Zany's tidings brought the spur of a great necessity to Miss Lou's jaded spirit, and as her waking thoughts dwelt on the proposed encounter, a slow, deep anger was kindled in her mind. "What right have they to do such a thing?" she asked herself over and over again. Even more than at, the barbarism of the act she revolted at its injustice. "I never wronged either of them," she repeated, "and here they are recklessly bent on what would imbitter my life. The idea of being fought about! Two animals couldn't do worse."
And so the long night was passed in bitter, painful thoughts. With the dawning the bird's innocent songs jarred on her overwrought senses. She looked out of the window by which she had kept her vigil, inhaled the dewy freshness of the air and then bathed her tired, hot eyes.
"To think that men would disturb the peace of such a morning by their miserable, causeless hate! Where is Madison's love for his mother? Why don't they remember the distress and horror that would follow their mad act? Zany, wake up. It is time we were on the watch."
Even as she spoke there was a heavy step in the outer hall, that of the sergeant coming to wake Lieutenant Whately. Miss Lou glanced from her window in time to see Captain Maynard striding from his tent toward the grove which would screen the combatants from observation. Waiting a few moments for the sergeant to retire she and Zany slipped down and out before Whately left his room. They reached the grove from the back entrance of the house, and concealing themselves in some copse-wood, watched for Whately's coming. He soon appeared, walking rapidly as if fearing to be behind time. He was in fact some moments late, having stopped to advise Perkins of the affair on hand. He passed so near his cousin's leafy screen that she could look into his flushed, troubled face and could hear him mutter, "Curse it all! I'm forever getting into scrapes."
For the first time since Zany's news, pity overcame her anger and she murmured, "Poor spoiled boy! It's well for you and your mother that I'm here."
Swiftly she followed him through the still dusky grove, keeping the boles of trees between herself and his form. Beyond the grove was an open grassy field, facing the east, where the light was distinct. Clearly outlined against the rose-tinted horizon was the figure of Maynard standing with his arms folded and his back toward them, apparently lost in deep thought.
"Well, sir," said Whately sternly, "I suppose I should asked your pardon for keeping you waiting."
"I reckon there's plenty of time for the purpose of our meeting," replied Maynard coolly. "Since you are the challenged party and we have no seconds, arrange the matter to suit yourself."
Whately was about to pace off the ground when a girl's voice rang out clearly, "Stop that!"
"Miss Baron!" cried Maynard, taking off his hat.
Whately threw back his head proudly. This was better than he had dreamed, for now his cousin would be compelled to recognize his high and haughty spirit. A glance at the girl's pale, stern face as she stepped out between them was not altogether reassuring. She glanced coldly from one to the other for a moment and then said firmly, "I have something to say about this affair."
"Pardon me, Miss Baron," Maynard began, bowing, "if I am compelled to disabuse your mind. This is a little matter between Lieutenant Whately and myself. I am surprised beyond measure that he has invited you to be present."
"That's a lie," thundered Whately, drawing his weapon from his belt.
"Stop, both of you," cried the girl. "Captain Maynard, my cousin has not invited me. Your purpose of meeting was discovered by accident and revealed to me late last night—too late for me to do anything then. All the long night I have sat at my window that I might be in time to keep you from disgracing yourselves and me."
"Great heavens! Miss Baron, you do me injustice," cried Maynard. "I have been insulted. I never thought of wronging you. Perish such a thought!"
"Evidently neither of you has thought of me, nor cared for me or others. Yourselves, your own vindictive feelings have engrossed you wholly, yet I know I'm the innocent cause of this brutal encounter, and the world would know me to be the cause whether it believed me innocent or not. I tell you plainly that if you fight I shall brand you both unworthy the name of gentlemen and I shall proclaim to all your outrage to me."
"Outrage to you, Miss Baron?" said Maynard, with a bitter, incredulous laugh.
"Yes," she replied, turning upon him fiercely. "What can you think of me when you fight about me like a wild beast?"
"I am prepared to fight Lieutenant Whately on entirely different grounds," he replied, his face flushing hotly at her words.
"You cannot do it, sir. I would know, and so would all, that I was the cause. What right, sir, have you to imbitter my life, to fill my days and nights with horror? I never wronged you."
"But, Miss Baron, in all ages such encounters have been common enough when a man received ample provocation, as I have."
"So much the worse for the ages then. I say that you both were about to commit a selfish, cowardly, unmanly act that would have been an outrage in its cruelty to an innocent girl, to whom you had been making false professions of regard."
"Now, by the God who made me, that's not true, Miss Baron."
"Cousin Lou, you are beside yourself," cried Whately.
"Miss Baron," said Maynard, coming to her side and speaking with great earnestness, "I can endure any charge better than your last. No man ever declared truer love than I to you."
"I can tell you of a man who has declared truer love," she replied, looking him steadily in the eyes.
"Who in God's name?" he asked savagely.
"Any man who thought more of the girl than of himself," she answered with passionate pathos in her tones, "any man who considered her before his own reckless, ungovernable feelings, who would save her heart from sorrow rather than gratify his anger. Any man who asks, What is best for the woman I love? instead of What's my humor? what will please me? Suppose you both had carried out your savage impulses, and lay on this ground, wounded or dead, what would be said at the house there about me? What would be your mother's fate, Madison, that you might gratify a causeless spite? Have you no home, Captain Maynard, no kindred who would always curse my name? If you had died like the brave men who lie in yonder graves your friends would ever speak your name proudly; but even I, all inexperienced, know the world well enough to be only too sure, they would hang their heads and say you flung away your life for a heartless girl who was amusing herself at your expense. Fight if you will, but if you do, I pledge you my word that I will never willingly look upon either of you again, living or dead!"
She was about to turn away when Maynard rushed before her exclaiming, "Miss Baron, I beg your pardon, I ask your forgiveness. I never saw this act in the light you place it."
"There, cousin," added Whately with a sort of shamefaced laugh, "I'm hanged if you aren't in the right and I in the wrong again. As you say, the bullet that killed me might do worse by mother, and I should have thought of that. As for you, we didn't think you'd look at it this way. There's plenty of girls who'd think it a big feather in their caps to have men fight about 'em."
"I can't believe it."
"It's true, nevertheless," said Maynard earnestly. "What can I do to right myself in your eyes?"
"If you wish to be men whose friendship I can value, shake hands and use your weapons for your country. If you truly care for my good opinion, forget yourselves long enough to find out what DOES please me and not rush headlong into action I detest. Consider the rights, feelings and happiness of others."
"Well, Whately, what do you say?" asked Maynard with a grim laugh. "I am ready to obey Miss Baron as I would my superior officer," and he held out his hand.
Whately took it with an answering laugh, saying, "There's nothing else left us to do. After her words, we could no more fight each other than shoot her."
"Thank you. I—I—Zany," she faltered, turning deathly white. She would have fallen had not her cousin sprung to her aid, supporting her to a seat on a moss-grown log lying near.
For a few moments the long strain and reaction proved too much for her, and she sat, pale and panting, her head resting against Zany, who had rushed from her covert. The young men were overwhelmed with compunction and alarm, but she retained and silenced them by a gesture. "I'll be—better—in a moment," she gasped.
It proved but a partial giving way of her nervous force. In a few moments she added, "Please go back to the house by different ways. No one need know anything about this. No, don't call any one. I'll get better faster if left with Zany. I beg you do as I ask and then my mind will be at rest."
