The old man shook his head sorrowfully, for Aun' Suke and Aun' Jinkey's philosophy didn't satisfy him. "I'se willin' ter do my shar," he said musingly, "de Lawd knows I be. Ef I cud die lak po' Marse Yarry en de oders fer freedom I'se willin' ter die."
"Now, Uncle Lusthah, your strong feeling and not your good sense speaks," said Miss Lou, who had been thinking earnestly, meanwhile recalling Scoville's prediction that the negroes might come to her for help and counsel. "Aun' Jinkey is certainly right in this case, and you must tell all our people from me that their only safe course now is to obey all orders and bide their time. Perkins' authority would be sustained by all the soldiers on the place and anything like disobedience would be punished severely. If what Lieutenant Scoville and the Northern general said is true you will soon be free without useless risks on your part. If that time comes I want you and mammy to stay with me. You shall be as free as I am and I'll give you wages."
"Dar now, young mistis, ef I know I free I bress de Lawd fer de charnce ter gib my wuk ter you. Dere's a po'ful dif'unce 'twix' bein' took en kep en des gibin' yosef out ob yo' own heart. Slav'y couldn't keep me fum gibin' mysef ter de Lawd en I been He free man many a long yeah, en I be yo' free man, too, fer lub."
"Look yere, now, honey," added Aun' Jinkey, wiping her eyes with herapron, "you kin bury sogers all 'bout de cabin ef you wanter. UncleLusthah kyant do mo' fer you, honey, ner me, tookin resks ob spooks.Des bury dem sogers, ef you wanter, right un'er my win'er."
It was quite natural that the thoughts of Perkins and Mr. Baron should turn toward the growing crops, neglected by reason of events unprecedented in their experience. The announcement to the slaves, first by Scoville and later confirmed by General Marston, of freedom, had staggered both employer and overseer, but every hour since the departure of the raiding Union column had been reassuring.
It is not within the province of this story to follow the fortunes of that force, since it is our modest purpose merely to dwell on those events closely related to the experiences of the Southern girl who has won our attention. She had suddenly become secondary in her uncle's thoughts. A phase of the war, like a sudden destructive storm, had been witnessed; like a storm, he hoped that it and its effects would pass away. The South was far from being subdued; the issue of the conflict unknown. He was the last man in the Confederacy to foresee and accept new conditions, especially when he still believed the Southern cause would triumph.
As the confusion of his mind, after the battle, passed he began to look around and consider what should be done, what could be saved out of what at first appeared a wreck. When Dr. Ackley assured him that the house and plantation would be rapidly abandoned as a hospital, hope and courage revived, while to these was added the spur of necessity.
He knew that he must "make his crops," or his fortunes would be desperate. Remembering the value of timely labor in the spring season, he was eager on this second day after the battle to put his slaves to work again at their interrupted avocations. Accordingly he held a consultation with his nephew and Dr. Ackley.
"The hands are becoming demoralized," he said, "by unaccustomed duties and partial idleness. Some are sullen and others distracted by all kinds of absurd expectations. Uncle Lusthah, the leader and preacher among them, even had the impudence to ask Perkins about wages. The Yankee officers, when here, told them they were free, and they wish to act as if they were. The sooner that notion is taken out of their heads the better. This can be done now while my nephew is here to enforce authority, better than when we are alone again. It seems to me that a certain number could be detailed for regular hospital duty and the rest put to work as usual."
"I agree with you, certainly," replied Surgeon Ackley. "Give me a dozen men and half a dozen women to wash and cook, and I can get along. Lieutenant Whately, you, at your uncle's suggestion, can make the detail and enforce discipline among the rest."
"I was going to speak to you about this very matter, uncle," said Whately. "My overseer has been over and I find the black imps on our place are in much the same condition as yours, a few venturing to talk about wages or shares in the crop and all that nonsense. I sent him back with half a dozen men, armed to the teeth, and told him to put the hands at work as usual. Mother is going to ride over and spend part of the day. I don't wish her to be there alone just yet, and I shall gallop over in time to be on hand when she arrives. Things are getting settled, my arm is not so painful, and it is time we pulled ourselves and everything together. You struck the right note when you said, 'Now is the time to enforce authority.' It must be done sharply too, and these people taught the difference between the Yanks' incendiary talk and our rights and positive commands. From what Perkins says, this old Uncle Lusthah is a fire-brand among your people. Give your overseer his orders and I'll see that he carries them out."
Perkins was summoned, acquainted with the policy—just to his mind—resolved upon, told to pick out the detail for hospital duty and to have the rest ready for work after an early dinner.
"Go right straight ahead, Perkins," added Whately, "and let me know if one of these Yankee-made freemen so much as growls."
Dr. Borden was not the kind of man to take upon himself undue responsibility. He had therefore mentioned to Surgeon Ackley Miss Baron's wish to give Yarry a special burial by the run and that she expected to be present.
Ackley good-naturedly acquiesced, saying, "I suppose there can be no objection to burying the man in a place of Miss Baron's selection, instead of the one designated by Mr. Baron. It's but a small concession to her who is so kindly bent on making herself useful. Let her have her own way in the whole affair."
The spirit of Yarry's turbulent career seemed destined to break out afresh over his final disposition. Uncle Lusthah went to the quarters in order to obtain the aid of two or three stout hands in digging the grave. It so happened that his visit took place during the adoption of Mr. Baron's policy in dealing with his property and just before Perkins received his instructions. The negroes not engaged in labor relating to the hospital gathered around Uncle Lusthah in the hope of receiving some advice from Miss Lou. Mournfully the old man told them what she and Aun' Jinkey had said, adding, "I doan see no oder way fer us des at dis time ob our triberlation. Ole Pharo sut'ny got he grip on us agin, he sut'ny hab fer a spell. But brudren en sistas, hit ony lak a cloud comin' 'cross de risin' sun. Let us des wait pashently de times en seasons ob de Lawd who alone kin brung de true 'liverance."
When he saw the deep, angry spirit of protest he threw up his hands, crying, "Wat de use? I warn you; I 'treat you, be keerful. Wat could us do wid our bar han's agin armed men? I tells you we mus' wait or die lak Moses 'fo' we enter de promis lan'." Then he told them about Yarry and asked for two or three to volunteer to dig the grave.
A score stepped forward and nearly all expressed their purpose to attend the funeral. The old man persuaded all but three to remain near the quarters at present, saying, "So many gwine wid me mout mek trouble, fer Perkins look ugly dis mawnin'."
"We ugly too," muttered more than one voice, but they yielded to UncleLusthah's caution.
In going to the run Uncle Lusthah and his assistants had to pass somewhat near the house, and so were intercepted by Perkins and Whately, both eager to employ at once the tactics resolved upon.
