, that you welcomed these invaders. I am
too old and well informed not to know that this suave manner he affects
is designed to lull us into a sense of false security."
At this moment a firm step was heard on the veranda, followed by a rap
from the brass knocker. They knew it was Scoville, and Mr. Baron rose
and advanced to the parlor entrance. He assumed the solemn aspect of
one who now must face the exactions and wrongs which he had predicted,
and his wife tremblingly followed, to perish at his side if need be.
But the invader barely stepped within the hall and stood uncovered as
he said politely, "Mr. Baron, I have now practically made my
dispositions for the night. There is no reason why your domestic
routine should not be resumed as usual. As I said before, I pledge you
my word you shall not be disturbed unless we are attacked.
Good-evening, sir. Good-evening, ladies," and he bowed and withdrew,
leaving the old gentleman speechless in the utter reversal of all that
he had declared would take place. No plundering, no insults, no
violence. On the contrary, even his beloved routine might be resumed.
He turned around to his wife and sister almost gasping, "Is this some
deep-laid plot?"
"It certainly must be," echoed his wife.
Miss Lou turned away quickly and stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth
to prevent laughing outright.
Her uncle caught her in the act and was instantly in a rage.
"Shame upon you!" he cried. "Enemies without and traitors within."
This charge touched the girl to the quick, and she replied with almost
equal anger, "I'm no traitor. Where has your loyalty to me been to-day?
Look at me, uncle, and fix the fact in your mind, once for all, that I
am neither a child nor an idiot. God has given me a mind and a
conscience as truly as to you, and I shall use them. This Northern
officer says we are safe. I believe it and you will know it in the
morning. Now I simply insist that you and aunt treat me with the
respect due to my years and station. I've endured too much to-day to be
patient under anything more. I meant no disrespect to you in laughing,
but I cannot help being glad that instead of all sorts of horrible
things happening we are treated with simple and even delicate
politeness."
"Yes, brother," added Mrs. Whately, "as far as this man is concerned,
you must revise your opinions. There is no deep-laid plot--nothing but
what is apparent. I must also urge upon you and sister a change in your
treatment of Louise. She will be far more ready to fulfil our hopes
when led by affection."
"Well, well, that I should live to see this day!" groaned Mr. Baron.
"My ward virtually says that she will do as she pleases. The slaves
have been told that they are free and so can do as they please.
Henceforth I suppose I am to speak to my niece with bated breath, and
be at the beck and call of every Sambo on the place."
"You are not 'weltering in your own blood,' uncle, and the 'roof is not
blazing over our heads,'" replied Miss Lou quietly. "You have merely
been told that you could have supper when it pleased you and then sleep
in peace and safety. Aunt, I will thank you for the key of my trunk. I
wish to put my things back in their places."
Mrs. Baron took it from her pocket without a word, and Miss Lou went to
her room.
True to her nature, Mrs. Whately began to pour oil on the lacerated
feelings of her brother and sister-in-law. "Louise is right," she said.
"Things are so much better than we expected--than they might have
been--that we should raise our hearts in thankfulness. Just think! If
this Northern officer is what you fear, why would he have spared my
son, whom he might have killed in fair battle? In his conduct toward
the wounded he showed a good, kindly spirit. I can't deny it; and he
has been as polite to us as one of our own officers could have been.
Think how different it all might have been--my brave son desperately
wounded or dead, and unscrupulous men sacking the house! I need not
refer to darker fears. I must say that I feel like meeting courtesy
with courtesy. Since this Yankee behaves like a generous foe I would
like to prove that Southern rebels and slave-drivers, as we are called,
can equal him in all the amenities of life which the situation permits."
"Oh, sister!" cried Mrs. Baron, "even a cup of tea would choke me if I
drank it in his presence."
But Mr. Baron had lighted his pipe, and reason and Southern pride were
asserting themselves under its soothing influence. At last he said,
"Well, let us have supper anyway. It is already after the hour."
"Supper has been ready this long time, as you know," replied his wife,
"only I never dreamed of such a guest as has been suggested."
"Of course, sister, I only said what I did as a suggestion," Mrs.
Whately answered with dignity. "You are in your own home. I merely felt
reluctant that this Yankee should have a chance to say that we were so
rude and uncivilized that we couldn't appreciate good treatment when we
received it. There's no harm in gaining his goodwill, either, for he
said that his general, with the main force, would be here to-morrow."