"There, Miss Baron," said the remorseful Maynard, "I pledge you my word I'll never fight a duel. I can prove my courage sufficiently against the enemy."
She smiled, held out her hand, which he carried to his lips and reluctantly departed.
"See here, Cousin Lou," said Whately impulsively, "I'm going to give you an honest, cousinly kiss. I'm not so feather-headed as not to know you've got us both out of a devil of a scrape."
He suited the action to his words, and strode off in time to intercept Perkins, who had the scent of a vulture for a battle. "We have arranged the affair for the present," said the young officer curtly, "and won't need any graves to-day. Keep mum about this."
"I'll keep my mouth close enough till I kin begin ter bite on my own account," muttered the overseer as he sullenly followed.
That morning Miss Lou stood on the veranda and bade farewell, one after another, to those with whom she had been associated so strangely and unexpectedly. There was an unwonted huskiness in Dr. Borden's voice, and Ackley, usually so grim and prompt, held the girl's hand lingeringly as he tried to make a joke about her defying him and the whole Confederacy. It was a dismal failure. Regarding him with her weary eyes, she said:
"Doctor, you had wit enough and heart enough to understand and subdue me. Haven't I minded you since?"
"I'm a little afraid you'd still get the upper hand if you often looked at me as you do now. I shall find out, however, if you will obey one more order. Miss Baron, you MUST rest. Your pulse indicates unusual exhaustion. You have tried to do too much, and I expect those young men have been making such fierce and counter claims that you are all worn out. Ah, if I had been only twenty years younger I would have won you by a regular course of scientific love-making."
"I don't know anything about science and wouldn't understand you. So it is better as it is, for I do understand what a good, kind friend you've been. You knew all the while that I was little more than an ignorant child, yet your courtesy was so fine that you treated me like a woman. I hope we shall meet again in brighter days. Yes, I will obey you, for I feel the need of rest."
"I shall come again and take my chances," said Maynard in parting.
Mercurial Whately, forgetting his various troubles and experiences in the excitement of change and return to active duty, bade her a rather boisterous and good-hearted farewell. His mind was completely relieved as to Maynard, and he did not dream of Scoville as a serious rival.
"It's only a question of time," he thought, "and at present mother can do the courting better than I can. When I return Lou will be so desperately bored by her stupid life here as to be ready for any change."
The remaining patients looked at her and Mrs. Whately very wistfully and gratefully, speaking reluctant adieus. When all were gone the girl, feeling that she had reached the limit of endurance, went to her room and slept till evening. It was the sleep of exhaustion, so heavy that she came down to a late supper weak and languid. But youth is elastic, the future full of infinite possibilities. Scoville's words haunted her like sweet refrains of music. No matter how weary, perplexed and sad she was, the certainty of her place in his thoughts and heart sustained her and was like a long line of light in the west, indicating a clearing storm. "He WILL come again," she often whispered to herself; "he said he would if he had to come on crutches. Oh, he DOES love me. He gave me his love that night direct, warm from his heart, because he couldn't help himself. He thought he loved me before—when, by the run, he told me of it so quietly, so free from all exaction and demands; but I didn't feel it. It merely seemed like bright sunshine of kindness and goodwill, very sweet and satisfying then. But when we were parting, when his tones trembled so, when overcome, he lost restraint and snatched me to HIS heart—then I learned thatI, too, had a heart."
If she had been given time this new heart-life, with thoughts and hopes springing from it like flowers, would have restored her elasticity. Scoville's manly visage, his eyes, so often mirthful, always kind, would have become so real to her fancy that the pallid, drawn features of the suffering, the dying and the dead, would have faded from her memory. So would have faded also the various aspects of passion from which she had shrunk, frightened by its hot breath. Her days would have been filled with the beautiful, innocent dreams of a young girl's first love so inspired as to cast out fear.
But the ruthless Moloch of war could not permit anything so ideal, so heavenly, as this.
Mrs. Waldo came down from the apartment to which her son had been removed and joined the girl on the veranda. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have taken solid comfort all day in the thought that you were sleeping, and now you are still resting. I want to see the color in your cheeks again, and the tired look all gone from your eyes before we go."
"You don't know how I dread to have you go," replied Miss Lou. "From the first your son did more for me than I could do for him. The smile with which he always greeted me made me feel that nothing could happen beyond remedy, and so much that was terrible was happening."
"Well, my child, that's the faith I am trying to cherish myself and teach my boy. It is impossible for you to know what a black gulf opened at my feet when my noble husband was killed early in the war. Such things, happily, are known only by experience, and many escape. Then our cause demanded my only son. I face death with him in every battle, every danger. He takes risks without a thought of fear, and I dare not let him know the agony of my fear. Yet in my widowhood, in the sore pressure of care and difficulty in managing a large plantation in these times, I have found my faith in God's love adequate to my need. I should still find it so if I lost my boy. I could not escape the suffering, but I would not sorrow as without hope."
"How much I would give for the certainty of such a faith!" said MissLou sadly. "Sometimes, since Captain Hanfield died, I think I feel it.And then—oh, I don't know. Things might happen which I couldn't meetin your spirit. If I had been compelled to marry my cousin I feel thatI should have become hard, bitter and reckless."
"You poor, dear little girl! Well, you were not compelled to marry him. Don't you see? We are saved from some things and given strength to bear what does happen. Don't you worry about yourself, my dear. Just look up and trust. Happily, the sun of God's love shines on just the same, unaffected by the passing clouds of our feelings and experiences. He sees the end and knows all about the peaceful, happy eternity before us. You dear, worn-out little child! His love is ever about you like my arms at this moment," and the old lady drew the girl to her in an impulse of motherly tenderness.
"Oh, Mrs. Waldo, you make me feel what it is to have no mother," sobbedMiss Lou.
"Well, my dear, that's your heavy cross. Sooner or later, in some form, a cross burdens every human soul, too often many crosses. All I ask of you is not to try to bear them alone. See how faith changed everything for Captain Hanfield in his extremity. He is now in the better home, waiting for his dear ones."
"I can never forget what faith has done for you and your son, Mrs. Waldo. Surgeon Ackley said that your son's absolute quiet and cheerfulness of mind during the first critical days saved his life."
"Yes, I know that," Mrs. Waldo replied with her low, sweet laugh. "Faith is often more useful in helping us to live than in preparing us to die. It saved my life, too, I'm sure, after my husband died. I had no right to die then, for Vincent and, far more, my daughters, still needed me."
For a time they sat on the piazza steps in silence, the old lady keeping her arm caressingly about the girl, whose head drooped on the motherly bosom overflowing with sympathy. Only the semi-tropical sounds of night broke the stillness. The darkness was relieved by occasional flashes along the horizon from a distant thunder-shower. Miss Lou thought, "Have I ever known a peace so deep and sweet as this?"
There was a hasty, yet stealthy step along the hall to the door, yet the girl had no presentiment of evil. The warm, brooding, fragrant darkness of the night was not more undisturbed than her mind.
"Miss Lou," said Zany in a loud whisper.
What a shock came with that brief utterance! A flash of lightning direct from the sky could not have produced such sudden dread and presentiment of trouble. Truly, a woman listens more with her heart than her ears, and even in Zany's whisper there was detected a note of tragedy.
After an instant Miss Lou faltered, "What is it, Zany?"
"Ef you gwine ter yo' room soon I des he'p you undress."
How well the girl knew that the faithful slave meant other and less prosaic help! She rose at once, kissed Mrs. Waldo good-night and excused herself. When Zany had lighted the candle her scared, troubled face revealed at once that she had tidings of dire import.
