It would be hard to imagine a morning more lovely, a more perfect type of peace and good-will, than the one which dawned over The Oaks plantation the following day. With the light came fragrant zephyrs of delicious coolness; the stillness of the night gave place to a slight stir and rustle of foliage; chanticleers crowed lustily, with no forebodings of their doom; the horses began to whinny for their breakfasts, and the negroes to emerge from their quarters to greet the light of this first fair day of freedom. Uncle Lusthah declared "De millenyum yere sho!" Smoke rose from Aun' Jinkey's chimney, and after the pone was baking on the hearth she came out on the doorstep with her pipe to do a little "projeckin'." Even she was impressed with the beauty and peacefulness of the morning. "En ter tink," she ejaculated, "my honey's sleepin' lak a lil chile 'stead ob cryin' en wringin' her han's nobody know whar! Wen dey gits ter mar'in' my honey en she a bleatin' en a tremlin' like a lamb 'long a wolf dat lickin' he chops ober her, den I say hit's time fer a smash up. Marse Scoville look lak he 'tect her gin de hull worl'."
So thought Miss Lou herself. In her weariness and sense of security she had slept soundly till the light grew distinct, when the birds wakened her. With consciousness memory quickly reproduced what had occurred. She sprang to the window and peeped through the blinds in time to see Scoville rise from his bivouac and throw aside his blanket. With a soldier's promptness he aroused his men and began giving orders, the tenor of one being that a scouting party should prepare to go out immediately.
"Oh!" she sighed, "if I had such a brother what a happy girl I might be! I don't believe I'd ever care to marry."
She was far from being a soft-natured, susceptible girl, and while Scoville kindled her imagination and had won her trust, she did not think of him as a lover. Indeed, the very word had become hateful to her, associating it as she did with her cousin and the idea of selfish appropriation. More strongly than any slave on the plantation, she longed for freedom, and the belief that the Union officer understood her, respecting her rights and feelings, won him all the favor she was then capable of bestowing upon any one. If he had employed his brief opportunity in gallantry and love-making she would have been disgusted. "I never met any one like him," she soliloquized as she hastily dressed. "It's so strange to find one willing I should be a little bit happy in my own way, who is not 'seeking my best welfare,' as uncle says. Welfare, indeed! As if I couldn't see some wish or scheme of their own back of all they say or do! His dark eyes declare, 'I wish you well whether you are useful to me or not.' Well, I am glad I've known him, whether I ever see him again or not. He has made my course much clearer."
The inmates of the mansion as well as those without were soon busy in their preparations for a day which all felt must be eventful. That the "millenyum" had not come was soon proved by the commencement of hostilities on the part of Mrs. Baron and Scoville. The latter was approaching the kitchen to interview Aun' Suke when "ole miss" appeared.
"Madam," he said, lifting his hat, "will you kindly direct your cook to prepare a breakfast immediately for the wounded? It should be light as well as nutritious, for some are feverish."
She paid no more attention to him than if he had not spoken, and entered Aun' Suke's domain. There was a mirthful flash in his dark eyes as he followed her. When she saw him standing in the doorway, her cold stare, more clearly than words, designated him "intruder." He steadily returned her gaze, and Aun' Suke, who had been shouting over freedom the night before, now had the temerity to quiver in all her vast proportions with amusement.
"Madam," resumed Scoville, removing his hat, "will you give my orders, or shall I?"
"Your orders, sir! and in my kitchen!"
"Certainly, madam, and my orders in this instance are simply the dictates of humanity."
"I will see that our men are well cared for. I am not responsible for the others."
"But I am, and all must fare alike. Cook, prepare a nice light breakfast for all the wounded men before you do anything else."
"Yes, mars'r, I 'bey you, I sut'ny will."
Scoville strode away to attend to other duties. Mrs. Baron glared after him and then at Aun' Suke, who at once began her work.
"Do you mean to say that you'll take no more orders from me?" the old lady asked, in tones of suppressed anger.
"Kyant do mo' 'n one ting ter oncet. Ob co'se I git yo' breakfas' when I kin. Reck'n dough we soon hab ter disergree on my wages. I'se a free ooman."
"Oh, you are free and I am not. That's the new order of things yourYankee friends would bring about."
"La now, misus," said matter-of-fact Aun' Suke, again shaking with mirth at the idea, "you got mo' edication 'n me. Wat de use bein' blin' des on puppose? Spose you en ole mars'r tell me dat ain' a egg" (holding one up): "kyant I see? Hit's broad sun-up. Why not des look at tings ez dey iz? Sabe a heap ob trouble. Yere, you lil niggahs, hep right smart or you neber get yo' breakfas'."
Mrs. Baron went back to the house looking as if the end of the world had come instead of the millennium.
In the hall she met her husband and Mrs. Whately, to whom she narrated what had occurred. Mr. Baron had settled down into a sort of sullen endurance, and made no answer, but Mrs. Whately began earnestly: "Our very dignity requires that we have no more collisions with a power we cannot resist. Even you, sister, must now see that you gain nothing and change nothing. We can be merely passive in our hostility. The only course possible for us is to endure this ordeal patiently and then win Louise over to our wishes."
Miss Lou, who was dusting the parlor, stole to the further end of the apartment and rattled some ornaments to warn them of her presence. She smiled bitterly as she muttered, "Our wishes; mine will never be consulted."
Mrs. Whately entered the parlor and kissed her niece affectionately. She did not like the girl's expression and the difficulty of her task grew clearer. Nevertheless, her heart was more set on the marriage than ever before, since her motives had been strengthened by thought. That her son was bent upon it was one of the chief considerations. "If I obtain for him this prize," she had reasoned, "he must see that there is no love like a mother's."
Miss Lou, also, had been unconsciously revealing her nature to the sagacious matron, who felt the girl, if won, would not become a pretty toy, soon wearying her son by insipidity of character. "I know better," the lady thought, "than to agree with brother and sister that Louise is merely wilful and perverse." Feeling that she was incapable of controlling her son, she would be glad to delegate this task to the one who had the most influence over him and who best promised to maintain it. She was not so blind in her indulgence as helpless in it from long habit. She thought that as a wife the girl would not only hold her own, but also do much toward restraining her son in his wild tendencies; but she gave no weight to the consideration often in Miss Lou's mind, "I do not see why everything and everybody should exist for Cousin Mad's benefit."