"Where the devil are you goin' with those men and shovels?" shoutedPerkins.
"We gwine ter dig a grabe fer a Linkum soger down by de run," replied Uncle Lusthah quietly. "That ain't the place ter plant the Yanks, you old fool. Go back to the quarters. No words. Leftenant Whately will detail the hands fer sech work. Back with you. Why in-don't you mind?"
"I hab my orders fum—"
"Silence!" thundered Whately. "Obey, or you'll go back at the point of the sabre."
Uncle Lusthah and his companions still hesitated, for they saw Miss Lou running toward them. She had lingered to talk with Aun' Jinkey and was returning when she heard Perkins' high, harsh words. The overseer was in a rage, and limped hastily forward with uplifted cane, when he was suddenly confronted by the hot face and flashing eyes of Miss Lou.
"Don't you dare strike Uncle Lusthah," she said sternly.
Her appearance and attitude evoked all the pent-up hate and passion in the man's nature and he shouted, "By the 'tarnal, I will strike 'im. I've got my orders en I'll find out yere en now whether a traitor girl or a Southern officer rules this place."
Before the blow could descend she sprang forward, seized his wrist and stayed his hand.
"Wretch! murderer! coward!" she cried.
"Oh, come, Cousin Lou, this won't do at all," began Whately, hastening up.
An ominous rush and trampling of feet was heard and an instant later the negroes were seen running toward them from the quarters and all points at which the sounds of the altercation reached them.
"Turn out the guard," shouted Whately. "Rally the men here with carbines and ball-cartridges." He whirled Perkins aside, saying, "Get out of the way, you fool." Then he drew his sabre and thundered to the negroes, "Back, for your lives!"
They hesitated and drew together. Miss Lou went directly toward them and implored, "Go back. Go back. Do what I ask and perhaps I can help you. If you don't, no one can or will help you. See, the soldiers are coming."
"We'll 'bey you, young mistis," said Uncle Lusthah, "but we uns lak ter hab 'splained des what we got ter 'spect. We kyant die but oncet, en ef we kyant eben bury de sogers dat die fer us—"
"Silence!" shouted Whately. "Forward here, my men. Form line! Advance! Shoot the first one that resists." He then dashed forward, sought to encircle his cousin with his arm and draw her out of the way.
She eluded him and turned swiftly toward the advancing line of men, crying, "Stop, if there is a drop of Southern blood in your veins." They halted and stared at her. She resumed, "You will have to walk over me before you touch these poor creatures. Uncle" (for Mr. Baron now stood aghast on the scene), "as you are a man, come here with me and speak, explain to your people. That is all they ask. They have been told that they were free, and now the oldest and best among them, who was doing my bidding, almost suffered brutal violence from a man not fit to live. Where is the justice, right, or sense in such a course? Tell your people what you wish, what you expect, and that they will be treated kindly in obeying you."
She recognized that every moment gained gave time for cooler thoughts and better counsels, also for the restraining presence of others who were gathering upon the scene. It was in the nature of her headlong cousin to precipitate trouble without thought of the consequences; but as she spoke she saw Surgeons Ackley and Borden running forward. Captain Maynard was already at her side, and Whately looked as if he could cut his rival down with the weapon in his hand. While Mr. Baron hesitated Mrs. Whately also reached her niece and urged, "Brother, I adjure you, go and speak to your people. They are your people and you should tell them what to expect before you begin to punish. Go with Surgeon Ackley and settle this question once for all."
"Yes, Mr. Baron," said Ackley sternly, "we must settle this question promptly. Such uproar and excitement are bad for my patients and not to be permitted for an instant."
It was evident that the surgeon was terribly angry. He had been brought up in the old regular army, and anything like insubordination or injury to his patients were things he could not tolerate. Mr. Baron went forward with him and said in a low tone:
"You are virtually in command here and all know it. A few words from you will have more effect than anything I can say."
"Very well, then," responded the resolute surgeon, and he strode toward the negroes, not noticing that Miss Lou kept almost at his side.
"Look here, you people," he began harshly, "do you think I will permit such disturbances? They may be the death of brave men. Quit your nonsense at once. You are simply what you've always been. Yankee words don't make you free any more than they make us throw down our arms. What happened to the general who said you were free? We fought him and drove him away. There is only one thing you can do and MUST do—go to work as before, and woe be to those who make trouble. That's all."
"No," cried Miss Lou, "that surely cannot be all."
"Miss Baron! What can you mean?"
"I mean that these poor creatures are looking to me, trusting in me, and I have promised to intercede in their behalf. Tell them at least this, you or uncle, that if they obey and work quietly and faithfully they shall not be treated harshly, nor subjected to the brutal spite of that overseer, Perkins."
"Truly, Miss Baron, you can scarcely expect me to interfere with your uncle's management of his property. The only thing I can and will do is to insist on absolute quiet and order on the place. In this case every one must obey the surgeon-in-charge. Do you understand that?" he concluded, turning to the negroes. "Neither you nor any one else can do anything to injure my patients. As you value your lives, keep quiet. I will not permit even a harsh, disturbing sound. Do not dare to presume on Miss Baron's kindness, mistaken in this crisis. This unruly, reckless spirit must be stamped out now. Your owner and master will tell you what he expects, and I will have the first man who disobeys SHOT. Miss Baron, you must come with me."
"Yes, sir, but not until I have spoken the truth about this affair. All your power, Dr. Ackley, cannot keep me dumb when I see such injustice. You are threatening and condemning without having heard a word of explanation. Uncle Lusthah and those with him were simply doing my bidding. Can you think I would stand by and see him cursed and beaten? These people have not shown any unruly, reckless spirit. They may well be bewildered, and they only asked what they must expect. God is my witness, I will cry out 'Shame!' with, my last breath if they are treated brutally. They will be quiet, they will do their duty if treated kindly. They shall not appeal to me for justice and mercy in vain. My words may not help them, but I shall not stand tamely by like a coward, but will call any man on earth coward who butchers one of these unarmed negroes."
She stood before them all possessed by one thought—justice. Her face was very pale, but stern, undaunted and noble in its expression. She was enabled to take her course from the courage, simplicity and unconventionality of her nature, becoming utterly absorbed by her impulse to defend those who looked to her, neither regarding nor fearing, in her strong excitement, the consequences to herself.
Dr. Borden was hastening forward to remind Ackley of his promise concerning Yarry's grave, and to show the girl that he at least would stand with her; but his chief waved him back. The old surgeon of the regular army could appreciate courage, and the girl's words and aspect pierced the thick crust of his military and professional armor, touching to the quick the man within him. He saw in the brave young face defiance of him, of the whole world, in her sense of right, and he had the innate nobility of soul to respect her motive and acknowledge the justice of her action. Watching her attentively until she was through speaking he took off his hat, stepped forward and gave her his hand.