Miss Lou seized the girl with a grip which hurt her arm, demanding,"Have you heard anything about—about Lieutenant Scoville?"
"Now, Miss Lou, you gotter be brabe en not look at me dat away. Kaze ef you does, w'at I gwine ter do? I kyant stan' it nohow."
"Oh! oh!" Miss Lou gasped, "wait a moment, not yet—wait. I must get breath. I know, I know what's coming. Chunk is back and—and—O God, I can't bear it, I cannot, I cannot!"
"Dar now, Miss Lou, des lis'n. P'raps tain ez bad ez you tink. P'raps w'en Chunk 'splain all you see tain ez bad. Hi! Miss Lou, you musn't took on so," for the girl was wringing her hands and rocking back and forth in agony. "Folks s'picion dat Chunk yere en dat ud be de eend ob him, sho. He ain' seen Marse Scoville daid sho. He on'y see 'im fall. Chunk wanter see you en he mighty skeery 'bout hit, kaze ef Perkins get on he track he done fer. He ain' see he granny yit en he darsn't come dar twel hit late. He larn ter toot lak a squinch-owl frum Marse Scoville en he tole me dat when he come agin he toot. I nigh on run my legs off follerin' up tootin's o' nights, fer dey wuz on'y pesky squinch-owls arter all. Dis eb'nin' I year a toot dat flutter my heart big en I knowed 'twuzn't no squinch-owl dis time, sho," and so Zany ran on in her canny shrewdness, for she perceived she was gaining Miss Lou's attention and giving time for recovery from the blow.
Miss Lou had a despairing conviction that Chunk would not have returned alone unless his master was dead, but her mind quickly seized upon the element of uncertainty and she was eager to see the negro.
"We mus' wait, we sut'ny mus', twel Chunk kin creep ter he granny's cabin."
"I can't wait, Zany. It wouldn't be best, either for me or Chunk. It's not very late yet, and I could visit Aun' Jinkey without exciting remark if you go with me. It's too dark for Chunk to be seen and I'd protect him with my life. I must get better ground for hope or my heart will break. Pretend I wish a glass of water and see if we can't slip out now."
This Zany did, discovering that Mrs. Baron was with her husband in his office and that Mrs. Waldo had returned to her son's room.
In a few moments Miss Lou was sitting by Aun' Jinkey and tremblingly telling her fears. Meanwhile Zany scouted around to insure immunity from observation.
"You po', po' chile!" groaned Aun' Jinkey. "I wuz a-hopin' dat now you hab a time ob peace en quietness, en you des gwine ter be s'pended 'twixt hebin en yearth."
"Oh, I fear he's dead, my heart tells me he's dead. Oh, mammy, mammy, how can God be so cruel? I don't know who caused this war or who's to blame, but I feel now as if I could TORTURE them."
"I'se feared dat ain' de right speret, honey."
"How can one have the right spirit when mocked by such a hope as I've had? It needn't have happened. Oh, Mrs. Waldo, I could tell you NOW I'm no Christian at all. I say it needn't have happened. And then think how Uncle Lusthah prayed!"
"Chunk down dar by de run, Miss Lou," whispered Zany. "I lis'n wid all my years en eyes."
"Miss Lou, I'se yere in de shadder ob dis bush," Chunk called softly.
"Tell me everything."
"Darsn't twel I feels mo' safe, Miss Lou. Kin on'y say now Marse Scoville des dote on you en he ax questions 'bout you sence you lil gyurl. Hun'erds ob times he say, 'Chunk, we go back some day, sho!' But he do he duty brabe. I go wid 'im ev'ywhar en onst, des on de aige ob night, he wuz ridin' long wid 'bout twenty ob he men en dis ting happen. We didn't tink any Rebs roun' en I'd been kep' back tryn' ter git a chicken fer mars'r's supper. Ez I riz a hill, ridin' right smart I see our folks goin' easy en car'less inter a woods. I seed 'em all ez plain ez eber see anybody, en Marse Scoville ride at de haid. Sudden dere was flash, flash, bang, bang, all troo de woods. Marse Scoville fell right off he hoss, he sut'ny did. Den lots ob Johnnies run in de road fore en hind our mens. I see dere wuz no chaince fer me ter do any ting but git away en lil chaince fer dat, fer two Rebs on horses come tarin' arter me. Ef hit hadn't come dark sudden en my hoss wuzn't a flyer I'se been cotched sho. 'Fo' de Lawd, Miss Lou, dat all I know."
"He's dead," said the girl in a hoarse whisper.
"I orful feared he is, Miss Lou," assented the matter-of-fact Chunk. "De Rebs so neah w'en dey fiah, en Marse Scoville sut'ny did go off he hoss sudden. I been a week gittin' yere en I neber git yere ef de cullud people didn't he'p me long nights."
The girl stood silent and motionless. Suddenly Zany grasped her hand and whispered, "I yeared steps. Come ter de cabin. Be off, Chunk."
They had scarcely reached Aun' Jinkey's door before a shadow approached and the harsh voice of Perkins asked, "What's goin' on yere?"
"My young mistis des seein' her mammy 'bout her clos," replied the quick-witted Zany.
"I thought I yeared voices down by the run."
"Reck'n you bettah go see," said Zany in rather high tones.
"What the dev—what makes yer speak so loud? a warnin'?"
"Tain' my place ter pass wuds wid you, Marse Perkins. Dem I serbs doan fin' fault."
"I reckon Mr. Baron'll do mo'n find fault 'fore long. I bettah say right yere en now I've got my orders 'bout that nigger Chunk. Nobody kin save 'im ef caught. You've been followed before in your night-cruisin' en you're lookin' fer some one. Ef there's trouble, Miss Baron kyant say I didn't give warnin'. Now that the sogers is gone I'm held 'sponsible fer what goes on," and he stalked away.
He did not wish to come into an open collision with Miss Lou again if he could help it—not at least while the Waldos remained. He had concluded that by a warning he might prevent trouble, his self-interest inclining him to be conservative. Confederate scrip had so lost its purchasing power that in its stead he had recently bargained with Mr. Baron for a share in the crops. Thus it happened that the question of making a crop was uppermost in his mind. Until this object was secured he feared to array the girl openly against him, since her influence might be essential in controlling the negroes. If policy could keep them at work, well and good; if the harshest measures seemed best to him he was ready to employ them.
Not only was he puzzled, but Zany also and Aun' Jinkey were sore perplexed at Miss Lou's silence. She had stood motionless and unheeding through the colloquy with the overseer, and now remained equally deaf and unresponsive to the homely expressions of sympathy and encouragement of the two women. They could not see her face, but quickly felt the dread which anything abnormal inspires in the simple-minded. Prone to wild abandon in the expression of their own strong emotions, the silent, motionless figure of the young girl caused a deeper apprehension than the most extravagant evidences of grief.
"Aun' Jinkey," whispered Zany, "you mus' des he'p me git her to her room."
She went with them without word or sign. Their alarm was deepened when they saw her deathly pale and almost rigid features by the light of her candle.
"Miss Lou, honey, speak ter yo' ole mammy. You broke my heart w'en you look dat away."
"I tell you he's dead," whispered the girl.
"Dis ter'ble," groaned the old woman. "'Fo' de Lawd I dunno w'at er do."
Zany felt instinctively that the girl was beyond their simple ministrations and she was desperately afraid that if Mrs. Baron came Chunk's presence would be revealed by words spoken unconsciously. She and Aun' Jinkey promptly agreed that Mrs. Waldo was their only hope and Zany flew to summon her.