Mrs. Whately secretly approved of Scoville's orders in regard to the wounded, but did not so express herself, resolving not to come into collision again with her relatives unless it was essential. She now went out and assisted the surgical trooper in dressing the men's injuries. Miss Lou had learned that breakfast would be delayed, and so decided to satisfy her hunger partially at Aun' Jinkey's cabin. The excitements of the preceding day had robbed her of all appetite, but now she was ravenous. Her estrangement from her uncle and aunt was so great that she avoided them, having a good deal of the child's feeling, "I won't speak till they make up first."
The old negress heard her rapid steps and looked out from her door. "Oh, mammy," cried the girl, "I'm that hungry I could almost eat you, and I don't know when we'll have breakfast."
"You des in time, den, honey. Come right in."
But Miss Lou paused at the door in embarrassment, for Scoville had risen from the table and was advancing to meet her. "Good-morning, Miss Baron," he said. "Aunt Jinkey and Chunk have prepared me a capital breakfast, and I should be only too delighted to share it. I must be in the saddle soon and so availed myself of the first chance for a meal. Please do not hesitate, for it will probably be my only opportunity of saying good-by."
"Dar now, honey, sit right down. Ef Marse Scoville ain' quality den I doan know um."
"Miss Baron," cried Scoville, laughing, "Aunt Jinkey has raised a point now which you alone can settle—the question of my quality."
"About the same as my own, I reckon," said the girl, sitting down with rosy cheeks. "Aun' Jinkey is evidently your ally, for she has put her invitation in a form which I could not decline without hurting the feelings of—"
"Your sincere and grateful friend," interrupted the officer.
"Uncle and aunt would think I was committing an unheard-of indiscretion."
"But ARE you?"
"I'm too hungry to discuss the question now," she answered, laughing. "Do let us hasten, for such OLD friends should not part with their mouths full."
"Well, hit des does my ole heart good ter see you sittin' dar, Miss Lou. I'se po'ful glad yo' mouf's full ob breakfas' en dat yo' eyes ain' full ob tears. Wat we projeckin' 'bout yistidy?"
"Now, Aun' Jinkey, just keep still. I can't show becoming sentiment on any subject except pones and such coffee as I have not tasted for a long time."
"Hit Yankee coffee."
"I drink your health in my one contribution," cried Scoville. "Never mind, aunty, we'll be jolly over it all the same. I agree with you. It's worth a month's pay to see Miss Baron happy and hungry. I'd like to know who has a better right. Aunt Jinkey's told me how you protected her. That was fine. You'd make a soldier."
"Oh, please stop such talk, both of you. I'm ridiculously unlike the heroines in uncle's library. Lieutenant, please don't say 'Ha! the hour has come and we must part, perhaps forever.' I won't have any forever. Uncle Lusthah has insured you gray hairs, and if you don't come and see us before they're gray, Aun' Jinkey and I will believe all uncle says about the Yankees."
"And so you ought," said Scoville. "Oh, I'll come back to breakfast with you again, if I have to come on crutches. Well, I must go. There is Chunk with the horses. Even now I'm keeping one ear open for a shot from that hasty cousin of yours."
At this reference she looked grave and rose from the table. "Lieutenant," she said, taking his proffered hand, "please do not think me a giddy child nor an unfeeling girl. I DO thank you. I do wish you well just as you wish me well—for your own sake. Oh, it seems such a blessed thing for people to feel simple, honest goodwill toward one another, without having some scheme back of it all."
"Well, Miss Baron, if I had a chance I'd soon prove that I too had a scheme. The chief point in it would be to keep all trouble out of the eyes that looked on me so kindly when I came to my senses in this cabin. Heaven bless your good, kind heart! Promise me one thing."
"Well?"
"If your cousin comes soon there may be a sharp fight. Keep out of danger. I could never be myself again if my coming here should result in injury to you."
"As far as my curiosity will permit I will try to keep out of the way. I've seen so little in my short life that I must make the most of this brief opportunity. In a day or so you may all be gone, and then the old humdrum life will begin again."
"Yes, we may all be gone before night. Your chief danger then will be from the stragglers which follow the army like vultures. If possible, I will induce the general to leave a guard to-night. I wish Mr. Baron had a clearer eye to his interests and safety. The general is not lamb-like. If a guard can be procured for to-night it will be due to your action and my representations. My services as a scout have brought me in rather close contact with the general, and possibly I may induce him to give protection as long as the interest of the service permits. All questions will be decided with reference to the main chance; so, if I seem neglectful, remember I must obey my orders, whatever they are. Ah! there's a shot."
Her hand ached long afterward from his quick, strong pressure, and then he mounted and was away at a gallop. Miss Lou hastily returned to the house, but Chunk coolly entered the cabin, saying, "I'se git a bite fer mebbe I ain' yere ter dinner."
"Reck'n you better be skerce, Chunk, ef Mad Whately comes," said his grandmother, trembling.
"I knows des w'at ter 'spect fum Mad Whately en fum dat ar oberseer too, but dey fin' me a uggly ole hornet. I got my sting han'y," and he tapped the butt of a revolver in the breast of his coat. Having devoured the remnants of the breakfast he darted out and mounted his horse also.
Mad Whately was coming sure enough, and like a whirlwind. He had fallen in with the van of the Confederate advance during the night, and by his representations had induced an early and forced march to The Oaks. The vigilant Scoville, with his experiences as a scout fresh in his mind, had foreseen this possibility. He had two plans in his mind and was ready to act upon either of them.
Rushing through the hallway of the mansion from the rear entrance, Miss Lou found her kindred on the veranda. They were too excited and eager to ask where she had been, for the fierce rebel yell had already been raised at the entrance of the avenue.
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Baron, "now we'll see this Yankee scum swept away."
Apparently he would have good reason for his exultation. Scoville was the last man in the world to fight blindly, and Miss Lou kept her eyes on him. As he sat on his horse, where he commanded the best view of the advancing enemy, she thought he appeared wonderfully quiet. Not so his men. They were galloping to the right of the mansion, where there was a grove on rising ground which formed a long ridge stretching away to the northwest. It can readily be guessed that it was Scoville's aim not to be cut off from the main Union column by a superior force, and the ridge would enable him to see his enemy before he fought, if he should deem it wise to fight at all. He knew that his horses were fresh. If those of the attacking party were somewhat blown he could easily keep out of the way if it were too strong to cope with. He exchanged a few words with the sergeant commanding the scouting party recently sent out, and pointed to the grove with his sabre, then slowly followed with his eye on the enemy.