"You are a brave girl," he said frankly. "You are doing what you think is right and I am proud of you. Tell these people yourself to go back to their quarters, behave themselves and obey their rightful master. After your words in their behalf any one who does not obey deserves to be shot."
She was disarmed and subdued at once. "Ah, doctor," she faltered, tears in her eyes, "now you've conquered me." Then turning toward the negroes she cried, "Do just as Dr. Ackley has said. Go quietly to work and be patient. Uncle Lusthah, you know I told you to do so before all this happened. I tell you so again and shall expect you to use all your influence to keep perfect order."
"We 'bey you, young mistis; we tank you fer speakin' up fer us," and the old man led the way toward the quarters, followed by all his flock.
Dr. Ackley gave his arm to the girl and led her to the house. Captain Maynard took off his hat in a very deferential manner as she passed; she walked on unheeding the salutation. Whately frowned at him and dropped his hand on the hilt of his sabre. At this pantomime Maynard smiled contemptuously as he walked away. In a few moments the scene was as quiet and deserted as it had been crowded and threatening.
On the way to the house Miss Lou explained more fully the circumstances relating to the dead soldier, Yarry, and Ackley said good-naturedly, "I'll have Uncle Lusthah and two others detailed to dig the grave and you can carry out your intentions; but, Miss Baron, you must be careful in the future how you let your inexperience and enthusiasm involve you in conflict with all recognized authority. We are safely out of this scrape; I can't answer for anything more."
"Believe me," she said earnestly, "I don't wish to make trouble of any kind, and after your course toward me, I will seek to carry out your orders in every way. If I dared I would ask one favor. Uncle Lusthah is too old to work in the field and he is a kind, good old man. If you would have him detailed to wait on the wounded—"
"Yes, yes, I will. You are a brave, good-hearted girl and mean well. I shall rely on your promise to work cordially with me hereafter. Now go to your room and get calm and rested. You are trembling like a frightened bird. I'll see your uncle, cousin and Dr. Borden. You shall bury your chivalrous Yank just as you wish. Then all must go according to regulations."
She smiled as she gave him her hand, saying, "You may put me under arrest if I don't mind you in everything hereafter."
"Well," muttered the surgeon, as he looked after her, "to think that a girl should have a probe long and sharp enough to go straight to the heart of a man of my age! No wonder Maynard and Whately are over head and ears."
It would seem as if the brief tempest of the morning had cleared the air. Two strong natures had asserted themselves. Surgeon Ackley's recognition of Miss Lou's spirit and the justice of her plea turned out to be as politic as it was sincere and unpremeditated. The slaves learned all they could hope from her or any one now in authority and were compelled to see the necessity of submission. Whately was taught another lesson concerning the beauties of headlong action, while even his egotism was not proof against the feeling that his cousin's straightforward fearlessness would baffle all measures opposed to her sense of right. As for Perkins, he began to fear as well as hate her, seeing her triumph again. The only reward of his zeal had been Whately's words, "Get out of the way, you fool." Thereafter, with the exception of the girl's scathing words, he had been ignored. He had been made to feel that Ackley's threats had a meaning for him as well as for the negroes, and that if he needlessly provoked trouble again he would be confronted with the stern old army surgeon. Having known Whately from a boy he stood in little fear of him, but was convinced that he could not trifle with Ackley's patience an instant. He now recognized his danger. In his rage he had forgotten the wide difference in rank between the girl he would injure and himself. The courtesy promptly shown to her by Maynard and especially by the surgeon-in-chief taught him that one whom he had scarcely noticed as she grew up a repressed, brooding child and girl, possessed by birth the consideration ever shown to a Southern lady. He knew what that meant, even if he could not appreciate her conduct. Maynard had scowled upon him; Mrs. Whately bestowed merely a glance of cold contempt, while her son had failed him utterly as an ally. He therefore sullenly drove his malice back into his heart with the feeling that he must now bide his time.
Even Mr. Baron was curt and said briefly before he left the ground, "Be sure you're right before you go ahead. Hereafter give your orders quietly and let me know who disobeys."
The old planter was at his wit's end about his niece, but even he was compelled to see that his former methods with her would not answer. New ideas were being forced upon him as if by surgical operations. Chief among them was the truth that she could no longer be managed or restrained by fear or mere authority on the part of any one. He would look at her in a sort of speechless wonder and ask himself if she were the child to whom he had supposed himself infallible so many years. His wife kept on the even tenor of her way more unswervingly than any one on the place. She was as incapable of Dr. Ackley's fine sentiment as she was of her nephew's ungovernable passion. She neither hoped nor tried to comprehend the "perversity" of her niece, yet, in the perplexed conditions of the time, she filled a most important and useful niche. Since the wounded men were to be fed, she became an admirable commissary general, preventing waste and exacting good wholesome cookery on the part of Aun' Suke and her assistants.
Poor Yarry was buried quietly at last, Miss Lou, with Dr. Borden, Captain Hanfield and two or three of his comrades standing reverently by the grave while Uncle Lusthah offered his simple prayer. Then the girl threw upon the mound some flowers she had gathered and returned to her duties as nurse. The remains of the old Confederate colonel were sent to his family, with the letter which Miss Lou had written for him. Every day the numbers in the hospital diminished, either by death or by removal of the stronger patients to the distant railroad town. Those sent away in ambulances and other vehicles impressed into the service were looked after by Surgeon Ackley with official thoroughness and phlegm; in much the same spirit and manner Dr. Williams presided over the departure of others to the bourne from which none return, then buried them with all proper observance. Uncle Lusthah carried around by a sort of stealth his pearl of simple, vital, hope-inspiring faith, and he found more than one ready to give their all for it. The old man pointed directly to Him who "taketh away the sin of the world," then stood aside that dying eyes might look. With the best intentions Dr. Williams, with his religious formulas, got directly in the way, bewildering weak minds with a creed.
Mrs. Whately and her son went and came from their plantation and were troubled over the condition of things there. The slaves were in a state of sullen, smouldering rebellion and several of them had disappeared. "I fear Madison has been too arbitrary," she admitted to her brother.
Mr. Baron shrugged his shoulders and smoked in silence. Perhaps his preposterous niece had not been so crazy after all.
Between Maynard and Whately there were increasing evidences of trouble, which the mother of the latter did her best to avert by remonstrances and entreaty. On one occasion Whately had said a little irritably, "I say, Dr. Ackley, what's the use of Maynard's hanging around here? He is almost well enough for duty."