"Mrs. Baron," said her husband in strong irritation, "don't you see
there is nothing left for us to do? No matter how things turn out, the
presence of these Yankees involves what is intensely disagreeable. If
sister is right in regard to this man--and I suppose I must admit she
is till I know him better--he has made it necessary for our own
self-respect to treat him with courtesy. Our pride will not permit us
to accept this from him and make no return. It may be Yankee cunning
which led him to foresee this, for I suppose it is pleasing to many of
the tribe to gain their ends by finesse. Probably if this doesn't
secure them, he will try harsher methods. Anyway, as long as he plays
at the game of courtesy, we, as sister says, should teach him that we
know what the word means. The mischief is that you never can know just
what a Yankee is scheming for or aiming at."
"Well, brother, supposing your words are true, as I do not think they
are in this instance, it is due to our dignity that we act like sincere
people who are above even suspecting unworthy motives. We do not
compromise ourselves in the matter. We only meet courtesy with
courtesy, like well-bred people."
"Well, so be it then. In fact, I would like to ask this man what he and
those he represents can hope to gain by invasion equalled only by that
of the Goths and Vandals."
CHAPTER XIV
A THREAT
The moment Chunk believed that Scoville could dispense with his
services for a time he made his way promptly to the back veranda and
gave a low, peculiar whistle which Zany recognized. He had ceased in
her estimation to be merely a subject for infinite jest. Though not
very advanced in the scale of civilization, she was influenced by
qualities which appealed to her mind, and possessed many traits common
to her sex. His shrewdness and courage were making good his lack of
inches. Above all, he was in favor with the "head Linkum man," and Zany
belonged to that class ever ready to greet the rising sun. While all
this was true, she could not be herself and abandon her coquettish
impulses and disposition to tease. She came slowly from the dining-room
and looked over Chunk's head as if she could not see him. Bent on
retaliation, he stepped behind her, lifted her in his powerful arms and
carried her on a full run to some screening shrubbery, the irate
captive cuffing his ear soundly all the way. Setting her down, he
remarked quietly, "Now I reckon you kin fin' me."
"Yo' wool git gray 'fo' you fin' me agin," she replied, making a feint
of starting for the house.
"Berry well, Miss Zany. I see you doan want ter be a free gyurl. I'se
tell Marse Scoville you no 'count niggah."
"W'at you want anyhow, imperdence?"
"I wants sup'n ter eat. Does you 'spects I kin ride all night en all
day ter brung you freedom, en den not eben git a good word? You ain'
fit fer freedom. I'se tell some nachel-bawn fool ter gib you a yaller
rib'on en den dere be two ob you."
"La now, Chunk," she replied, coming back, "ef I wuz lookin' fer a fool
I des stay right yere. Ef you git a pa'r ob steps en look in my face
you'd see I'se bettah fren' ter you ner you ter me. You stay yere en I
brings you w'at you tink a heap on mor'n me," and now she darted away
with intentions satisfactory to her strategic admirer.
Chunk grinned and soliloquized, "Reck'n I kin fotch dat gyurl roun' wid
all her contrariations. I des likes her skittishness, but I ain'
tellin' her so, kaze I gwine ter hab my han's full as 'tis."
Zany soon returned with a plate well heaped, for at this time her
argus-eyed mistress was sitting in the parlor, awaiting whatever fate
the ruthless Yankees might impose. Chunk sat Turk-fashion on the ground
and fell to as if famished, meanwhile listening eagerly to the girl's
account of what had happened during his absence.
"Hi!" said Zany disdainfully, "you'd mek lub ter Aun' Suke ef she fed
you."
"I kin mek mo'n lub," Chunk answered, nodding at her portentously; "I
kin mek mischief."
"Reck'n you do dat anyhow."
"See yere, Zany, does you tink Marse Scoville a fool?"
"Ob co'se not."
"Well, he doan tink me a fool. Whose 'pinion's wuth de mos'? Who took
keer on 'im? Who got 'im off safe right un'er de nose ob one ob Mad
Whately's sogers? Who brung 'im back des in time ter stop dat ar
mar'age en gib we uns freedom? You mighty peart, but you got a heap ter
larn 'fo' you cut yo' eye-tooths."