Miss Lou was in a fever of apprehension in his behalf, for already shots were fired at him from the Confederates. Suddenly she heard the click of a musket lock just beneath her, and, looking down, saw Perkins levelling a piece at Scoville. Quick as light she drew off her slipper and dashed it into the man's face as he fired. By reason of his disconcerted aim the bullet flew harmlessly by the Union officer, who gave a quick, stern glance toward his assailant, recognized him, and galloped after his men.
"You vile murderer!" cried Miss Lou, "would you shoot a man in his back?"
"Oh, come, Perkins, that's hardly the thing, no matter what your provocation," Mr. Baron added.
Perkins bestowed a malignant glance on Miss Lou, then limped away, wearing a sullen look. The officer in command of the Confederates sheered off across the lawn toward the grove, and the girl quickly saw that his force greatly outnumbered that of Scoville. Mad Whately dashed up to the piazza steps and asked breathlessly, "Are you all safe?"
"Yes," cried his mother. "Thank God! I see you are safe also."
He turned his eyes on his cousin, but in her cold, steady gaze found no encouragement. With something like an oath, he turned and galloped after the attacking force.
But Scoville did not wait to be attacked. He continued with his men along the ridge, retreating rapidly when pressed, pausing when pursuit slackened. The officer in command soon remarked to Whately, "We are using up our horses to no purpose, and we shall need them for more important work later in the day."
Therefore he sounded recall and retired on the mansion, Scoville following, thus proving that he was governed by other motives than fear. Indeed, he was in a very genial frame of mind. He had got all his men off safely, except two or three laggards, and had already sent swift riders to inform his general of the situation. Knowing that the tables would soon be turned, he was quite content that he had not made an obstinate and useless resistance. "What's more," he thought, "Miss Lou would not have kept out of danger. It isn't in her nature to do so. Miss Lou! I wish I might call her that some day and then drop the Miss. One thing is clear. If I meet that cousin again, he'll show me no quarter. So I must look out for him and that assassin of an overseer, too. She called him by his right name, the brave little girl! No need of asking me to come back, for I'd go to the ends of the earth to see her again."
If he had know how her presence of mind and swift action had in all probability saved his life, his feelings would have been far more vivid, while his belief in the luck of throwing an old shoe would have become one of the tenets of his faith. Miss Lou went after the extemporized missile and put it on again, saying, "I have fired my first and last shot in this war."
"It is indeed becoming doubtful on which side you are," answered her uncle sternly.
"I'm not on the side of that wretch Perkins. Suppose he had succeeded, and Lieutenant Scoville's general came here, what mercy could we expect? If Perkins values his life he had better not be caught."
"I am glad indeed, Louise, that you prevented such a thing from happening," said Mrs. Whately. "The result might have been very disastrous, and in any event would have been horrible. It was a brave, sensible thing to do, and you will find that Madison will think so, too."
Mad Whately, however, was in anything but a judicial mood.
Miss Lou was too well acquainted with, her cousin not to recognize evidences of almost ungovernable rage during the brief moment he had paused at the veranda. She looked significantly at his mother, whose face was pale and full of an apprehension now uncalled for, since the prospect of an immediate battle had passed away. "She is afraid of him herself, her own son, and yet she would marry me to him," the girl thought bitterly.
Miss Lou was mistaken. Her aunt had fears only FOR her son, knowing how prone he was to rash, headlong action when almost insane from passion. The girl, however, was elated and careless. She justly exulted in the act by which she had baffled the vengeance of Perkins, and she had ceased to have the anxieties of a bitter Southern partisan. Such she would have been but for her alienation from those identified with the cause. She was capable of the most devoted loyalty, but to whom should she give it? If a loving father or brother had been among the Confederates, there would have been no question. Now she was sorely perplexed in her feelings, for the South was represented by those bent upon doing her a wrong at which her very soul revolted, and the North by one who had satisfied her sense of right and justice, who, more than all, had warmed her heart by kindness. The very friendliness of the negroes inclined her to take their part almost involuntarily, so deep was the craving of her chilled nature for sympathy. If she had been brought up in loving dependence she would not have been so well equipped for the chaotic emergency. Having no hope of good counsel from natural advisers, she did not waste a moment in seeking it, or weakly hesitate for its lack. What her bright, active mind suggested as right and best, that she was ready to do instantly. Now that she had gained freedom she would keep it at all hazards.
When the Confederate officers approached the house, she was glad to observe that her cousin was not chief in command.
Mr. Baron went down upon the lawn to meet the officers, and, after a brief parley, Major Brockton, the senior in command, began to dispose of his men for a little rest and refreshment, promising to join the family soon in the dining-room. Miss Lou, unasked, now aided in the preparations for the morning meal. Fearing Aun' Suke would get herself in trouble, she ran to the kitchen and told the old cook to comply with all demands as best she could. She had scarcely spoken when Mrs. Baron entered. Casting a severe look on her niece, she asked Aun' Suke, "Will you obey me now? Will you tell me you are a free woman now?"
"My haid in a whirl aready, misus. Ef you wants me ter I kin cook, butI kyant keep track ob de goin's on."
"I can," replied the indomitable old lady, "and I can keep a good memory of the behavior of all on the plantation!"
"You can't govern much longer by fear, aunt," said Miss Lou. "Had you not better try a little kindness?"
"What has been the result of all the years of kindness bestowed upon you?" was the indignant answer.
"I only meant that it might be well to bestow a little of what other people regard as kindness. I had asked Aun' Suke to do her best and am sure she will."
"It will be strange if she does, when you are setting the example of doing your worst. But I am mistress once more, and wish no interference."
"Doan you worry, honey, 'bout we uns," said Aun' Suke quietly. "We yeard de soun' fum far away, en we year it agin soon."
Meanwhile Mad Whately was closeted with his uncle and mother, listening with a black frown to all that had occurred.
"I tell you," exclaimed the young man, "it's as clear as the sun in the sky that she should be sent away at once—in fact, that you all should go."