Fortunately the lady had not retired and she came at once. "Louise,Miss Baron, what is the matter?" she asked in strong solicitude.
"I tell you, he's dead," again whispered the girl, looking as if a scene of horror were before her eyes. "The Rebs were so near when they fired, and he fell off his horse sudden. Ch—"
Quick as light Zany's hand was over the girl's mouth. The scared face and trembling form of the young negress did not escape Mrs. Waldo's quick eye.
"Zany, what are you concealing?" she asked, sternly. "What does all this mean?"
"Dar now, misus," answered Aun' Jinkey with a certain simple dignity, "we mus' des trus you. I'se yeared you a lubin' serbent ob de Lawd. Ef you is, you am' gwine ter bring mis'ry on mis'ry. We mus' brung Miss Lou roun' sudden 'fo' ole miss comes. He'p us git young mistis sens'ble en I tell you eberyting I kin. Dere ain' not'n bade 'bout dis honey lam' ob mine."
They undressed the girl as if she were a helpless child and put her to bed, and then Zany went downstairs to keep Mrs. Baron out of the way if possible, at the same time listening intently for any signs of trouble to Chunk.
Miss Lou's over-taxed mind had given way, or rather was enchained by a spell of horror to the scenes presented all too vividly in Chunk's bald statement. Her nervous force had been too enfeebled and exhausted to endure the shock of an impression so tremendous in its tragic reality that her faculties had no power to go beyond it. Chunk's words had brought her to a darkening forest and her dead lover, and there she stayed.
Seeing how unconscious she was Aun' Jinkey whispered enough in explanation to enable Mrs. Waldo to comprehend the girl's condition.
"We must make her sleep," said the lady decisively, and under her wiseministrations the stricken girl soon looked almost as if she were dead.Having kindly reassured and dismissed Aun' Jinkey, Mrs. Waldo watchedMiss Lou as she would have kept vigil with one of her own daughters.
Perkins was very ill at ease that night, from a haunting suspicion that Chunk had returned. "Pesky nigger'll have a revolver, too, most likely, en be crazy ter use it! Haint been 'mong them cussed Yanks fer nothin'!" There was therefore little disposition for a night hunt after one who knew every inch of the region besides being as stealthy and agile as a cat. The blow from which his head still ached had a warning significance. Coarse, ignorant and superstitious, he was an easy victim to the tormenting fears of his own bad conscience. The graves by the run and the extemporized cemetery further away had even greater terrors for him than for Aun' Jinkey. Even his whiskey jug could not inspire sufficient courage to drive him at night far from his own door. Though both hating and despising Whately, yet the absence of the young officer and his force was now deeply regretted, as they had lent a sense of security and maintained the old order of existing authority. Now he was thrown chiefly on his own responsibility, for Mr. Baron was broken and enfeebled by what he had passed through. Avarice spurned Perkins to carry through the crops in which he had an interest, while his hope of revenge on Chunk, Scoville and Miss Lou also tended to keep him at a post which he foresaw would be one of difficulty and danger. He had no doubt that the Union officer and his freedman would return as soon as they could, and for the chance of wreaking his vengeance he was the more willing to remain in what he feared would be a spook-infested region. "Onst squar with them, en crops realized," he muttered, "I kin feel mo' comft'ble in other parts. To-morrer, ef Chunk en that scout's in these diggin's I'll know hit."
He was aware that the few dogs left on the plantation would make no trouble for one they knew as well as they did Chunk, but he could rely on the brute which he kept in his own quarters—a bloodhound, savage to every one except his master.
"Grip will smell out the cussed nigger in the mawnin' ef he's been around," he assured himself before beginning his nightly debauch. "What's mo', Miss Baron ain't so high en mighty now she knows I'm comin' to be the rale boss on the place. She didn't even squeak w'en I gin my warnin' ter night."
Although Chunk knew his danger and was cautious, he was disposed on the first night of his arrival to take some serious risks in order to carry out the schemes dwelt upon during the long days of skulking home. Naturally fearless he had acquired much of Scoville's soldier-like and scouting spirit. The young officer had associated his dwarfish follower with the service rendered by Miss Lou and was correspondingly grateful. Chunk therefore received much consideration and good counsel by which he had profited. Especially had Scoville scoffed at the negro's superstitions, telling him that a fool afraid of spooks was neither fit to be a free man nor a soldier.
Since Chunk had no imagination and believed absolutely in his master there were no more "spooks" for him, but he knew well the dread inspired by that word on the plantation, and it was his purpose to avail himself of these deep-rooted fears. He heard the colloquy between Zany and the overseer very distinctly, but so far from running away, dogged the latter home. Long knife and revolver were handy in his belt and a heavy club was carried also. Since no soldiers were around, Perkins was not to be dreaded in the night, when once his resting-place was known. Crouching a long time in the shadow of some cedars Chunk watched the overseer's window, but the light was not extinguished. A sudden suspicion dawned on our watcher, causing him to chuckle low with delight. "Hi! he des feared of sleepin' in de dark, en dat can'le bu'n all night!" Gliding a few steps nearer brought to the quick ear a resounding snore, accompanied with a warning growl from, the bloodhound. "I des fix 'em bof fo' I froo," and the brawny hand clutched with greater force the heavy club it carried.
"Nex', some dem fellers mus' be tole ter he'p," and Chunk crept away to the quarters. It was an easy task to waken and enlist Jute, well known to be one of the most disaffected and fearless among the hands. The two started off to a grove which none could approach without being seen, and had a long whispered consultation. As a result, Jute returned to the quarters and brought back three others whom he knew would enter into the schemes on foot. By midnight Chunk had six of the braver and more reckless spirits among the slaves bound to him by such uncouth oaths as he believed would hold them most strongly. Then they returned to their cabins while the chief conspirator (after again reconnoitring the overseer's cottage) sought the vicinity of his granny's home.
With mistaken kindness and much shrewdness Chunk had resolved upon a course that would fill the old woman's life with terror. He adopted the policy of not letting her know anything of his plans, so that she could honestly say "I dunno" and prove the fact by her manner. He instinctively felt that it would have a very bad look if superstitious Aun' Jinkey remained composed and quiet through the scenes he purposed to bring about. Her sincere and very apparent fears were to be his allies. It was part of his scheme also that Zany should be very badly frightened and made eager to run away with him as soon as he and the others were ready for departure.
By a preconcerted signal he summoned Aun' Jinkey who was much affected by the thought that she was bidding her grandson a good-by which might be final, but oppressed with fear, she was at the same time eager he should go. Putting into his hands a great pone of corn bread she urged, "Des light out, Chunk, light out sud'n. 'Twix de baid news en Miss Lou en w'at Perkins do ef he cotch you, I des dat trembly, I kyant stan'."
"Perkins asleep, granny. I'se off now fer good, but I comin' back fer you some day."
He disappeared, and too perturbed to think of sleep the old woman tottered back to her chimney-corner. A few moments later she shuddered at the hooting of a screech-owl, even though she surmised Chunk to be the bird. Not so Zany, who answered the signal promptly. In a tentative way Chunk sought to find if she was then ready to run away, but Zany declared she couldn't leave Miss Lou "lookin ez if she wuz daid." Thinking it might be long indeed before she saw her suitor again, she vouchsafed him a very affectionate farewell which Chunk remorselessly prolonged, having learned in his brief campaigning not to leave any of the goods the gods send to the uncertainties of the future. When at last he tore himself away, he muttered, "Speck she need a heap ob scarin' en she git all she wants. Ef dat ar gyurl doan light out wid me nex' time I ax her, den I eats a mule." And then Chunk apparently vanished from the scene.