"It is chiefly out of consideration for you that I am keeping him," replied the surgeon gravely, in well-concealed mischief. "It is clear that he has entered the lists with you for your cousin's hand, and I could not further his suit better than by sending him away, especially if it were suspected that I did so at your instigation. He is doing well here, good-naturedly helps me in my writing and can soon go direct to his regiment. It seems to me that your cousin holds a pretty even balance between you, and all a man should want is a fair field."
Whately walked frowningly away, more than ever convinced that the surgeon was too good a friend of his rival to interfere.
At the close of the fourth day after the battle there was an arrival at The Oaks that greatly interested Miss Lou—a stately, white-haired old lady, the mother of Lieutenant Waldo. She was very pale and it would have been hard for Surgeon Ackley to meet her agonized look, her shrinking as if from a blow, were he unable to hold out any hope.
"Mrs. Waldo," he said gravely, "your son is living and there's a chance of his getting well. His cheerfulness and absolute quiet of mind may save him. If he had fretted or desponded he would have died before this."
"Yes," replied his mother with a great sigh of relief, "I know."
"Miss Baron, will you kindly prepare Waldo for his mother's visit? Meanwhile, I will tell her a little about his case and our management of it. He doesn't know that I sent for you, for I was not sure you could come."
"Is this Miss Baron and one of my son's nurses?"
"Yes, and doing more for him than I—giving him all the bovine nectar and honeyed words he can take."
"God bless you, my dear. Please let me kiss you."
When Miss Lou entered Waldo's tent he whispered with a laugh, "It's four hours since you were here."
"No, scarcely two."
"Well, I'm as hungry as if it were four hours."
"That's fine. You're getting right well. Will you be very good and quiet—not a bit excited, if I let some one else bring you your supper?"
She beamed upon him so joyously that he exclaimed aloud, with a rush of tears, "Ah! mother?"
The girl nodded and said, "Now remember, don't break her heart by being worse."
"Oh, how sweet and lovely of her! I'll get well now, sure."
"That's a nice way to treat your old nurse."
Smilingly he held out his hand and said, "You are almost as pretty and good as she is, but you aren't mother." Then he added in strong sympathy, "Forgive me. You haven't any, have you? You don't know about this mother love."
"I know enough about it to have the heartache for its lack. Now you must save your strength till she comes. Good-by."
From that hour he steadily gained, banishing the look of anxiety from his mother's face. Mrs. Whately sighed as she saw how her niece's heart warmed toward the stranger, and how strong an attachment was growing between them. "Louise is drifting away from us all," she thought, "yet I cannot see that she encourages Captain Maynard."
A genuine friendship had also grown between the girl and Captain Hanfield, the Federal officer, and she was heartily sorry when he told her that he would be sent to the railroad town the next day. "My wound isn't doing well and I seem to be running down," he explained. "Dr. Borden has been able to keep me thus far, but I must go to-morrow. Perhaps it's best. He is trying to get me paroled. If I could only get home to my wife and children I'd rally fast enough. I'm all run down and this climate is enervating to me."
She tried to hearten him by kind, hopeful words, and he listened to her with a wistful look on his handsome face. "How I'd like you to meet my little girl!" he said. "Won't I make her blue eyes open when I tell her about you!"
Another bond of union between them was the captain's acquaintance with Scoville, and he soon observed that she listened very patiently and attentively when he spoke of the brave scout's exploits. "I declare," he had said, laughing, "I keep forgetting that you are a Southern girl and that you may not enjoy hearing of the successes of so active an enemy."
"Lieutenant Scoville is not a personal enemy," she had replied guardedly. "He showed us all very great kindness, me especially. I wish that both you and he were on our side."
"Well, as you say down here, I reckon we are on YOUR side any way," had been the captain's smiling reply.
She spoke to Surgeon Ackley promptly about the prospects of a parole, but he said, "Impossible, Miss Baron. The question would at once arise, 'If granted to Hanfield, why not to others?' I reckon Borden has been trying to rally his friend by hopes even when knowing them baseless."
This proved to be the case, and the following day brought the young girl a strange and very sad experience. Dr. Borden appeared at breakfast looking troubled and perplexed. Miss Lou immediately inquired about the captain. The doctor shook his head saying, "He isn't so well. I'd like to speak with you by and by."
She was so depressed by the surgeon's aspect that she paid little heed to the conversation of her two admirers and soon left the table. Borden followed her, and when they were alone began sadly, "Miss Baron, perhaps I am going to ask of you far too much, but you have shown yourself to be an unusually brave girl as well as a kind-hearted one, Hanfield is an old friend of mine and perhaps I've done wrong to mislead him. But I didn't and couldn't foresee what has happened, and I did hope to start him in genuine convalescence, feeling sure that if he got well he would give up the hope of going home as a matter of course. So far from succeeding, a fatal disease has set in—tetanus, lock-jaw. He's dying and doesn't know it. I can't tell him. I've made the truth doubly cruel, for I've raised false hopes. He continually talks of home and his pleading eyes stab me. You can soften the blow to him, soothe and sustain him in meeting what is sure to come."
"Oh, is there no hope?"
"None at all. He can't live. If you feel that the ordeal would be too painful—I wouldn't ask it if I hadn't seen in you unexpected qualities."
"Oh, I must help him bear it; yet how can I? how shall I?"
"Well, I guess your heart and sympathy will guide you. I can't. I can only say you had better tell him the whole truth. He ought to know it for his own and family's sake now, while perfectly rational. Soften the truth as you can, but you can't injure him by telling it plainly, for he will die. God knows, were it my case, the tidings wouldn't seem so very terrible if told by a girl like you."
"Oh, but the tidings are so terrible to speak, especially to such a man. Think of his beautiful wife and daughter, of his never seeing them again. Oh, it's just awful," and her face grew white at the prospect.
"Yes, Miss Baron, it is. In the midst of all the blood and carnage of the war, every now and then a case comes up which makes even my calloused heart admit, 'It's just awful.' I'm only seeking to make it less awful to my poor friend, and perhaps at too great cost to you."
"Well, he on his side, and others on ours, didn't count the cost; neither must I. I must not think about it or my heart will fail me. I will go at once."
"Come then, and God help you and him."
A straw-bed had been made up in a large, airy box-stall where the captain could be by himself. Uncle Lusthah was in attendance and he had just brought a bowl of milk.
Borden had left Miss Lou to enter alone. The captain held out his hand and said cheerfully, "Well, it's an ill wind that blows nowhere. This one will blow me home all the sooner I trust, for it must be plainer now than ever that I need the home change which will put me on my feet again. You needn't look so serious. I feel only a little more poorly than I did—sore throat and a queer kind of stiffness in my jaws as if I had taken cold in them."
"Do I look very serious?" she faltered.