"I won't go," said Mr. Baron, "neither will my wife. If the country has come to such a pass that we must die on our hearths we will die right here."
"Then with my whole authority, mother, I demand that you and my cousin go at once while opportunity still remains. The forces on both sides are concentrating here, and this house may soon be in the midst of a battle. Lou will be exposed to every chance of war. By Heaven! the girl to be my wife shall not trifle with me longer. Oh, mother! how could you let her walk and talk alone with that Yankee officer?"
"I tell you both you are taking the wrong course with Louise," beganMrs. Whately.
"You never spoke a truer word, auntie," said Miss Lou, entering.
Stung to the quick, Whately sprang up and said sternly, "In this emergency I am the head of my family. I command you to be ready within an hour to go away with my mother. Perkins and a small guard will go with you to my cousin's house."
"Go away with that cowardly wretch, Perkins? Never!"
"You are to go away with your aunt and my mother, and you cannot help yourself. Your readiness to receive attentions from a miserable Yankee cub shows how little you are to be trusted. I tell you for the honor of our house you SHALL go away. I'd shoot you rather than have it occur again."
"You silly, spoiled, passionate boy!" exclaimed Miss Lou, rendered self-possessed by the very extravagance of her cousin's anger. "Do you suppose I will take either command or counsel from one who is beside himself? Come, Cousin Mad, cool off, or you'll have some more repenting at leisure to do."
She walked quietly out of the room to the veranda just as MajorBrockton was about to announce himself.
"Miss Baron, I presume," he said, doffing his hat.
"Yes, sir. Please sit down. I think we shall soon be summoned to breakfast. If the worst comes to the worst," she resolved, "I can appeal to this officer for protection."
"Mother," said Whately in a choking voice, "be ready to go the moment you have your breakfast."
His passion was so terrible that she made a feint of obeying, while he rushed out of the rear door. Perkins readily entered into the plan, and gave Whately further distorted information about Miss Lou's recent interview with Scoville. Mrs. Whately's horses were quickly harnessed to her carriage, and Perkins drove it near to the back entrance to the mansion.
As Whately entered, his mother put her hand on his arm, and warned,"Madison, I fear you are all wrong—"
"Mother, I will be obeyed at once. The carriage is ready. My own men, who have been paroled, will act as escort. Lou shall go if taken by force."
"Madison, what can you hope from a wife won by such violence?"
"She will fear and obey me the rest of her life. I'd rather die ten thousand deaths than be balked after what she has said. Come, let's go through the form of breakfast and then I shall act."
They found Miss Lou with her uncle, aunt, and Major Brockton already at the table. The major at once resumed his condolences. "I am very sorry indeed," he said, "that you ladies are compelled to leave your home."
"Do you think it wisest and best that we should?" asked Mrs. Whately quickly, hoping that her niece would feel the force of the older officer's decision.
"Yes, madam, I do. I think that the sooner you all are south of our advance the better. It is possible that a battle may take place on this very ground, although I hope not. As soon as my men have had something to eat I shall follow the Yankees, a course I trust that will bring on the action elsewhere; but this region will probably become one of strife and turmoil for a time. It won't last long, however, and if the house is spared I think you can soon return."
Mrs. Baron poured the coffee and then excused herself. A few moments later Miss Lou, who was very observant, noted a significant glance from Zany. As the dusky waitress started ostensibly for the kitchen, the young girl immediately followed. Whately hesitated a moment or two, then left the breakfast room also. But Zany had had time to whisper:
"Oh, Miss Lou, Miss Whately's keridge's at de do', en Perkins en sogers wid it. Ole miss in yo' room en—"
"Quit that," said Whately in a low, stern voice, and Zany scuttled away.
"Now, then," resumed Whately to his cousin, "if you have any dignity or sense left, get ready at once. I can tell you that I'm far past being trifled with now."
"I'll finish my breakfast first, if you please," was the quiet response, so quiet that he was misled, and imagined her will breaking before his purpose.
They were scarcely seated at the table again before she startled them all by saying, "Major Brockton, I appeal to you, as a Southern gentleman and a Southern officer, for protection."
"Why, Miss Baron!" exclaimed the major, "you fairly take away my breath."
"Little wonder, sir. I have had mine taken away."
"Louise, you are insane!" cried Mr. Baron, starting up.
"Major, you can see for yourself that I am not insane, that I have perfect self-control. As you are a true man I plead with you not to let my cousin send me away. He can only do so by force, but I plead with you not to permit it. If I must I will tell you all, but I'd rather not. I am an orphan and so have sacred claims on every true man, and I appeal to you. I do not fear any battle that may be fought here, but I do fear being sent away, and with good reason."
"Oh, Louise!" cried Mrs. Whately, with scarlet face, "you place us in a horrible position."
"Not in so horrible a one as I have been placed, and which I will not risk again, God is my witness."
Major Brockton looked very grave, for he was acquainted with Whately's recklessness. The young man himself was simply speechless from rage, but Mr. Baron sprang up and said sternly, "You shall hear the whole truth, sir. It can be quickly told, and then you can judge whether I, as guardian, am capable of countenancing anything unwarranted by the highest sense of honor. This girl, my niece, has been virtually betrothed to her cousin since childhood. I and her aunts deemed it wisest and safest, in view of dangers threatening the direst evils, that she should be married at once and escorted by my sister and her son to the house of a relative residing further south. First and last, we were considering her interests, and above all, her safety. That's all."
"No, it is not all," cried Miss Lou, with a passionate pathos in her voice which touched the major's heart. "Would you, sir, force a girl, scarcely more than a child, to marry a man when you knew that she would rather die first? Safety! What would I care for safety after the worst had happened? I will not be married like a slave girl. I will not go away to Lieutenant Whately's relations unless I am taken by force."
"Great God, sir, that I should hear a Southern girl make such an appeal," said Major Brockton, his face dark with indignation. "We are justly proud of the respect we show to our women, and who more entitled to respect than this orphan girl, scarcely more than a child, as she says herself? Good Heaven! Whately, could you not have protected your cousin as you would your sister? You say, sir" (to Mr. Baron) "that she was betrothed from childhood. She didn't betroth herself in childhood, did she? Believe me, Miss Baron, no one has the power to force you into marriage, although your kindred should use all means, while you are so young, to prevent an unworthy alliance."