"Some folks gits dere eye-tooths en doan git nuthin' wid 'em," Zany
remarked nonchalantly. "I'se 'mit dough dat you comin' on, Chunk. W'en
you gits growed up you'se be right smart."
"I doan min' de foolishness ob yo' talk, Zany," Chunk replied coolly,
between his huge mouthfuls. "Dat's in you, en you kyant he'p hit any
mo'n a crow cawin'. I'se allus mek 'lowance fer dat. I des 'proves dis
'casion ter 'zort you ter be keerful w'at you DOES. Dere's gwine ter be
mighty ticklish times--sorter flash-bang times, yer know. I'se a free
man--des ez free as air, en I'se hired mysef ter Marse Scoville ter
wait on 'im. I'se growed up anuff ter know he kin tek de shine off eny
man I eber see, or you neider. He yo' boss now well ez mine. I'se gib
'im a good report on you ef I kin. I'se feard, howsomeber, dat he say
you outgrowed yo' sense."
"Dar now, Chunk, you puttin' on mo' airs dan Marse Scoville hissef. He
des ez perlite ter marster en ole miss ez ef he come ter pay his
'spects ter dem en he look at Miss Lou ez a cat do at cream."
"Hi! dat so? No won'er he want ter git ahaid ob de parson en dat
weddin' business."
"Oh, yo' orful growed up en ain' fin' dat out?"
"I 'spicioned it. Well, de ting fer you'n me is ter he'p 'im."
"La, now," replied Zany, proposing to give a broad hint at the same
time, "I ain' gwine ter he'p no man in sech doin's. De cream neber goes
ter de cat."
"Yere, tek de plate, Zany, wid my tanks," said Chunk, rising. "Sech
cream ez you gits orful sour ef de cat doan fin' it sud'n. I'se took my
'zert now," and he caught her up again and kissed her on the way back
to the veranda.
This time his performances were seen by Aun' Suke, who stood in the
kitchen door. She snatched up a pail of water, exclaiming, "I cool you
uns off, I sut'ny will. Sech goin's on!" But they were too quick for
her. Zany pretended to be as irate as she was secretly pleased, while
Chunk caused the old woman to boil over with rage by declaring, "Aun'
Suke, I sen' a soger yere ter hab you 'rested for 'zorderly conduct."
"Ef you eber comes ter dis kitchen agin I'se emty de pot ob bilin'
water on you," cried Aun' Suke, retreating to her domain.
"Ef you does, you get yosef ober haid en years in hot water," Chunk
answered with exasperating sang froid. "You niggahs gwine ter fin' out
who's who on dis plantashun 'fo' yo' nex' birthday."
Zany's only response was a grimace, and he next carried his exaggerated
sense of importance to his granny's cabin. He had seen Aun' Jinkey and
spoken a few reassuring words as he passed with Scoville's attacking
force. Since that time she had done a power of "projeckin'" over her
corncob pipe, but events were now hurrying toward conclusions beyond
her ken. It has already been observed that Aun' Jinkey was a neutral
power. As yet, the weight of her decision had been cast neither for the
North nor the South, while the question of freedom remained to be
smoked over indefinitely. There was no indecision in her mind, however,
in regard to her young mistress, and greater even than her fears when
she heard the sounds of conflict was her solicitude over the
possibility of a forced marriage. Since she was under the impression
that her cabin might soon become again the refuge of one or the other
of the contending powers, possibly of Miss Lou herself, she left the
door ajar and was on the alert.
"Hi dar! granny," cried Chunk, the first to appear, "dat's right. Now
you kin smoke in peace, fer you own yosef. Nobody come bossin' you yere
any mo'."
"Doan you git so bumptious all ter oncet," said Aun' Jinkey. "Does you
'spect de hull top's gwine ter be tu'ned right ober down'erds in er
day? But dar! you ain' no 'sper'ience. Yo' stomack emty en you' haid
light. Draw up now en tell me de news. Tell me sud'n 'bout Miss Lou.
Did dey git her mar'd?"
"Yah! yah! Marse Scoville's so'd ud cut de knot ef dey had."
"Dat's des ez much ez you knows. All de so'ds ober flash kyant cut dat
ar knot 'less dey kill Marse Whately."