"Yes, you look as if troubled about something. But there, see what an egotistic fellow I am! As if you hadn't troubles of your own! pretty deep ones, too, I fear. Our coming here has given you a wonderful experience, Miss Baron. No matter; you've met it like a soldier and will have much to remember in after years. You can never become a commonplace woman now and there are such a lot of 'em in the world. When I remember all you have done for us it makes me ill to think of some in our town—giggling, silly little flirts, with no higher ambition than to strut down the street in a new dress."
"Oh, don't think of them or over-praise me. Perhaps if they had been here and compelled to face things they would have done better than I. A short time ago I didn't dream of these experiences, and then I would have said I couldn't possibly endure them."
"Well, you have," resumed the captain, who was slightly feverish, excited and inclined to talk. "One of my dearest hopes now is to get back to my little girl soon and deepen her mind by making her ashamed of the silly things in a girl's life. Of course I wish her to be joyous and happy as a young thing should be, as I think you would be if you had the chance. By means of your story I can make her ashamed ever to indulge in those picayune, contemptible feminine traits which exasperate men. I want her to be brave, helpful, sincere, like you, like her mother. How quickly poor Yarry recognized the spirit in which you came among us at first! Jove! I didn't think him capable of such feeling. I tell you, Miss Baron, the roughest of us reverence an unselfish woman—one who doesn't think of herself first and always. She mayn't be a saint, but if she has heart enough for sympathy and is brave and simple enough to bestow it just as a cool spring gushes from the ground, we feel she is the woman God meant her to be. Ah, uncle, that reminds me—another cup of that cold water. For some reason I'm awfully thirsty this morning."
Miss Lou listened with hands nervously clasping and unclasping, utterly at a loss to know how to tell the man, dreaming of home and planning for the future, that he must soon sleep beside poor Yarry. She had already taken to herself the mournful comfort that his grave also should be where she could care for it and keep it green.
"I wish to tell you more about my little Sadie and my wife. Some day, when this miserable war is over, you will visit us. We'll give you a reception then which may turn even your head. Ha! ha! you thought we'd be worse than Indians. Well, I'll show you a lot of our squaws in full evening dress and you'll own that my wife is the prettiest in the tribe. Every day, until we started on this blasted raid, I received a letter from her. I knew about as well what was going on at home as if there. With my wife it was love almost at first sight, but I can tell you that it's not 'out of sight out of mind' with us. Time merely adds to the pure, bright flame, and such a pair of lovers as we shall be when gray as badgers will be worth a journey to you."
Miss Lou could maintain her self-control no longer. She burst into tears and sobbed helplessly.
"You poor little girl," exclaimed the captain in deep commiseration. "Here I've been talking like a garrulous fool when your heart is burdened with some trouble that perhaps you would like to speak to me about. Tell me, my child, just as little Sadie would."
"My heart is burdened with trouble, captain; it feels as if it would break when I hear you talk so. Would to God little Sadie were here, and your beautiful wife too! Oh, what shall I say? How can I, how can I?"
"Miss Baron!" he exclaimed, looking at her in vague alarm.
"Oh, Captain Hanfield, you are a brave, unselfish man like Yarry. Don't make it too hard for me. Oh, I feel as if I could scarcely breathe."
As he saw her almost panting at his side and tears streaming from her eyes, the truth began to dawn upon him. He looked at her steadily and silently for a moment, then reached out his hand as he said in an awed whisper, "Is it on account of me? Did Borden send you here?"
She took his hand, bowed her forehead upon it and wept speechlessly.
She felt it tremble for a moment, then it was withdrawn and placed on her bowed head. "So you are the angel of death to me?" the officer faltered.
Her tears were her only, yet sufficient answer. Both were silent, she not having the heart to look at him.
At last he said in deep tones, "I wasn't expecting this. It will make a great change in"—and then he was silent again.
She took his limp hand and bowed her forehead on it, as before feeling by some fine instinct that her unspoken sympathy was best.
It was. The brave man, in this last emergency, did as he would have done in the field at the head of his company if subjected to a sudden attack. He promptly rearranged and marshalled all his faculties to face the enemy. There was not a moment of despairing, vain retreat. In the strong pressure upon his mind of those questions which must now be settled once for all, he forgot the girl by his side. He was still so long that she timidly raised her head and was awed by his stern, fixed expression of deep abstraction. She did not disturb him except as the stifled sobs of her deep, yet now passing agitation convulsed her bosom, and she began to give her attention to Uncle Lusthah, hitherto unheeded. The old man was on his knees in a dusky corner, praying in low tones. "Oh, I'm so glad he's here," she thought. "I'm glad he's praying God to help us both." In the uncalculating sympathy and strength of her nature she had unconsciously entered into the dying man's experience and was suffering with him. Indeed, her heart sank with a deeper dread and awe than he from the great change which he had faced so often as to be familiar with its thought.
At last he seemed to waken to her presence and said compassionately,"Poor little girl! so all your grief was about me. How pale you are!"
"I do so wish you could go home," she breathed; "I am so very, VERY sorry."
"Well, Miss Baron," he replied with dignity, "I'm no better than thousands of others. I always knew this might happen any day. You have learned why it is peculiarly hard for me—but that's not to be thought of now. If I've got my marching orders, that's enough for a soldier. It was scarcely right in Borden to give you this heavy task. I could have faced the truth from his lips."
"He felt so dreadfully about it," she replied. "He said he had been giving you false hopes in trying to make you get well."
"Oh, yes, he meant kindly. Well, if it hasn't been too much for you, I'm glad you told me. Your sympathy, your face, will be a sweet memory to carry, G—od only knows where. Since it can't be little Sadie's face or my wife's I'm glad it's yours. What am I saying? as if I should forget their dear faces through all eternity."
"Ah! captain, I wish you could hear one of our soldiers, talk. Dying with him just means going to Heaven."
The officer shook his head. "I'm not a Christian," he said simply.
"Neither am I," she replied, "but I've been made to feel that being one is very different from what I once thought it was."
"Well, Miss Baron, what is it to be a Christian—what is your idea of it? There has always seemed to me such a lot of conflicting things to be considered—well, well, I haven't given the subject thought and it's too late now. I must give my mind to my family and—"
Uncle Lusthah stepped before him with clasped hands and quivering lips. "Ef marse cap'n des list'n ter de ole man a minit. I ain't gwine ter talk big en long. I kyant. I des wanter say I hab 'spearance. Dat sump'n, marse cap'n, you kyant say not'n agin—rale 'spearance, sump'n I KNOWS."
"Well, you kind old soul, what do you know?"
"P'raps des what mars'r knows ef he ony tinks a lil. Let us git right down ter de root ob de marter, kaze I feared dere ain' time fer 'locutions."