The next morning Miss Lou awoke feeble, dazed and ill. In a little while her mind rallied sufficiently to recall what had happened, but her symptoms of nervous prostration and lassitude were alarming. Mrs. Whately was sent for, and poor Mr. Baron learned, as by another surgical operation, what had been his share in imposing on his niece too severe a strain. Mrs. Waldo whispered to Miss Lou, "Your mammy has told me enough to account for the shock you received and your illness. Your secret is safe with me."
Meantime the good lady thought, "It will all turn out for the best for the poor child. Such an attachment could only end unhappily, and she will get over it all the sooner if she believes the Yankee officer dead. How deeply her starved nature must have craved sympathy and affection to have led to this in such a brief time and opportunity!"
As may be supposed, Aun' Jinkey had been chary of details and had said nothing of Scoville's avowal. The mistress of the plantation looked upon her niece's illness as a sort of well earned "judgment for her perversity," but all the same, she took care that the strongest beef tea was made and administered regularly. Mrs. Whately arrived and became chief watcher. The stricken girl's physical weakness seemed equalled only by a dreary mental apathy. There was scarcely sufficient vital force left even for suffering, a fact recognized by the aunt in loving and remorseful solicitude.
By the aid of his bloodhound Perkins discovered that some one whom he believed to be Chunk had been about, and he had secret misgivings as he thought of the negro's close proximity. He had already learned what a blow Chunk could deal and his readiness to strike. Taking the dog and his gun he had cautiously followed the run into which the tracks led until satisfied that the man he was following had taken horse and was beyond pursuit. On his return he learned of Miss Lou's illness and so ventured to threaten Aun' Jinkey.
"Yer do know 'bout that cussed grandson o' yourn. Kyant fool Grip, en he' smelled out all the nigger's tracks. Now ef yer don't tell the truth I'll raise the kentry 'roun' en we'll hunt 'im to the eends of the yearth."
"Well den, Marse Perkins," admitted the terror-stricken woman, "I des tell you de truf. Dat gran'boy ob min' des come ter say good-by. Marse Scoville daid en Chunk mos' up Norf by dis time, he went away so sud'n."
"That Yankee cuss dead?" cried Perkins in undisguised exultation.
"Marse Scoville daid, shot of'n he hoss long way f'um yere," repliedAun' Jinkey sorrowfully. "He kyant harm you ner you 'im no mo', nerChunk neider."
"Why the devil didn't you let us know Chunk was here las' night?"
"He my gran'son," was the simple reply.
"Well he isn't Zany's grandson! Now I know w'at she was snoopin' round nights fer, en Mrs. Baron'll know, too, 'fore I'm five minutes older."
Aun' Jinkey threw up her hands and sank back into her chair more dead than alive. She, too, had been taxed beyond endurance and all her power to act had ceased with her final effort to show that pursuit of Chunk would be useless.
Perkins speedily obtained an audience with Mrs. Baron, who became deeply incensed and especially against Zany. The inexorable old lady, however, never acted from passion. She nodded coldly to the overseer, saying, "I will inform Mr. Baron and he will give you your orders in regard to the offenders."
Zany was too alert not to observe the interview and the omens of trouble in the compressed lips of "ole miss" and the steel-like gleam of her eyes. The moment Mrs. Baron was closeted with her husband the girl sped to the cabin. "Did you tell Perkins Chunk been yere?" she demanded fiercely.
"Fo' de Lawd I des gwine all ter pieces," gasped Aun' Jinkey.
"Hope ter grashus yer does, en de pieces neber come tergedder agin," said Zany in contemptuous anger and deep alarm.
Under the spur of tremendous excitement she hastened back, thinking as she ran, "Miss Lou too sick ter do anyting. I des got ter 'peal ter Miss Whately, er ole miss hab me whipped haf ter daith." When in response to a timid knock Mrs. Whately peered out of her niece's room she found a trembling suppliant with streaming eyes. Noiselessly shutting the door the matron said warningly:
"Don't you know Miss Lou's life depends on quiet?"
"How she gwine ter hab quiet w'en ole miss gwine ter hab Marse Perkins whip me'n Aun' Jinkey ter daith?"
"Nonsense! Why should either of you be punished?"'
"Well missus, I 'fess ter you," sobbed Zany, "kaze you got more feelin' fer us. Chunk come las' night ter say good-by ter he granny'n me, en den he put out fer good, en ain' comin' back no mo'. Perkins en he dog foun' hit out dis mawnin', en Aun' Jinkey tole 'im, too, I reck'n, she all broke up. Perkins been talkin' ter ole miss en she look lak she al'ways does w'en ders no let up. Hit ud des kill Miss Lou if she knew me'n Aun' Jinkey wuz bein' whipped."
"Zany," said Mrs. Whately in rising anger, "you both had full warning. You knew what Chunk had done. He stole my son's horse and one from his master also, beside doing other things that could not be forgiven."
"Please reckermember, missus, dat Chunk en me is mighty sweet on each oder en he Aun' Jinkey gran'boy. Tain' dat we 'prove of his goin's on, but how cud we tell on 'im en see 'im daid, w'en he des come ter say good-by. Oh, ef Miss Lou on'y well she neber let dat ole Perkins tech us."
"I will see your master before anything is done," said Mrs. Whately with troubled face. "Go to your work now. I will get Mrs. Waldo to watch in my place after a while."
Mr. Baron was depressed physically and mentally by the trying events of the past few weeks, but the fact that Chunk had ventured on the place again and had been permitted to escape angered him deeply. He also accepted the view of his wife and overseer that all discipline among the slaves would soon be at an end if so serious an offence were overlooked. It would be a confession of weakness and fear they believed which would have a most demoralizing effect in the quarters. Chunk represented the worst offences of which the slaves could be guilty; the most solemn warnings had been given against aiding and abetting him in any way. To do nothing now would be a virtual permission of lawlessness. There was no thought of mercy for Zany, but Aun' Jinkey's age, feebleness, together with her relations to Chunk and Miss Lou, complicated matters.
Husband and wife were still consulting when Mrs. Whately joined them. Mrs. Baron did not welcome her guest, feeling that this was purely a personal affair, and was in no mood to brook interference.
"I can't be absent long," began Mrs. Whately, "Zany has told me everything and—"
"I think, sister, that Mr. Baron and I can manage this matter," interrupted Mrs. Baron coolly.
"No doubt you can," Mrs. Whately replied with dignity. "I did not come down to interfere with your domestic affairs. There is one point on which I have a right to speak and must speak. You can't punish Aun' Jinkey and Zany now if knowledge of such punishment can in any way reach our niece. No matter how much they may deserve it, I say you cannot do it. I promised Zany nothing, held out no hope to her of escape, but to you I will speak plainly. If you should excite and disturb Louise now, you might easily cause her death. If you feel that you cannot overlook the offence (and I know how serious a one it is) wait till I can remove Louise to my own house. You will find that Dr. Pelton when he arrives will confirm my words."
Mr. Baron weakened. He had not the relentless will of his wife, who interposed with cutting emphasis, "There is no need of Louise's knowing anything about it till she is much better, and it would be well for her to learn then, as well as the slaves, that there is still a master and mistress."