"Dat 'min's me ob someting ter'ble quar. Marse Scoville had he so'd
pintin' right agin Mad Whately's neck en yit he ain' jab 'im. Dat same
Mad Whately gwine ter mek a heap ob trouble fer he got clean off."
"Marse Scoville know dat ef he kill a man right straight wid he own
han' he spook come and mek a heap mo' trouble."
"Hi! didn't tink o' dat."
"Bettah tink right smart, Chunk. You'se gittin' top-heaby ef you is
sho't. Now tell me all 'bout de mar'age."
"Dey ain' no mar'age. Zany tole me how Miss Lou say she ain' neber
'sent, en den 'fo' dey could say dere lingo ober her en mar'y her des
ez dey would a bale ob cotton, up rides Marse Scoville en put his so'd
troo ebryting. He tells us we all free en--"
"En eat yo' supper. I ain' done projeckin' 'bout dis freedom business.
How we uns gwine ter be free 'less Marse Scoville stay yere en kep us
free?"
"Zany guv me my supper en--"
"Dar now, I ain' no mo' 'count. Zany gobble you aready. I des stick ter
my chimbly corner."
"Howdy, Aunt Jinkey," cried Scoville, coming in briskly. "Well, you see
I'm back again as I promised."
"You welcome, a hun'erd times welcome, kaze you kep my young mistis fum
bein' mar'ed right slap 'gin her own feelin's ter her cousin."
"Pshaw! Aunt Jinkey. No one can marry a girl against her will in this
country."
"Dat des de question Miss Lou en me projeckin' 'bout dis berry mawnin'.
She gyardeens went straight along ez ef dey had de po'r, dey sut'ny
did. Dat's w'at so upset Miss Lou en me. De po'r ob gyardeens is sump'n
I kyant smoke out straight, en I des lak ter know how much dey KIN do.
Ole mars'r al'ays manage her prop'ty en we wuz flustrated w'en we see
'im en Mad Whately en he moder en ole miss en all gittin' ready fer de
weddin' des ez ef hit was comin' like sun-up sho."
"It was a shame," cried Scoville angrily. "They were seeking to drive
her into submission by strong, steady pressure, but if she insisted on
her right--"
"Dat des w'at she did, Marse Scoville. She say she neber 'sent, NEBER,"
Chunk interrupted.
"Then the whole Southern Confederacy could not have married her and she
ought to know it."
"Well, you mus' be 'siderate, Marse Scoville. Miss Lou know a heap
'bout some tings en she des a chile 'bout oder tings. Ole mars'r en
misus al'ays try ter mek her tink dat only w'at dey say is right en
nuthin' else, en dey al'ays 'low ter her dat she gwine ter mar'y her
cousin some day, en she al'ays 'low ter me she doan wanter."
"Poor child! she does need a friend in very truth. What kind of a man
is this Mad Whately anyway, that he could think of taking part in such
a wrong?"
"He de same kin' ob man dat he wuz a boy," Chunk answered. "Den he kick
en howl till he git w'at he want. 'Scuse me, Marse Scoville, but I
kyant hep tinkin' you mek big 'stake dat you didn't jab 'im w'en you
hab de chance."
"Chunk," was the grave answer, "if you are going to wait on me you must
learn my ways. I'd no more kill a man when it was not essential than I
would kill you this minute. Soldiers are not butchers."
"Granny sez how you wuz feared on his spook"--
"Bah! you expect to be free, yet remain slaves to such fears? My horse
knows better. Come, Aunt Jinkey, I'd rather you would give me some
supper than your views on spooks."
"Leftenant," said Perkins, the overseer, from the door, "Mr. Baron
pr'sents his compliments en gives you a invite to supper."
Scoville thought a moment, then answered, "Present mine in return, and
say it will give me pleasure to accept."
"Bress de Lawd! you gwine ter de big house. Not dat I 'grudges cookin'
fer you w'eneber you come, but I des wants you ter took a 'tunerty ter
advise dat po' chile 'bout she rights en de mar'age question."