"Now you're right at least, uncle. I must set my house in order. I must write to my wife."
"Marse cap'n, you gwine on a journey. Wa't yo' wife wish mo'n dat you git ready fer de journey? She tek dat journey too, bime by soon, en you bof be at de same deah home."
"Ah, uncle, if that could be true, the sting of death would be gone."
"Sut'ny, marse cap'n. Didn't I know dat ar w'en I mek bole ter speak? Now des tink on hit, mars'r. Yere I is, an ole ign'rant slabe, kyant eben read de good Book. De worl' full ob poor folks lak me. Does you tink ef de Lawd mean ter sabe us't all He'd do hit in some long rounerbout way dat de wise people kyant mos' fin' out? No, bress He gret big heart, He des stan' up en say to all, 'Come ter me en I gib you res'."
"Yes, uncle, but I haven't gone to Him. I don't know how to go, and what's more, I don't feel it's right to go now at the last minute as if driven by fear."
"Now, cap'n, fergib de ole man fer sayin' you all wrong. Haint young mistis been breakin' her lil gyurlish heart ober yo' trouble? Am de Lawd dat die fer us wuss'n a graven himage? Doan He feel fer you mo'n we kin? I reck'n you got des de bes' kin' of prep'ration ter go ter 'Im. You got trouble. How He act toward folks dat hab trouble—ev'y kin' ob trouble? Marse cap'n, I des KNOWS dat de Lawd wanter brung you en yo' wife en dat lil Sadie I year you talk 'bout all togeder whar He is. I des KNOWS hit. Hit's 'spearance."
"Miss Baron," said the captain calmly, "Isn't it wonderful? This old slave says he knows what, if true, is worth more to me than all the accumulated wisdom of the world. What do you think of it?"
"It seems as if it ought to be true," she answered earnestly. "I never so felt before that it OUGHT to be true. We never should have been born, or given such love as you have for your dear ones, if it isn't true. Oh, to be just snatched hopelessly away from such ties is horrible. My whole soul revolts at it."
"See here, uncle," said the captain almost sternly, "I'm not going to groan, sigh, weep, and take on in any of your camp-meeting tactics. I am before the last great enemy and I know how to meet him like a man and soldier, if not a Christian. I'm willing to do anything not insincere or unmanly to meet my wife and children again. If my thought and feeling for them at this time isn't right, then I've been created wrong."
"Marse cap'n, I'se seen de mos' po'ful feelin's en miseries ob de 'victed ones vaperate lak de maunin' dew en I'se larn in my ole age dat de sabin po'r ain' in we uns, ner in any ting we is ob oursefs ner in w'at we po' lil chil'n of yearth kin do. De Lawd say, He come ter seek en sabe de loss; I wuz loss. De wuss ting He enemies cud speak agin 'Im wuz, Dis man 'ceiveth sinners: I wuz a sinner. I des arst 'Im ter sabe me, en He did. I des trus' 'Im fer life en death en does de bes' I kin. Dat's all. But hit's 'SPEARANCE, marse cap'n, en I KNOWS hit. Now, marse cap'n, w'at fo' you go way in the de dark, you dunno whar? De bressed Lawd say, I go ter prepare a place fer you. Now you des let young mistis write ter yo' folks dat you gwine wid Jesus ter dat ar place en dat you gwine ter wait fer dem dar en welcome urn home bime by des lak dey wud welcome you home way up Norf. Dat ud comf't em a heap, en hit's all true. I knows hit. Young mistis berry sens'ble w'en she say we neber orter be bawn ef hit ain' true."
The officer looked fixedly at the tearful, wrinkled face for a few moments and then said firmly, "I'll soon find out if it's true. If I do this thing at all, I'll do it in the only way I can. Miss Baron, you may write to my wife that I accept her faith. It's much the same as Uncle Lusthah's—too simple and unphilosophical, I used to think; but it meets my need now. I can't deal even with God in any other way than this. The mind he has endowed me with revolts at anything else as hypocritical. I can and do say that I will accept in grateful, downright sincerity the terms which Uncle Lusthah accepted, which my wife accepted. I submit myself to His will. I do this calmly, as I would give my hand and pledge my faith to a man, and I cannot do any more. Now He may do with me as He pleases. Miss Baron, you do the same and you'll be just as good—yes, a much better Christian than I, for I've done rough, bad things in my life. Don't you wait till you're in my extremity. I must say that I have a wretched sense of self-contempt that I am looking Heavenward with dying eyes. There's only one thing that reconciles me to it—the words 'Our Father.' God knows that I'd open my arms to my little Sadie under any possible circumstances. What the old man here says must be true, for to trifle with or mock a man in my position presupposes a degree of malignity inconceivable. I ask nothing better than that Christ will receive me as I would receive my child from world-wide wandering."
"Ah, bress He big gret heart," cried Uncle Lusthah, dropping on his knees, "w'en yo' fader en yo' moder forsook you den de Lawd took you up."
"Miss Baron, I wish to think a while and learn from Borden just how much time I have left. You will come to me again?"
"Yes, whenever you wish."
"Well, then, good-by for a short time. Thank God for sending me such an angel of death. You stay with me, uncle, till I send you for Borden."
Dr. Borden's predictions were verified in regard to his friend and patient, Captain Hanfield, but not before the officer had dictated calm, farewell letters to his wife and "little Sadie." To Miss Lou were left the serene, smiling likenesses, a grave to be cared for beside Yarry's, and a memory that could never be blotted out. She was kept from witnessing the terrible convulsions which began soon after her interview, but was present at his death and held his hand until it was cold and lifeless.
Within two weeks after the battle very few patients were left, and all these were to go with Dr. Ackley on the following day, Lieutenant Waldo excepted. He was still too weak to be moved. His mother had become so skilful in the care of his wound that she would be competent, with the help of an aged resident practitioner, to carry him through his convalescence. Mrs. Whately now spent most of the time on her plantation, her presence being needed there to remedy the effects, as far as possible, of the harsh measures at first adopted by her son. It was discouraging effort. The strong ebb tide in the old order of things had set in even far from the Union lines, and only the difficulty in reaching them prevented a general stampede of the negroes. As it was, two or three of her best hands would steal away from time to time, and run the gantlet of many dangers in their travel by night Northward. Her attempts to mollify and render her slaves contented were more than counterbalanced by the threats and severity of her son, who was too vacillating to adopt a fixed policy, and arbitrary by nature.
Her chief hope for him still centred in Miss Lou, upon whom his thoughts were fixed with a steadfastness and earnestness which his mother fondly believed would win her eventually, "I'm sure," she reasoned, "Captain Maynard has made no deep impression. He is about to depart. All will soon be gone, and the old monotony of plantation life will be resumed. After what has happened Louise will not be able to endure this. Madison will return, older and wiser from experience and she, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts will react, like all impulsive natures, from her opposition. Next to winning her or her favor from the start, he has scored a success in waking a hostility far removed from fatal indifference."
