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."
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?" askedMiss 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.
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 diplomaticZany.
"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 aLinkum 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.
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 iswith my family, and you have nothing to do with it except as youYankees 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.
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 thatChunk 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.