"I had no thought of marriage, sir, until terrified by my cousin's purpose and my family's urgency but a day since. I am willing to pay them all respect and deference if they will treat me as if I had some rights and feelings of my own. My only wish is a little of the freedom which I feel a girl should enjoy when as old as I am. I detest and fear the man whom my cousin has selected to take me away. I do not fear a battle. They all can tell you that I stood on the piazza when bullets were flying. I only ask and plead that I may stay in such a home as I have. My old mammy is here and—"
"Well," ejaculated the major, "have you no stronger tie than that of a slave mammy in your home?"
"I do not wish to be unjust, sir. I try to think my aunt and uncle mean well by me, but they can't seem to realize that I have any rights whatever. As for my cousin, he has always had what he wanted, and now he wants me."
"That is natural enough; but let him win you, if he can, like a Southern gentleman. Lieutenant Whately, I order you to your duty. Mr. Baron, if you wish to send your ladies away and go with them, I will furnish an escort. Any Southern home beyond the field of hostilities will be open to you. Acquaint me with your decision," and he bowed and strode away.
Even the most prejudiced and blind are compelled at times by an unhesitating and impartial opinion to see things somewhat in their true light. Long-cherished purposes and habits of thought in regard to Miss Lou, then panic, and strong emotions mixed with good and evil, had brought the girl's relatives into their present false relations to her. After the scene at the attempted wedding, Mrs. Whately would have returned to safe and proper ground, hoping still to win by kindness and coaxing. She had learned that Miss Lou was not that kind of girl, who more or less reluctantly could be urged into marriage and then make the best of it as a matter of course. This fact only made her the more eager for the union, because by means of it she hoped to secure a balance-wheel for her son. But the blind, obstinate persistence on the part of the Barons in their habitual attitude toward their niece, and now her son's action, had placed them all in a most humiliating light. Even Mr. Baron, who had always been so infallible in his autocratic ways and beliefs, knew not how to answer the elderly major. Whately himself, in a revulsion of feeling common to his nature, felt that his cousin had been right, and that a miserable space for repentance was before him, not so much for the wrong he had purposed, as for the woful unwisdom of his tactics and their ignominious failure. His training as a soldier led him to obey without a word.
Miss Lou was magnanimous in her victory. "Cousin Madison," she said earnestly, "why don't you end this wicked nonsense and act like a cousin? As such I have no ill-will toward you, but I think you and uncle must now see I'll stop at nothing that will keep me from becoming your wife. There's no use of trying to make me think I'm wrong in my feelings, for I now believe every true man would side with me. Be my cousin and friend and I will give you my hand here and now in goodwill."
But his anger was too strong to permit any such sensible action, and he rushed away without a word.
"Madison!" called his mother. "Oh, I'm just overwhelmed," and she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
"Well," said Mr. Baron in a sort of dreary apathy, "do you and Louise wish to go away under an escort furnished by the major?"
"No," cried Mrs. Whately, "I would accept my fate rather than favor at his hands. If I could only explain to him more fully—yet how can I? My son, with all his faults, is all I have to live for. I shall stay near him while I can, for he will be reckless to-day. My heart is just breaking with forebodings. Oh, why couldn't you, with your gray hairs, have shown a little wisdom in helping me restrain him?"
"I reckon the restraining should have been practiced long ago," replied her brother irritably.
"You have practiced nothing but restraint in the case of Louise, and what is the result?"
The girl looked at them wonderingly in their abject helplessness, and then said, "If you are taking it for granted that I am spoiled beyond remedy, I can't help it. I would have made no trouble if you had not set about making me trouble without end. As soon as I can I'll go away and take care of myself."
"Of course, Louise," said Mrs. Whately, "we're all wrong, you as well as the rest of us. We must try to get this snarl untangled and begin right. The idea of your going away!"
"I supposed that was the only idea," said Mrs. Baron, entering. "I, at least, have tried to remedy our niece's perverseness by getting her things ready."
Mrs. Whately wrung her hands in something like despair, while Miss Lou burst into a peal of half-nervous laughter at the expression on her uncle's face. "Well," she said, "there'll be no more trouble as far as I am concerned unless it's of your own making. If I am protected in my home, I shall stay; if not, I shall leave it. One learns fast in such ordeals as I have passed through. Aunt Sarah, your son threatened to shoot me for doing what you permitted. Suppose I had told Major Brockton that? I made allowances for Madison's passion, but unless he learns to control himself he will have to vent his passion on some one else."
"She has just lost her senses," gasped Mrs. Baron.
"No, we have acted as if we had lost ours," said Mrs. Whately rising with dignity. "I can't reason with either of you any more, for you have made up your minds that a spade is not a spade. I shall tell my niece that hereafter I shall treat her kindly and rationally, and then go home," and she left husband and wife confronting each other.
"What are you going to do?" asked the wife.
"Do!" exploded the husband in desperation, "why, hump myself and restore everything in a twinkling as it was five years ago. What else can I do?"
Even Mrs. Baron was speechless at this admission that events had now passed far beyond his control.
Mrs. Whately found her niece on the veranda watching the proceedings without, and she lost no time in expressing her purpose. To her surprise, a pair of arms were around her neck instantly, and a kiss was pressed upon her lips.
"That's my answer," said Miss Lou, who was as ready to forgive and forget as a child. "If you say a word about going home I shall be unhappy. See, auntie, the Yankees are retreating again as our men advance."
The morning sun was now shining brightly and the day growing very warm. Before them was the scene of military operations. At present, it afforded a deeply exciting spectacle, yet oppressed with no sense of personal danger. Scoville's little force was slowly retiring along the ridge which the Confederates were approaching, thus removing the theatre of actual conflict from the vicinity of the dwelling.
Mr. Baron appeared on the veranda and soon began to yield to the soothing influences of his pipe. It was not in his nature to make any formal acknowledgments of error, but he felt that he had gone on the wrong track far and long enough, and so was ready for a gradual amelioration in his relations to his niece and sister. They had become too absorbed in the scene before them to think of much else, while Mrs. Baron sought composure and solace in her domestic affairs.
At last Mrs. Whately said, "The Yankees appear to have stopped retreating and to be increasing in numbers. Alas! I fear our men are in great danger and that the main column of the enemy is near."