"It may be long before Louise is much better," Mrs. Whately replied gravely. "She has been subjected to a strain for which my conscience reproaches me, however it may be with yours. She is in a very critical state, and seemingly from some recent shock."
"Can the news Chunk brought have had any such effect?" broke forth Mrs. Baron indignantly—"news of the death of that Yankee whom she met and treated as a social equal sorely against my will?"
"Lieutenant Scoville dead!" exclaimed Mrs. Whately looking shocked and sad.
"Yes, so Chunk told his granny."
Mrs. Whately was troubled indeed. Perhaps there had been much more than she had suspected. If so, this fact would account for the girl's extreme prostration. To bring these tidings might have been one of Chunk's chief motives in venturing on his brief visit. Miss Lou might know all about the visit and even have seen Chunk herself. If this were true, punishment of those who were in a sense her accomplices would be all the more disastrous. The perplexed matron felt that she must have more time to think and to acquire fuller knowledge of the affair.
"Brother," she said finally, "you are the guardian of Louise and in authority. She is now helpless and at present quiet. If quiet of mind and body can be maintained long enough she will no doubt get well. In a sense I am now her physician, and I say as Surgeon Ackley said of his patients, she cannot be disturbed. I positively forbid it. Dr. Pelton who must soon be here will take the same ground. Public opinion will support him and me in holding you responsible if you order anything endangering your ward's life and health at this time. Mrs. Waldo and her son would be witnesses. How far the former is acquainted with affairs we do not know. She watched with Louise all last night. If you act hastily you may be sorry indeed. I am trying kindness and conciliation with my people and they are doing better. I fear your policy is mistaken. Chunk is gone and beyond punishment. It is asking much to expect that his grandmother and the girl who loves him after her fashion would give information against him. It would seem that only the two slaves and Perkins know of this visit. Affairs are bad enough with you as it is and you can easily make them much worse. If you must punish for effect, take some stout field hand who is insubordinate or lazy. At any rate I love Louise and hope some day to call her daughter, and I will not have her life endangered. That's all I have to say."
Mr. Baron's flame of anger had died out. His views had not been changed by his harsh experience, but he had been compelled to see that there were times when he could not have his own way. So he said testily, "Well, well, we'll have to let the matter rest a while, I suppose."
Mrs. Whately departed. Mrs. Baron put her thin lips together in a way which meant volumes, and went out on her housekeeping round, giving orders to Zany in sharper, more metallic tones than usual. The delinquent herself had overheard enough of the conversation to learn that the evil day had at least been put off and to get some clew as to the future.
Since Mr. Baron had yielded for the present, Mrs. Whately was glad nothing need be said to the physician concerning their affairs. His positive injunction of quiet was sufficient, and now that Mr. Baron was impressed with its need and had had time for sober second thought, he concluded that he had trouble enough on hand as it was. He felt that every quiet day gained was so much toward securing the absolutely essential crops. Perkins was therefore summoned and the situation in part explained.
The overseer was in unusual good-humor over the death of Scoville, and if Chunk had escaped finally, there was compensation in the thought of having no more disturbance from that source. So, fortunately for poor Zany, avarice came to the fore and Perkins agreed that the best thing to do was to bend every energy to "making the crops," using severity only in the furtherance of this end.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Baron, but I must have sump'n up and down clar. There's been so many bosses of late en my orders been knocked eendwise so of'en that I don't know, en the hands don't know whether I've got any po'r or no. Ef this thing 'bout Chunk gits out, en nobody punished, the fiel'-hans natchelly think we darsn't punish. Mought es well give up then."
"Punish as much as you think necessary to keep the quarter-hands at work. Then it is plain," replied Mr. Baron.
Very seldom had Perkins been in so complacent and exultant a mood as when he left the presence of Mr. Baron that morning. But his troubles began speedily. Jute had slept little the night before and was stupid and indifferent to his work in the afternoon. Finding threats had little effect, the overseer struck a blow with his cane. The negro turned fiercely but was confronted with a revolver. He resumed work doggedly, his sullen look spreading like the shadow of a cloud to the faces of the others. So many began to grow indifferent and reckless that to punish all was out of the question. Perkins stormed and threatened, striking some here and there, almost beside himself from increasing anxiety and rage. Whichever way he turned a dark vindictive face met his eyes. The slaves had enjoyed a brief sense and sweet hope of freedom; he was seeking to refasten the yoke with brutal hands and it galled as never before. Even his narrow arbitrary nature was impressed with the truth that a great change was taking place; that a proclamation issued hundreds of miles away was more potent than his heavy hand. He was as incapable of any policy other than force as was his employer of abandoning the grooves in which his thoughts had always run.
The worrisome afternoon finally ended, leaving the harassed man free to seek consolation from his jug. Mr. Baron relapsed into his quiet yet bitter mental protest. "Ole miss" maintained inexorable discipline over the yard and house slaves, keeping all busy in removing every stain and trace of the hospital. She governed by fear also, but it was the fear which a resolute, indomitable will produces in weaker natures.
Mrs. Waldo already felt uncomfortable. There was no lack of outward courtesy, but the two women had so little in common that there was almost a total absence of sympathy between them. The guests through the fortune of war resolved therefore to depart in a day or two, making the journey home by easy stages. Mrs. Whately was both polite and cordial, but she also felt that the family should be alone as soon as possible, that they were facing problems which could better be solved without witnesses. It was her hope now to nurse her charge back to health, and, by the utmost exercise of tact, gain such an ascendency over the girl as to win her completely. Granting that the matron's effort was part of a scheme, it was one prompted by deep affection, a yearning to call her niece daughter and to provide for the idolized son just the kind of wife believed to be essential to his welfare. Much pondering on the matter led her to believe that even if the tidings of Scoville's death had been the cause of the final prostrating shock, it was but the slight blow required to strike down one already feeble and tottering to her fall. "He probably made a strong, but necessarily a passing impression on the dear child's mind," she reasoned. "When she gets well she will think of him only as she does of the other Union soldiers who so interested her."
The object of this solicitude was docile and quiet, taking what was given her, but evidently exhausted beyond the power of thought or voluntary action.
The night passed apparently without incident, but it was a busy one for Chunk. He again summoned Jute and his other confederates to a tryst in the grove to impress them with his plans. It was part of his scheme to permit a few nights to pass quietly so that disturbances would not be associated with him, he being supposed far away. In the depths of the adjacent forest he had found safe shelter for himself and horse, and here, like a beast in its lair, he slept by day. The darkness was as light to him about the familiar plantation, and he prowled around at night unmolested.
During this second meeting he attempted little more than to argue his dusky associates out of their innate fear of spooks and to urge upon them patience in submitting to Perkins's rule a little longer. "I des tells you," he declared, "dey ain' no spooks fer us! Dere's spooks on'y fer dem w'at kills folks on de sly-like. If ole Perkins come rarin' en tarin' wid his gun en dawg, I des kill 'im ez I wud a rattler en he kyant bodder me no mo'; but ef I steal on 'im now en kill 'im in he sleep he ghos pester me ter daith. Dat de conslomeration ob de hull business. I doan ax you ter do any ting but he'p me skeer' im mos' ter daith. He watchin' lak a ole fox ter ke'p you en Zany yere. Ef you puts out, he riz de kentry en put de houn's arter you. We des got ter skeer 'im off fust. I'm studyin' how ter git dat dawg out'n de way. Des go on quiet few mo' days en ef you year quar noises up on de hill whar de sogers bur'ed you know hit me. Look skeered lak de oders but doan be fear'd en keep mum."