She maintained an affectionate manner toward her niece and never discussed the hope she entertained and expectation of calling her daughter. In truth, she had won the girl's respect and goodwill in a very high degree. She had been a kind and successful nurse among the wounded, confining her efforts chiefly to the Confederates. She had also been a dignified lady in all the scenes they had passed through. Her weakness was her son, yet the girl was compelled to admit that it was the weakness of love. In seeking to bring about the detested union a motherly heart and feeling toward her had ever been apparent.
The girl was already becoming depressed by a presentiment of the dull, stagnant days to come. Scoville had been lost in the great outside, unknown world completely. She was suffering from reaction after the strong excitements and fatigues of her experience. Her two lovers, remaining on the scene, possessed a sort of goading interest which compelled her to think of them, but she contemplated their near departure without regret. Nothing in her nature answered to their looks, words and evident desires. She felt that she would as soon marry one as the other, and that she would rather be buried beside Captain Hanfield and take the journey of which Uncle Lusthah had quaintly spoken than wed either. Yet in her lassitude she feared that she could now be compelled to marry either or any one if enough active force was employed, so strangely had ebbed her old fearless spirit.
It were with a kind of wondering pity that she looked at Maynard and saw the evidences of an honest, ardent attachment. "Why does he feel so?" she asked herself. "I have done nothing for him, given no encouragement, and would not care if I never saw him again. I merely wish him well, as I do so many others. Why can't he see this, and just act on the truth? He says he is coming to see me every chance he gets and tries to make me feel that he'll never give me up. Perhaps if I should let him speak plainly he would see how useless it all would be."
Circumstances apparently favored the half-formed purpose. Languid from the heat of the day, she went out on the piazza after supper, sat down on the upper step and leaned against a rose-entwined pillar. Maynard was entranced by the picture she made and promptly availed himself of the opportunity. Every one else had disappeared except Zany, of whom glimpses could be caught through the open windows of the supper-room; but she did not count. Sitting on a lower step so as to be in a measure at her feet Maynard began.
"Miss Baron, I am thinking very sadly, if you are not, over the fact that I am to go away in the morning."
"Yes," she replied, half-consciously ignoring his personal view, "the old house and plantation will soon be as quiet and deserted as before."
"Do you regret this?"
"I scarcely know. I am very tired and feel sad over all that has happened. Perhaps I'll feel differently by and by, when I've rested and had time to think."
"Oh, Miss Baron, if you knew how earnestly I hope to be remembered in those thoughts, to give you something definite to think of."
She had scarcely the energy to check him, the thought occurring more than once, "I might just as well let him speak his mind and see how vain his hope is."
"You have not given me encouragement," he resumed. "You have seemed too preoccupied, sad or weary; but this phase of your life will pass away. Our glorious cause must soon be crowned with success. If I survive, may I not hope that when I come again you will give me a hearing, a chance? I can be patient, even though not patient by nature. I will do all that a man—"
"Captain," interrupted the girl, at last, "I suppose, from the books I've read, I should make some fine speeches about the honor you are bestowing on me, and all that. I'm too tired and sad for anything conventional and appropriate. I'm just going to answer you like a simple, honest girl. One of my chief reasons for sadness is that you feel as you do. I see no reason for it. I'm glad you say I've given you no encouragement, I know I have not. Why should you care so for me when I do not and cannot respond at all? I do sincerely wish you well, but it seems to me that it should be enough for a man when a girl listens to such words as yours in weary sadness only."
"It may be hard indeed for a man to recognize this truth, Miss Baron, but I am not speaking of the present—of the future rather. There has been much to make you sad and weary. Your very youth and high spirit will soon lead you to react from your present depression. Let me speak of the future. Please let me fill that with hope for you and for me."
"Oh, I don't know about the future. For some reason I dread even to think of it."
At this instant Whately galloped to the piazza, threw the reins on the neck of his horse as he dismounted, evidently not caring in his perturbation where the animal wandered. He was in a bad mood, for things were not going smoothly at home. The attitude of his rival at his cousin's feet stung him into a jealous rage and he remarked bitterly as he strode past them, "Don't let my inopportune arrival disturb this charming tete-a-tete. In fact, I had no business to remain at my uncle's home at all, even at the call of duty, after Captain Maynard signified his intention of making it the long-continued field of his operations."
Cut to the quick, Maynard sprang to his feet, but Miss Lou merely made a gesture of annoyance and went to her room.
"Lieutenant Whately," began the captain in low, stern tones, "were I not in some sense a guest, even though an unwelcome one—"
"You are no guest of mine, sir, nor indeed of anyone that I am aware of."
"Thank you. I was haunted by some restraining consideration of Southern hospitality, but if I am free—"
"You are perfectly free, sir," again interrupted Whately, dropping his hand on the hilt of his sabre. "Let me also add that a Southern gentleman would not have made Southern hospitality a subterfuge for an opportunity to press a suit repugnant to the family concerned. We have never failed in hospitality to any invited guest."
"Your words are offensive, sir."
"I mean them to be so."
"Very well; then I have but one answer. I challenge you. Choose your weapons, hour and place of meeting."
"Revolvers, if you please. Meet me back of the grove yonder, at the right of the house, at daybreak."
"I'll not fail you. There is no need of seconds in this affair, I take it, and we are to keep our purpose secret. Dr. Ackley would interfere and the family be distressed were our intentions known."
"No one need know till our shots are heard and then it will be too late to interfere. I insist that we fight to the death."
"Certainly, if that's your wish. Good-evening, sir."
"Good-evening," and Whately went to his room to remove the dust of his ride and prepare for the late supper which his aunt had ordered for him.
This lady, hearing his step in the hall, hastened downstairs and called for Zany. "Yassum," came in quick response. The young woman emerged from the dining-room looking as stolid as a wooden image.
"Attend to Lieutenant Whately's supper and see that he has the best you can get for him."
"Yassum."
Mrs. Baron then repaired to her husband's office, where he and Surgeon Ackley were closeted, making up the accounts relating to the occupation of the property for hospital purposes. Maynard lighted his pipe, and strolled out into the grounds. He was in a cold, deadly mood of anger. There was just enough sting of truth in Whately's words to make the insult unendurable. Added to this was intense exasperation that he had been interrupted at a critical and, as he believed, a hopeful, moment. He had seen that the girl was not ready for his suit or that of any one at present, but was quite sure he could have won permission to renew his addresses in the future. Now—well, he was ready enough to fight to the death and utterly oblivious of the still, serene beauty of the night. He appeared but a shadow as he walked quietly under the trees, but it was a shadow of death. An hour since and he was but a passionate youth, full of ardent love and longing, vaguely inspired, under the influence of his passion, toward all noble enthusiasms. At the touch of a few words his heart overflowed with bitterness, and a cold, vindictive hate rendered the hours interminable till he could aim a bullet at his rival's heart, reckless meantime that another bullet was aimed at his.