After assuring himself that the overseer was out of earshot, Scoville
said almost sternly, "Aunt Jinkey, you and Chunk must not say one word
of my ever having been here before. It might make your young mistress a
great deal of trouble, and I should be sorry indeed if I ever caused
her any trouble whatever." Then as he made his way to the mansion he
smilingly soliloquized, "I don't know of any other question concerning
which I would rather give her advice, nor would it be wholly
disinterested, I fear, if I had a chance. At this time to-morrow," he
sighingly concluded, "I may be miles away or dead. Poor unsophisticated
child! I never was touched so close before as now by her need of a
friend who cares more for her than his own schemes."
Chunk following at a respectful distance became aware that the overseer
was glowering at him. "Bettah 'lebe yo' min', Marse Perkins," he
remarked condescendingly.
"You infernal, horse-stealing nigger!" was the low response.
"Hi! Marse Perkins, you kin growl, but you muzzled all de same."
"The muzzle may be off before many mo' sunsets, en then you'll find my
teeth in your throat," said the man under his breath, and his look was
so dark and vindictive that even in his elation Chunk became uneasy.
CHAPTER XV
MISS LOU EMANCIPATED
Nature had endowed Scoville with a quick, active mind, and
circumstances had developed its power and capacity to a degree scarcely
warranted by his age. Orphaned early in life, compelled to hold his own
among comparative strangers since childhood, he had gained a worldly
wisdom and self-reliance which he could not have acquired in a
sheltered home. He had learned to look at facts and people squarely, to
estimate values and character promptly, and then to decide upon his own
action unhesitatingly. Although never regarded as the model good boy at
the boarding-schools wherein he had spent most of his life, he had been
a general favorite with both teachers and scholars. A certain frankness
in mischief and buoyancy of spirit had carried him through all
difficulties, while his apt mind and retentive memory always kept him
near to the head of his classes. The quality of alertness was one of
his characteristics. In schools and at the university he quickly
mastered their small politics and prevailing tendencies, and he often
amused his fellow-pupils with free-handed yet fairly truthful sketches
of their instructors. As the country passed into deeper and stronger
excitement over the prospect of secession and its consequences, he was
among the first to catch the military spirit and to take an active part
in the formation of a little company among the students. It was not his
disposition to be excited merely because others were. Certain qualities
of mind led him to look beneath the surface for the causes of national
commotion. He read carefully the utterances of leaders, North and
South, and to some extent traced back their views and animating spirit
to historical sources.
In the year of '63 he found to his joy that he had attained such
physical proportions as would secure his acceptance in a cavalry
regiment forming in his vicinity. His uncle, who was also guardian, for
reasons already known, made slight opposition, and he at once donned
the blue with its bluff trimmings. In camp and field he quickly learned
the routine of duty, and then his daring, active temperament led him
gradually into the scouting service. Now, although so young, he was a
veteran in experience, frank to friends, but secretive and ready to
deceive the very elect among his enemies. Few could take more risks
than he, yet he had not a particle of Mad Whately's recklessness.
Courage, but rarely impulse, controlled his action. As we have seen, he
could instantly stay his hand the second a deadly enemy, seeking his
life in personal encounter, was disarmed.
The prospect of talking with such a host as Mr. Baron pleased him
immensely. He scarcely knew to whom he was indebted for the courtesy,
but rightly surmised that it was Mrs. Whately, since she, with good
reason, felt under obligations to him. Even more than an adventurous
scouting expedition he relished a situation full of humor, and such,
his presence at Mr. Baron's supper-table promised to be. He knew his
entertainment would be gall and wormwood to the old Bourbon and his
wife, and that the courtesy had been wrung from them by his own
forbearance. It might be his only opportunity to see Miss Lou and
suggest the liberty he had brought to her as well as to the slaves.
Mrs. Whately met him on the veranda and said politely, "Lieutenant
Scoville, you have proved yourself to be a generous and forbearing
enemy. If you feel that you can meet frank enemies who wish to return
courtesy with courtesy, we shall be glad to have you take supper with
us."
"Yes," added Mr. Baron, "my sister has convinced me, somewhat against
my will, I must in honesty admit, that such hospitality as we can offer
under the circumstances is your due."
"I appreciate the circumstances, Mr. Baron," was the grave reply, "and
honor the Southern trait which is so strong that even I can receive the
benefit of it. Your courtesy, madam, will put me at ease."