There was a sudden outbreak of cries and exclamations from the negroes in the rear of the mansion. Zany rushed out, saying, "De Yanks comin' by Aun' Jinkey's cabin."
She had scarcely spoken before they heard a rush of trampling steeds and the head of a Union column swept round the house. Miss Lou saw Scoville leading and knew that he had availed himself of his acquaintance with the place to guide an attack upon the Confederates in their rear. He saluted her with his sabre and smiled as he passed, but her sympathies were with the major, now taken at such disadvantage. At this period the troops on both sides were veterans, and neither fought nor ran away without good reason. Major Brockton knew as well what to do as had Scoville before him, and retreated at a gallop with his men toward the southwest, whence his supports were advancing. The Union attack, however, had been something of a surprise and a number of the Confederates were cut off.
The scene and event had been one to set every nerve tingling. But a few yards away the Union force had rushed by like a living torrent, the ground trembling under the iron tread of the horses. Far more impressive had been the near vision of the fierce, bronzed faces of the troopers, their eyes gleaming like their sabres, with the excitement of battle. Scoville won her admiration unstintedly, even though she deprecated his purpose. His bearing was so fearless, so jaunty even in its power, that he seemed as brave as any knight in the old-fashioned romances she had read, yet so real and genial that it was hard to believe he was facing death that sunny morning or bent upon inflicting it. Looking at his young, smiling, care-free face, one could easily imagine that he was taking part in a military pageant; but the headlong career and flashing weapons of his men, who deployed as they charged straight at the Confederates, dispelled any such illusion.
The ridge began to grow black with Union men and Miss Lou soon perceived the gleam of artillery as the guns were placed in position. Mr. Baron, who had permitted his pipe to go out in the excitement, groaned, "The Yanks have come in force and are forming a line of battle yonder. If our troops come up, the fight will take place on my land. Lord help us! What's coming next?"
Miss Lou began to receive impressions which filled her with awe. Heretofore she had been intensely excited by what had been mere skirmishes, but now she witnessed preparations for a battle. That long line of dark blue on the ridge portended something more terrible than she could imagine. The sounds of conflict died away down the main road, the ring of axes was heard in the grove which crowned the ridge near the mansion, and Mr. Baron groaned again. Thin curls of smoke began to define the Union position—before noon thousands of coffee-pots were simmering on the fires.
At last, a tall man, followed by a little group of officers and a squadron of cavalry, rode down the ridge toward the mansion. These troopers surrounded the house, forming one circle near and another much further away, so that none could approach without causing prompt alarm. The group of officers dismounted and orderlies held their horses. As the tall man came up the veranda steps Miss Lou saw two white stars on his shoulder. Then her uncle advanced reluctantly and this man said, "Mr. Baron, I presume?"
"Yes, sir."
"My name is Marston, commanding officer. This is my staff. Will you oblige us by as good a meal as can be provided hastily? I will pay for it."
"No, sir, you cannot pay for it," replied Mr. Baron indignantly. "I keep a house of entertainment only for my friends. At the same time I know your request is equivalent to a command, and we will do the best we can."
"Very well, sir. I can repay you in a way that will be satisfactory to my mind and be more advantageous to you. Hartly, tell the officer in command to permit no depredations. Ladies, your servant," and the general dropped into a chair as if weary.
Some of the younger officers promptly sought to play the agreeable to Mrs. Whately and her niece, and upon the latter all eyes rested in undisguised admiration. Cold and shy as she had appeared, she had not failed to note the fact. The woman was sufficiently developed within her for this, and the quick, unanimous verdict of these strangers and enemies in regard to herself which she read in their eyes came with almost the force of a revelation. For the first time, she truly became conscious of her beauty and its power. More than ever, she exulted in her escape and freedom, thinking, "What a poor figure is Cousin Mad beside these men whose faces are so full of intelligence!"
Mrs. Whately was the perfection of dignified courtesy, but quickly excused herself and niece on the plea of hastening preparations. She was one who could not extend even enforced hospitality bereft of its grace, and she also explained to Miss Lou, "We had much better gain their good-will than their ill-will."
"Well, auntie, we must admit that the Yankees have not acted like monsters yet."
The lady bit her lip, but said after a moment, "I suppose gentlemen are much the same the world over. Thus far it has been our good-fortune to have met with such only. There is another class, however, from which God defend us!"
"Lieutenant Scoville admitted that himself. So there is on our side —men like Perkins."
"No, I mean Yankee officers who have at least permitted the worst wrongs in many parts of our unhappy land." "Well," thought Miss Lou, as she helped Zany set the table, "after my experience I shall believe what I see. What's more, I mean to see the world before I die and judge of everything for myself. Now if the general on our side, with his staff, will only come to supper, I shall get quite an education in one day."
Mrs. Baron retired to her room and would have nothing whatever to do with her present guests, but Aun' Suke did not need her orders now, nor did any of her assistants.
Chunk had again returned to his haunts and had made havoc in the poultry-yard. Now he worked like a beaver, meantime enjoining Aun' Suke "ter sabe de plumpest chicken ob de lot fer my Boss. Marse Scoville brung 'em all yere, you knows. Hi! but we uns had ter git out sud'n dough dis mawnin'."
"Does you tink de Linkum men git druv off agin?"
"How you talks! Aun' Suke. Hi! Druv off! Why, de ridge des black wid um—anuff ter eat Mad Whately en all he men alibe. Dey des ridin' troo de kintry freein' we uns."
"Well, I hopes I kin stay free till night, anyhow," said Aun' Suke, pausing in her work to make a dab at a little darky with her wooden spoon sceptre. "Firs' Marse Scoville whirl in en say I free; den old miss whirl in en say I ain'; now conies de gin'ral ob de hull lot en I'se free agin. Wat's mo', de freer I git de harder I has ter wuk. My haid gwine roun' lak dat ar brass rewster on de barn, wen' de win' blow norf en souf ter oncet."
"No mattah 'bout yo' haid, Aun' Suke. Dat ain' no 'count. Hit's yo' han's dat de gin'ral want busy."
"No mattah 'bout my haid, eh? Tek dat on yo'n den," and she crackedChunk's skull sharply.
"Dat's right, Aun' Suke, keep de flies away," remarked Chunk quietly."You git all de freedom you wants ef you does ez I sez."
"Mo'n I wants ef I've got ter min' ev'ybody, eben dem w'at's neber growed up."