The next few days and nights passed in quiet and all began to breathe more freely. Even Aun' Jinkey rallied under the soothing influence of her pipe and the privilege of watching part of each day with Miss Lou. Slowly the girl began to grow better. Hoping not even for tolerance of her feelings in regard to Scoville, it was her instinct to conceal them from her relatives. She knew Mrs. Waldo would not reveal what Aun' Jinkey had told her, and understood the peculiar tenderness with which that lady often kissed her. She also guessed that while the stanch Southern friend had deep sympathy for her there was not very strong regret that the affair had ended in a way to preclude further complications.
"Remember, my dear," said Mrs. Waldo, in her affectionate parting, "that God never utterly impoverishes our lives. Only we ourselves can do that. You will get well and become happy in making others happy."
On the evening of that day, even Mr. Baron's routine was completely restored. His larder was meagre compared with the past, but with the exception that Mrs. Whately occupied the place of his niece at the table, and viands were fewer, all was as it had been. Zany's fears had subsided, leaving her inwardly chafing at the prospect of monotonous and indefinite years of work under "ole miss," with little chance of Chunk's return. Aun' Suke's taste of freedom had not been to her mind, so she was rather complacent than otherwise, and especially over the fact that there was so little to cook. The garden and Mr. Baron's good credit would insure enough plain food till the crops matured and the impoverishment caused by the raid was repaired. It certainly seemed when the sun set that evening that the present aspect of affairs might be maintained indefinitely in the little community.
Only one was not exactly at rest. Perkins felt as if something was in the air. There was a brooding, sullen quiet among the negroes which led him to suspect that they were waiting and hoping for something unknown to him. This was true of Uncle Lusthah and the majority. The crack of Union rifles was the "soun' f'um far away" they were listening for. By secret channels of communication tidings of distant battles were conveyed from plantation to plantation, and the slaves were often better informed that their masters. As for Perkins, he knew next to nothing of what was taking place, nor did he dream that he was daily addressing harsh words to conspirators against his peace.
The time had come when Chunk was ready to act. On the night in question a hot wind arose which blew from the little burial-place on the hill toward the house. "Hi! now's de charnce ter fix dat ar bizness!" and he made his preparations. Shortly before midnight he crept like a cat under the overseer's window. The heavy snoring rose and fell reassuringly, sweet as music to Chunk's ears. Not so the angry, restless growling of the savage bloodhound chained within. "But you doan kotch me dis yere time fer all yer fuss, Marse Grip," the negro muttered. "I done hab yer brekfus' ready fer yer! Dat'll settle yer hash,' and with deft hand a piece of poisoned meat was tossed close to the brute's feet as Chunk hastened away. Jute was next wakened and put on the watch. An hour later there came from the soldiers' cemetery the most doleful, unearthly sounds imaginable. No need for Jute and his confederates to arouse the other negroes in the quarters. A huddled frightened gang soon collected, Aun' Jinkey among them so scared she could not speak.
"Marse Perkins ought to know 'bout dis," cried Jute.
The suggestion was enough. The whole terror-stricken throng rushed in a body to the overseer's cottage and began calling and shrieking, "Come out yere! come out yere!" Confused in his sudden waking and thinking he was mobbed, he shouted through the window, "I'll shoot a dozen of yer ef yer don't clar out."
"Marse Perkins, des you lis'n," rose in chorus from those far beyond the fear of mortal weapons.
In the silence that followed the rushing wind bore down to them a weird, dismal howl that in Perkins's ears met every ghostly requirement. His teeth began to chatter like castanets, and snatching his jug of corn whiskey he swallowed great draughts.
"We des tink you orter know 'bout dis," said Jute.
"Cert'ny," cried Perkins in his sudden flame of false courage. "I'll light a lantern and take twenty o' you hands round that place. Ef thar's a cuss yonder makin' this 'sturbance we'll roast 'im alive."
In a moment or two he dressed and came out with a light and his gun. Two revolvers were also stuck in his belt. As he appeared on the threshold there was a prolonged yell which curdled even his inflamed blood and sent some of the negro women into hysterics.
"Come on," shouted the overseer hoarsely, "thirty of yer ef yer afraid."
The crowd fell back. "We ain' gwine ter dat ar spook place, no mattah w'at you do to us."
"Perkins, what IS the matter?" Mr. Baron was heard shouting from the house.
"Reckon you better come out yere, sir."
"Are the hands making trouble?"
"No sir, sump'n quar's gwine on, what we kyant mek out yit."
Mr. Baron, wrapped in his dressing-gown, soon appeared on the scene, while Aun' Suke's domain contributed its quota also of agitated, half-dressed forms. Chunk could not resist the temptation to be a witness to the scene and in a copse near by was grinning with silent laughter at his success.
After learning what had occurred, Mr. Baron scoffed at their superstitions, sternly bidding all to go to their places and keep quiet. "Perkins, you've been drinking beyond reason," he warned his overseer in a low voice. "Get back to your room quick or you will be the laughing-stock of everybody! See here, you people, you have simply got into a panic over the howling of the wind, which happens to blow down from the graveyard to-night."
"Neber yeared de win' howl dataway befo'," the negroes answered, as in a mass they drifted back to the quarters.
Perkins was not only aware of his condition but was only too glad to have so good an excuse for not searching the cemetery. Scarcely had he been left alone, however, before he followed the negroes, resolved upon companionship of even those in whom he denied a humanity like his own. In the darkness Chunk found an opportunity to summon Jute aside and say, "Free er fo' ob you offer ter stay wid ole Perkins. Thet he'p me out."
Perkins accepted the offer gladly, and they agreed to watch at his door and in the little hallway.
"You mus' des tie up dat ar dawg ob yourn," first stipulated Jute.
"Why, whar in—is the dog? Hain't yeared a sound from 'im sence the 'sturbance begun."
"Dwags kyant stan' spooks nohow," remarked Jute.
"I've yeared that," admitted Perkins, looking around for the animal.
"Thar he is, un'er yo' baid," said Jute, peeking through the doorway.
The miserable man's hair fairly stood up when the brute was discovered stark and dead without a scratch upon him. Recourse was again had to the jug, and oblivion soon followed.
There was no more sleep at the quarters that night, and never was the dawn more welcome. It only brought a respite, however, for the impression was fixed that the place was haunted. There was a settled aspect of gloom and anxiety on every dusky face in the morning. Mr. Baron found his overseer incapacitated for duty, but the hands were rather anxious to go to work and readily obeyed his orders to do so. They clung to all that was familiar and every-day-like, while their fears and troubled consciences spurred them to tasks which they felt might be a sort of propitiation to the mysterious powers abroad. Zany was now sorry indeed that she had not gone with Chunk, and poor Aun' Jinkey so shook and trembled all day that Mrs. Whately would not let her watch by Miss Lou. Knowing much of negro superstitions she believed, with her brother and Mrs. Baron, that the graves on the place, together with some natural, yet unusual sounds, had started a panic which would soon die out.
When at last Perkins, shaky and nervous, reported the mysterious death of his dog, Mr. Baron was perplexed, but nothing more. "You were in no condition to give a sane account of anything that happened last night," he said curtly. "Be careful in the future. If you will only be sensible about it, this ridiculous scare will be to our advantage, for the hands are subdued enough now and frightened into their duty."