In his walk he passed the tent in which Lieutenant Waldo and his mother were talking quietly of their home and the prospects of maintaining it during the troublous times clearly foreseen.
"Mother," said Waldo, "have you any definite idea as to the success of our arms?"
"No, Vincent, nor do I suppose we can at this remote plantation. We only know that there is heavy fighting at various points and great successes are claimed; but it seems very hard to get at the real truth. Our chief confidence must be in the sacredness and justness of our cause and in the prayers of so many sincere hearts to the God of justice. In giving you, my son, to our country, when you were scarcely more than a boy, you can understand why I feel that such sacrifices cannot be in vain. Now that I have watched beside you in your patient, heroic suffering, the feeling becomes a conviction that our sunny land must be enriched and blessed for all time by such blood as yours."
"Well, mother, I do not begrudge my blood or my life. You have taught me that to die is gain; but almost hourly I pray for recovery that I may soon rejoin my regiment and do more toward achieving our liberty. How strange it is that men of the North should be animated by much the same spirit! Miss Baron has been showing me the lovely faces of the wife and daughter of a Federal officer who died heroically a few days ago. She says the war is all a dreadful mystery to her."
"I am beginning to understand her better," replied Mrs. Waldo musingly, "for to some extent she has given me her confidence. If she had been brought up as you have been she would feel as you do. I can see why her uncle and aunts have not won her sympathy, while her cousin's conduct has been well calculated to alienate her. I can also understand why the negroes on the place have so enlisted her sympathy. I do not think they have been treated very harshly, but it is too clear that they are regarded simply as property, and Mr. Baron has allowed himself to be represented among them by a brutal, coarse-fibred man. If she had been your sister and had witnessed the spirit in which our slaves are governed and cared for she would feel as you do, not vindictive hatred of the North—such feeling is not permissible toward any of the human race—but a stern, lofty spirit of independence, such as our fathers had in separating from England."
"Well, she is a brave, good girl, mother, and has been as kind to me as if I were her brother."
"Very true, Vincent. She is a remarkably good girl for one brought up as she has been. She has told me much about her past repressed, unhappy life. I hope she may visit us some day."
Meantime, the subject of this conversation sat at her window looking out into the warm, fragrant, starlit night. The words of Maynard, the passionate resentment of her cousin toward the young captain merely added to the heavy burden of experience which had been crowded into the past few weeks. "Oh," she sighed longingly, "if I could only see Allan Scoville! He is so strong, unselfish and restful. I could tell him everything. He would know just how weary and depressed I am, nor would he want me to do what I can't, what I'm not ready for. Oh, what a blessed thing it would be to have a friend near who wasn't always exacting or expecting or passionately urging something or other. I wouldn't need urging in his case, and would even know his hand would be the first to restrain me for my own good. Where is he now? Oh, he'd be here if my thoughts could bring him, yet my two lovers would be eager to take his life. Lovers indeed! Well, it's a strange, tangled up world that I'm learning about."
Meantime Zany, bursting with her secret, was unable to tell any one, and not yet sure she wished to tell. For one at her point of civilization her motives were a little complex and sophisticated. In a vicarious way she felt not a little the elation of many a high-born dame that two men were about to fight over her young mistress, regarding it as an undeniable compliment. She was also inclined to indulge the cynical thought that it might save Miss Lou, Scoville, Chunk—indeed, all in whom she was interested—further trouble if, as she phrased it, "Dat ar young cap'n gib Mad Whately he way onst too of'un. He des natchelly bawn ter mek folks trouble en I reck'n we git on wid he spook bettah ner hesef."
Whately would not have relished his supper if he had divined the thoughts of his waitress. As it was, he had little appetite for it and paid his respects chiefly to his uncle's decanter. He felt no need of false courage, but was irritated and depressed over the general aspect of affairs, and here was an easy way of raising his spirits. By the time he was ready to dispense with Zany's services he was so affected by his potations that his aunt, who had appeared on the scene, hastened his retirement. He told the sergeant of the guard to have him called at daybreak and was soon asleep.
The indomitable housekeeper, Mrs. Baron, kept the girl busy until everything was put away and the dining-room in perfect order. Meantime Zany concluded that she had better tell Miss Lou. Her young mistress might blame her severely if she did not, and keeping such a secret over night would also be a species of torture.
When she was dismissed she watched her opportunity, whisked up to MissLou's room, and was glad to find the girl still awake.
"Oh, Miss Lou," she whispered breathlessly, "I des got de orfulest, quarest news, en I darsn't kep hit eny longer. Marse cap'n en Mad Whately gwine ter fight 'bout you fo' sun-up."
"What!"
"Dey sut'ny is. Dey gwine ter fight one anoder 'bout you wid 'volvers—fight ter de deth dey said. I yeared dem troo de dine-room winders."
"Oh, Zany! this is horrible!"
"Hit mout be wuss. Yo' cousin hot fer hit. He say orful tings ter marse cap'n who didin't gib back a inch en sez, sez he, 'I challing you. Shoose yo' weapons en place ob meetin'. Dem he berry words. Den yo' cousin shose 'volvers en de far side ob de grobe up dar en said 'we fight ter de deth.' Deth useter seem orful, Miss Lou, but sech a heap ob mens die dat ef Mad Whately des set on dyin', w'y not let 'im hab he way? Dat orter suit 'im bes'. I reck'n he mek we uns en Marse Scoville en Chunk berry lil trouble arter he dead."
"Zany, Zany, that's a dreadful way to look at it. You should know better. This meeting must be prevented. Where is my cousin?"
"He des sound a sleep ez a log," and she made it clear that there would be no use in trying to remonstrate with him.
"Where's Captain Maynard?"
"Dunno. Sleepin' in he tent too, s'pose. Hit too late now, Miss Lou, ter do anyting fo' mawnin'."
The girl thought deeply a few moments and then muttered, "Shame on them both!"
"Dar now, Miss Lou, you doan reckermember dey payin' you a big compelment."
"I shall tell them to their faces how I regard this outrage rather. Still, for their sakes, as well as my own, I will keep the affair quiet if I can. Zany, you must stay with me to-night and at the earliest dawn we must watch them and be on the ground as soon as they are."
"Berry well, Miss Lou. I lak not'n bettah."
"Go to sleep, then. I won't sleep to-night."