"I des step ter de gin'ral en say you hab dejections 'bout cookin' he dinner. Den I tell 'im ter order out a char'ot ter tek you ter glory."
"G'lang! imperdence," said Aun' Suke, resuming her duties.
"La! Aun' Suke," spoke up Zany, who had been listening for a moment, "doan yer know Chunk de boss ob de hull bizness? He des pickin' chickens now ter let de gen'ral res' a while. Bimeby he git on he hoss en lead de hull Linkum army wid yo' wooden spoon."
Chunk started for her, but the fleet-footed girl was soon back in the dining-room.
When the early dinner was almost ready Mr. Baron said to his sister:
"Surely, there's no reason why you and Louise should appear."
"Very good reason, brother. I shall make these Northern officers feel that they have eaten salt with us and so are bound to give us their protection. Moreover, I wish to gain every particle of information that I can. It may be useful to our general when he appears. Bring out your wine and brandy, for they loosen tongues."
It soon became evident, however, that General Marston and his staff felt in no need of Dutch courage, and were too plainly aware of their situation to confuse their minds with their host's liquor even if they were so inclined. The general was serious, somewhat preoccupied, but courteous, especially to Miss Lou, on whom his eyes often rested kindly. At last he said:
"I have a little girl at home about your age and with your blue eyes.I'd give a good deal to see her to-day."
"I think, sir, you are glad that she is not where I am to-day," MissLou ventured to answer.
"Yes, that's true. I hope no harm will come to you, my child, nor will there if we can help it. I know what claims you have upon us and would be proud indeed if my daughter would behave as you have in like circumstances. I have travelled the world over, Mrs. Whately, and have never seen the equal of the unperverted American girl."
"I certainly believe that true of Southern girls, general," was the matron's reply, although she flushed under a consciousness of all that Scoville might have reported.
"Pardon me, madam, but you are in danger of perverting the minds of Southern girls with prejudice, a noble kind of prejudice, I admit, because so closely allied with what they regard as patriotism, but narrow and narrowing nevertheless. That old flag yonder means one people, one broad country, and all equally free under the law to think and act."
"Do you intend to remain in this country and hold it in subjection?"Mrs. Whately asked in smiling keenness.
"We intend to give the Southern people every chance to become loyal, madam, and for one I rest confidently in their intelligence and sober second thoughts. They have fought bravely for their ideas, but will be defeated. The end is drawing near, I think."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Baron grimly, "I am sorry you are preparing for some more bloody arguments about our very ears."
"I am also, on account of these ladies; in other respects, I am not. By night there may be many wounded and dying men. It will be well for them that they do not fall in a wild and desolate region like some that we have passed through. As you say, sir, war is an argument, a heated one at times. But a wounded man is an appeal to all kindly humanity. You would nurse me a little, Miss Baron, if I were brought in wounded, would you not?"
"Yes, sir, I would, because I feel what you say about a wounded man is true."
"Oh, I know that," he replied with a very kindly smile. "I hope to tell my little girl about you." Suddenly he became grave again and said, "Mr. Baron, you are somewhat isolated here, and may not be so well informed as I am. However the prospective conflict may turn, I cannot remain in this region. Many of our wounded may be left. Do not delude yourself, sir, nor, if you can help it, permit your friends to be deluded by the belief, or even hope, that our forces will not soon control this and all other parts of the land. While I trust that humanity will lead to every effort to assuage suffering and save life, I must also warn you that strict inquisition will soon be made. There is nothing that we resent more bitterly than wrongs to or neglect of such of our wounded as must be left behind."
"It would seem, sir, that you hold me responsible for evils which I cannot prevent."
"No, sir. I only suggest that you employ your whole influence and power to avert future evils. I am offering a word to the wise, I trust. Ah, Scoville, you have news?"
"Yes, sir, important," said that officer, standing dusty and begrimed at the doorway.
"Is there haste? Is your information for my ear only? I'm nearly through."
"Plenty of time for dinner, sir. No harm can now come from hearing at once what I have to say."
"Go ahead, then. I'd like my staff to know."
"Well, sir, having got the enemy on the run, we kept them going so they could not mask what was behind them. There's a large force coming up."
"As large as ours?"
"I think so. I gained an eminence from which I obtained a good view. Major Jones told me to say that he would skirmish with the advance, delay it, and send word from time to time."
"All right. Get some dinner, then report to me."
"Yes, sir;" and Scoville saluted and departed without a glance at any one except his commander.
"What do you think of my scout, Miss Baron?" asked the general with a humorous twinkle in his eyes.
"He proved himself a gentleman last evening, sir, and now I should think he was proving a very good soldier, much too good for our interests."
"You are mistaken about your interests. Don't you think he was rather rude in not acknowledging your presence?"
"I don't know much about military matters, but I reckon he thought he was on duty."
The general laughed. "Well," he remarked, "it does not seem to be age that makes us wise so much as eyes that see and a brain back of them. Scoville is a gentleman and a good soldier. He is also unusually well educated and thoughtful for his years. You are right, my dear. Pardon me, but you keep reminding me of my daughter, and I like to think of all that's good and gentle before a battle."
"I wish I could meet her," said Miss Lou simply.
"Come and visit her after the war, then," said the general cordially. "The hope of the country is in the young people, who are capable of receiving new and large ideas." Having made his acknowledgments to Mr. Baron and Mrs. Whately, he repaired to the veranda and lighted a cigar. The staff-officers, who had tried to make themselves agreeable on general principles, also retired.
Miss Lou's cheeks were burning with an excitement even greater than that which the conflicts witnessed had inspired—the excitement of listening to voices from the great unknown world. "These courteous gentlemen," she thought, "this dignified general who invites me to visit his daughter, are the vandals against whom I have been warned. They have not only treated me like a lady, but have made me feel that I was one, yet to escape them I was to become the slave of a spoiled, passionate boy!"
Mrs. Whately guessed much that was passing in her mind, and sighed deeply.
At the veranda steps stood Uncle Lusthah, hat in hand and heading a delegation from the quarters. The general said, "Wait a moment," then despatched one of his staff to the ridge with orders. "Now, my man."
Uncle Lusthah bowed profoundly and began, "De young Linkum ossifer said, las' night, how you tell us mo' dis mawnin' 'bout our freedom."