Perkins remained silent. In truth, he was more frightened than any one else, for the death of his dog appeared to single him out as a special object of ghostly hostility. He got through the day as well as he could, but dreaded the coming night all the more as he saw eyes directed toward him, as if he, in some way, were the cause of the supernatural visitation. This belief was due to the fact that Aun' Jinkey in her terror had spoken of Scoville's death, although she would not tell how she knew about it. "Perkins shoot at en try ter kill Marse Scoville," she had whispered to her cronies, "en now he daid he spook comin' yere ter hant de oberseer. We neber hab no quiet nights till dat ar Perkins go way fer good."
This rational explanation passed from lip to lip and was generally accepted. The coming night was looked forward to in deep apprehension, and by none more than by Perkins. Indeed, his fears so got the better of him that when the hands quit work he started for the nearest tavern and there remained till morning. Chunk was made aware of this fact, and the night passed in absolute quiet. All the negroes not in the secret now hoped that the overseer was the sole prey of the spook, and that if they remained quietly in their places they would be unmolested. Chunk and a few of the boldest of his fellow conspirators had full scope therefore to perfect their final arrangements. In a disused room of one of the outbuildings the most ragged and blood-stained uniforms of the Union soldiers had been cast and forgotten. These were carried to a point near the burying-ground, tried on and concealed. Chunk found it was no easy task to keep even the reckless fellows he had picked up to the sticking point of courage in the grewsome tasks he had in view, but his scoff, together with their mutual aid and comfort, carried them through, while the hope of speedy freedom inspired them to what was felt to be great risks.
On this occasion he dismissed them some little time before midnight, for he wished them to get rested and in good condition for what he hoped would be the final effort the following night. As he lingered in the still, starlit darkness he could not resist making an effort to see Zany, and so began hooting like an owl down by the run, gradually approaching nearer till he reached the garden. Zany, wakeful and shivering with nameless dread, was startled by the sound. Listening intently, she soon believed she detected a note that was Chunk's and not a bird's. Her first impression was that her lover had discovered that he could not go finally away without her and so had returned. Her fear of spooks was so great that her impulse was to run away with Chunk as far from that haunted plantation as he would take her. Trembling like a wind-shaken leaf, she stole into the garden shrubbery and whispered, "Chunk?"
"Hi! yere I is."
There was no tantalizing coquetry in Zany's manner now. In a moment she was in Chunk's arms sobbing, "Tek me way off fum dis place. I go wid you now, dis berry minute, en I neber breve easy till we way, way off enywhar, I doan keer whar. Oh, Chunk, you doan know w'at been gwine on en I darsn't tell you twel we gits way off."
"I isn't feared," replied Chunk easily.
"Dat's kaze you doan know. I des been tremblin' stiddy sence las' night en I'se feared hit begin eny minute now."
"Hit woan begin dis yere night," replied Chunk, soothingly and incautiously.
"How you know?" she asked quickly, a sudden suspicion entering her mind.
"Wat's ter begin?" answered Chunk, now on his guard. "De night am still, nobody roun'. I hang roun' a few nights twel I study out de bes' plan ter git away."
"Has you been hangin' roun' nights, Chunk?" Zany asked solemnly.
"How you talks, Zany! Does you s'pects I dar stay roun' whar Perkins am? He kill me. He done gone way to-night."
"How you know dat?"
"One de fiel'-hans tole me."
"Chunk, ef you up ter shines en doan tole me I done wid you. Hasn't I hep you out'n in eberyting so fur? Ef I fin' out you been skeerin me so wid eny doin's I des done wid you. I des feel hit in my bones you de spook. You kyant bamboozle me. I kin hep you—hab done hit afo'—en I kin hinder you, so be keerful. Dere's some dif'unce in bein' a spook yosef en bein' skeered ter death by a rale spook. Ef you tryin' ter skeer en fool me I be wuss on you ner eny Voodoo woman dat eber kunjurd folks."
The interview ended in Chunk's making a clean breast of it and in securing Zany as an ally with mental reservations. The thought that he had fooled her rankled.
Mr. Baron's expostulation and his own pressing interests induced Perkins to remain at home the following night. As Jute had seemed forgiving and friendly, the overseer asked him to bring two others and stay with him, offering some of the contents of the replenished jug as a reward. They sat respectfully near the door while Perkins threw himself on his bed with the intention of getting to sleep as soon as possible. "Are you shore ther wuz no 'sturbances last night?" he asked.
"Well, Marse Perkins," replied Jute, "you didn't s'pect we out lookin'. We wuz po'ful sleepy en roll we haids en er blankets en den 'fo' we knowed, hit sun-up. Folks say en de quarters dat ar spook ain' arter us."
"Who the devil is hit arter then?" was the angry response.
"How we know, mars'r? We neber try ter kill enybody."
"But I tell you I didn't kill him," expostulated their nervous victim.
"Didn't name no names, Marse Perkins. I on'y knows w'at I yeared folks tell 'bout spooks. Dey's mighty cur'us, spooks is. Dey des 'pear to git a spite agin some folks en dey ain' bodderin oder folks long ez dey ain' 'feered wid. I 'spect a spook dat wuz 'feered wid, get he dander up en slam roun' permiscus. I des tek a ole bull by de horns 'fo' I 'fere wid a spook," and Jute's companions grunted assent.
"W'at's the good o' yer bein' yere then?" Perkins asked, taking a deep draught.
"Well, now, Marse Perkins, you mus'n be onreasonbul. Wat cud we do? We des riskin' de wool on we haids stayin' yere fer comp'ny. Ef de spook come, 'spose he tink we no business yere en des lay we out lak he kunjer yo' dawg? We des tank you, Marse Perkins, fer anoder lil drap ter kep we sperets out'n we shoon," and Jute shuddered portentously.
"Well," said Perkins, with attempted bravado, "I rammed a piece o' silver down on the bullat in my gun. 'Twix 'em both—"
"Dar now, Marse Perkins, you des been 'posed on 'bout dat silber business. Ole Unc' Sampson w'at libed on de Simcoe place nigh on er hun'erd yeahs, dey say, tole me lots 'bout a spook dat boddered um w'en he a boy. Way back ole Marse Simcoe shot at de man dat hanker fer he darter. De man put out en get drownded, but dat doan make no dif'rence, Unc' Sampson say, kaze ole Marse Simcoe do he bes' ter kill der man. He sorter hab kill in he heart en Unc' Sampson low a spook know w'at gwine on in er man's in'erds, en dey des goes fer de man dat wanter kill um on de sly, en not dose dat kill in fa'r fight. Ole Unc' Sampson po'ful on spooks. He libed so long he get ter be sorter spook hesef, en dey say he talk ter um haf de time 'fo' he kiner des snuf out'n lak a can'l."
"He wuz a silly old fool," growled Perkins, with a perceptible tremor in his voice.
"Spect he wuz 'bout some tings," resumed Jute, "but know spooks, he sut'ny did. He say ole Marse Simcoe useter plug lead en silver right froo dat man dat want he darter, en dar was de hole en de light shin'in' froo hit. But de spook ain' min'in' a lil ting lak dat, he des come on all de same snoopin' roun' arter de ole man's darter. Den one mawnin' de ole man lay stiff en daid in he baid, he eyes starin' open ez ef he see sump'n he cudn't stan' no how. Dat wuz de las' ob dat ar spook, Unc' Sampson say, en he say spook's cur'us dat away. Wen dey sats'fy dere grudge dey lets up en dey doan foller de man dey down on kaze dey on'y po'r in de place whar de man 'lowed ter kill um."