Miss Lou, thinking it possible that she might see the Northern officer
again, had taken her own way of convincing him that he was still within
the bounds of civilization, for she made a toilet more careful than the
one with which she had deigned to grace the appointed day of her
wedding. She could scarcely believe her eyes when, entering the supper
room a little late, she saw Scoville already seated at the table. He
instantly rose and made her a ceremonious bow, thus again indicating
that their past relations should be completely ignored in the presence
of others. She therefore gravely returned his salutation and took her
place without a word, but her high color did not suggest indifference
to the situation. Mr. Baron went through the formal "grace" as usual
and then said, "Ahem! you will admit, sir, that it is a little
embarrassing to know just how to entertain one with whom we have some
slight difference of opinion."
"Perhaps such embarrassment will be removed if we all speak our minds
freely," replied Scoville, pleasantly. "Pardon the suggestion, but the
occasion appears to me favorable to a frank and interesting exchange of
views. If my way of thinking were wholly in accord with yours my words
could be little better than echoes. I should be glad to feel that my
presence was no restraint whatever."
"I'm inclined to think you are right, sir," added Mrs. Whately. "It
would be mere affectation on our part to disguise our thoughts and
feelings. With neighbors, and even with friends, we are often compelled
to do this, but I scarcely see why we should do so with an open enemy."
"And such I trust you will find me, madam, an OPEN enemy in the better
sense of the adjective. As far as I can, I will answer questions if you
wish to ask any. I will tell you honestly all the harm I meditate and
outline clearly the extent of my hostility, if you will do the same,"
and he smiled so genially that she half smiled also as she answered:
"To hear you, sir, one would scarcely imagine you to be an enemy at
all. But then we know better."
"Yes, sir, pardon me, we do," said Mr. Baron, a little stiffly. "For
one, I would like your honest statement of just what harm you and your
command meditate. I am one who would rather face and prepare for
whatever I shall be compelled to meet."
"I think, sir, you have already met and faced the direst event of the
evening--my presence at your hospitable board. Even this hardship is
due to your courtesy, not to my compulsion."
Miss Lou bowed low over her plate at this speech.
"But how about the long hours of the night, sir? Have you such control
over your men--"
"Yes, sir!" interrupted Scoville with dignity. "The men I have with me
are soldiers, not camp-followers. They would no more harm you or
anything you possess, without orders, than I would."
"Without orders--a clause of large latitude. As far as words go you
have already robbed me of the greater part of my possessions. You have
told my slaves that they are free."
"Not upon my own responsibility, sir, although with hearty goodwill. In
my humble station I am far more often called upon to obey orders than
to give them. You are aware of President Lincoln's proclamation?"
"Yes, sir, and of the Pope's bull against the comet."
Scoville laughed so genially as partially to disarm his reply of its
sting. "In this instance, sir, our armies are rather gaining on the
comet."
"But what can you and your armies hope to accomplish?" Mrs. Whately
asked. "If you should destroy every Southern man, the women would
remain unsubdued."
"Now, madam, you have me at disadvantage. I do not know what we would
or could do if confronted only by implacable Southern women."
"Do not imagine that I am jesting. I cannot tell you how strange it
seems that a man of your appearance and evident character should be
among our cruel enemies."
"And yet, Mrs. Whately, you cannot dispute the fact. Pardon me for
saying it, but I think that is just where the South is in such serious
error. It shuts its eyes to so many simple facts--a course which
experience proves is never wise. I may declare, and even believe, that
there is no solid wall before me, yet if I go headlong against it, I am
bruised all the same. Positive beliefs do not create truths. I fancy
that a few hours since you were absolutely sure that this courtesy of
which I am the grateful recipient could not be, yet you were mistaken."
"Has not the sad experience of many others inspired our fears? Neither
has the end come with us yet. You said that the main Northern force
would come this way tomorrow. We do not fear you and those whom you
control, but how about those who are to come?"
"I can speak only for the class to which I belong--the genuine soldiers
who are animated by as single and unfaltering a spirit as the best in
your armies. If a Confederate column were going through the North you
could not answer for the conduct of every lawless, depraved man in such
a force. Still, I admit with you that war is essentially cruel, and
that the aim ever must be to inflict as much injury as possible on
one's adversaries."
"But how can you take part in such a war?" Mrs. Whately aske
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