"You are free. Mr. Lincoln's proclamation makes you all free."
"Kin we uns go 'long wid you, mars'r? Folks des seem kiner deef 'bout dat ar prockermation in dese parts."
"No, my man, you can't go with us. We are marching much too rapidly for you to keep up. Stay here where you are known. Make terms with your master for wages or share in the crops. If it is necessary, the people about here will probably soon again hear the proclamation from our cannon. Mr. Baron, why don't you gain the goodwill of those people and secure their co-operation? They will be worth more to you as freemen, and they ARE free. I give you friendly advice. Accept what you can't help. Adapt yourselves to the new order of things. Any other course will be just as futile as to resolve solemnly that you will have nothing to do with steam, but travel as they did in Abraham's time."
Miss Lou looked at her uncle curiously to see how he would take this advice. His coldness of manner and silence told how utterly lost upon him it was. The general looked at him a moment, and then said gravely, "Mr. Baron, such men as you are the enemies of your section, not such men as I. Good-morning, sir. Good-by, my child. Heaven bless and protect you!" With a stately bow to Mrs. Whately he departed and was soon on the ridge again with his men.
"I wonder if Abraham and the Patriarchs would have been any more ready for the new order of things than uncle?" Miss Lou thought as she went to find Scoville.
"He down at Aun' Jinkey's cabin. Chunk took he dinner dar," Zany whispered.
"He des step ter de run ter wash he han's en face," said Aun' Jinkey a little later.
Passing some screening shrubbery, the girl saw him standing on the spot from which he had been carried insensible by her directions so brief a time before. "Your dinner is ready," she called.
He came to her quickly and said, "I've been trying to realize all that has happened since I fell at your feet yonder."
"Far more has happened to me than to you," she replied. "It seems years since then; I've seen and learned so much."
"I wish to ask you something," he said earnestly.
"That scamp, Perkins, fired on me at close range. You stood just over him and I heard what you said. How happened it that his bullet flew so wide of the mark?"
She began laughing as she asked, "Have you never heard that there was luck in throwing an old shoe? I hit Perkins over the eyes with one of mine."
"Took it off and fired it while he was trying to shoot me?"
"Yes."
He seized both her hands and asked, "What will you take for that shoe?"
"What a Yankee you are to ask such a question! It wasn't a shoe; it was a slipper." "Have you it on now?"
"Yes. What should you want of it?"
"I want to wear it next my heart. Which one was it? Let me see it."
"No; it's old. I haven't any other, and I shall wear it on my right foot as long as it lasts."
"Please let me see it and take it in my hands just a moment. I may never have a chance to ask another favor of you."
"Oh, yes, you will. You are coming to see us, and the general has asked me to visit his daughter after the war is over. Do you think he'll remember it?"
"The slipper, please."
"How can you ask so absurd a thing?" and a dainty foot was put out a brief instant before him.
"Oh, you little Cinderella! I wish I was the Prince." He saw something like a frown gathering on her face. "Don't look that way," he resumed, "I want to tell you something I've read. I don't remember the words, but the gist is that a woman never forgets a man on whom she has bestowed a great kindness. Already I have twice owed my life to you. You can't forget me. My hope is in what you have done for me, not what I can do for you. I can think of myself lying dead in front of the house, I know I am standing here looking into your true, sweet eyes. Let me look into them a moment, for I have no sister, no mother, no one in the world that I care for like you. Do not think I am making love. I may be dead yet before night. But whether I live or die I want you to remember that there is one human soul that always wishes you well for your OWN sake, that is wholly and unselfishly devoted to your interests and happiness."
"There, I'm beginning to cry, and your dinner's getting cold. You must stop talking so."
"Give me something to carry into battle this afternoon."
She stooped and gathered some wild violets. "There," she said.
"You could not have chosen better. Whenever I see violets hereafter they shall be your eyes looking at me as you are looking now."
"And—well—you can remember that there is always a little friend in the South who does care. That's a curious thought about a woman's caring for those she has—I don't believe a woman can care for any one and not try to do something for him. Let us just think of ourselves as friends. It seems to me that I never want to think any other way. Now you MUST get your dinner. You may be summoned hastily and have no other chance to-day. After Uncle Lusthah's words last night I'm not going to have any forebodings."
"Won't you let me call you Miss Lou once before I go?"
"Why not?"
"Well, then, Miss Lou, look in my eyes once more and remember what you see there. I won't say a word."
She raised hers shyly to his, blushed deeply and turned away, shaking her head. The power to divine what she saw was born with her.
"Yes, I understand you," he said very gently, "but you can't help it, any more than the sun's shining. Some day your heart may be cold and sad, and the memory of what you have just seen may warm and cheer it Miss Lou, you brave, noble little child-woman, didn't you see that my love was your servant—that it merely gives you power over me? Even as my wife you would be as free as I would be. Now good-by. We part here and not before others. Chunk is yonder with my horse. Be just as happy as you can whether we ever meet again or not." "Then—then—if you don't come again?" she faltered.
"I shall be dead, but don't believe this too hastily."
"You've been kind," she burst out passionately, "you've treated me with respect, as if I had a right to myself. You have saved me from what I dreaded far worse than death. You shall not go away, perhaps to die, without—without—without—oh, think of me only as a grateful child whose life you've kept from being spoiled."
"I shall not go away without—what?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, I don't know. What shall I say? My heart aches as if it would break at the thought of anything happening to you." She dropped on the grass and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud.
He knelt beside her and sought to take one of her hands.
Suddenly she hid her face against his breast for a moment and faltered,"Love me as a child NOW and leave me."
"You have given me my orders, little girl, and they would be obeyed as far as you could see were I with you every day."
"Lieutenant Scoville!" shouted the distant voice of an orderly. He hastily kissed away the tears in her eyes, exclaiming, "Never doubt my return, if living," and was gone.
In a moment he had passed through the shrubbery. Before she had regained self-control and followed he was speeding his horse toward the ridge. "There, he has gone without his dinner," she said in strong self-reproach, hastening to the cabin. Chunk, who was stuffing a chicken and cornbread into a haversack, reassured her. "Doan you worry, Miss Lou," he said. "Dis yere chicken gwine ter foller 'im right slam troo eberyting till hit cotch up," and he galloped after his new "boss" in a way to make good his words.