Miss Lou / Roe, Edward Payson, 1838-1888

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Title: Miss Lou

Author: E. P. Roe

Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5309]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 29, 2002]
[Date last updated: August 13, 2005]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MISS LOU ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team




THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE

VOLUME NINE

"MISS LOU"


ILLUSTRATED




In Loving Dedication

TO LITTLE MISS LOU MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER




CONTENTS

     CHAPTER I   A GIRL'S PROTEST

    CHAPTER II   SOMETHING HAPPENS

   CHAPTER III   MAD WHATELY

    CHAPTER IV   AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY

     CHAPTER V   WHATELY'S IDEA OF COURTSHIP

    CHAPTER VI   THE STORM BEGINS

   CHAPTER VII   DANGERS THICKENING

  CHAPTER VIII   "WHEN?"

    CHAPTER IX   PARALYZED WITH SHAME

     CHAPTER X   A BAFFLED DIPLOMATIST

    CHAPTER XI   AUN' JINKEY'S WARNING

   CHAPTER XII   A WHIRLWIND OF EVENTS

  CHAPTER XIII   THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

   CHAPTER XIV   A THREAT

    CHAPTER XV   MISS LOU EMANCIPATED

   CHAPTER XVI   A SMILE ON WAR'S GRIM FACE

  CHAPTER XVII   THE JOY OF FREEDOM

 CHAPTER XVIII   A WELL-AIMED SLIPPER

   CHAPTER XIX   A GIRL'S APPEAL

    CHAPTER XX   SCOVILLE'S HOPE

   CHAPTER XXI   TWO STORMS

  CHAPTER XXII   CHUNK'S QUEST

 CHAPTER XXIII   A BOLD SCHEME

  CHAPTER XXIV   A HOME A HOSPITAL

   CHAPTER XXV   A TRIBUTE TO A SOUTHERN GIRL

  CHAPTER XXVI   A BACKGROUND OF EGOTISM

 CHAPTER XXVII   AUN' JINKEY'S SUPREME TEST

CHAPTER XXVIII   TRUTH IF THE HEAVENS FALL

  CHAPTER XXIX   "ANGEL OF DEATH"

   CHAPTER XXX   GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS

  CHAPTER XXXI   THE DUELLISTS VANQUISHED

 CHAPTER XXXII   SAD TIDINGS

CHAPTER XXXIII   CONSPIRATORS

 CHAPTER XXXIV   CHUNK PLAYS SPOOK

  CHAPTER XXXV   A VISITATION

 CHAPTER XXXVI   UNCLE LUSTHAH EXHORTS

CHAPTER XXXVII   A NEW ROUTINE




"MISS LOU"




CHAPTER I

A GIRL'S PROTEST


A great, rudely built stone chimney was smoking languidly one
afternoon. Leaning against this chimney, as if for protection and
support, was a little cabin gray and decrepit with age. The door of
the cabin stood wide open, for the warm spring was well advanced in
the South. There was no need of a fire, but Aun' Jinkey, the
mistress of the abode, said she "kep' hit bunin' fer comp'ny." She
sat by it now, smoking as lazily as her chimney, in an old chair
which creaked as if in pain when she rocked. She supposed herself to
be in deep meditation, and regarded her corncob pipe not merely a
solace but also as an invaluable assistant to clearness of thought.
Aun' Jinkey had the complacent belief that she could reason out most
questions if she could only smoke and think long enough.
Unfortunately, events would occur which required action, or which
raised new questions before she had had time to solve those
originally presented; yet it would be hard to fancy a more tranquil
order of things than that of which she was a humble part.

The cabin was shaded by grand old oaks and pines, through which the
afternoon sun shone in mild radiance, streaming into the doorway and
making a broad track of light over the uneven floor. But Aun' Jinkey
kept back in the congenial dusk, oblivious to the loveliness of
nature without. At last she removed her pipe from her mouth and
revealed her mental processes in words.

"In all my projeckin' dat chile's wuss'n old mars'r en miss, en de
wah, en de preachin'. I kin kin' ob see troo dem, en w'at dey
dribin' at, but dat chile grow mo' quare en on'countable eb'y day.
Long as she wus took up wid her doll en tame rabbits en pony dar
wa'n't no circum'cutions 'bout her, en now she am all circum'cution.
Not'n gwine 'long plain wid her. She like de run down dar--but win'
en win' ez ef hit had ter go on, en hit couldn't mek up hits min'
which way ter go. Sometime hit larfin' in de sun en den hit steal
away whar you kyant mos' fin' hit. Dat de way wid Miss Lou. She seem
right hyar wid us--she only lil gyurl toder day--en now she 'clinin'
to notions ob her own, en she steal away to whar she tink no one see
her en tink on heaps ob tings. Won'er ef eber, like de run, she
wanter go way off fum us?

"Ole mars'r en ole miss dunno en doan see not'n. Dey kyant. Dey
tinks de worl' al'ays gwine des so, dat means de way dey tink hit
orter go. Ef hit go any oder way, de worl's wrong, not dey. I ain'
sayin' dey is wrong, fer I ain' des tink dat all out'n. 'Long ez she
keeps her foots on de chalk line dey mark out dey ain' projeckin'
how her min' go yere en dar, zigerty-zag wid notions ob her own."

The door darkened, if the radiant girl standing on the threshold
could be said to darken any door. She did not represent the ordinary
Southern type, for her hair was gold in the sun and her eyes blue as
the violets by the brook. They were full of mirth now as she said:
"There you are, Aun' Jinkey, smoking and 'projeckin' as usual. You
look like an old Voudoo woman, and if I didn't know you as my old
mammy--if I should just happen in as a stranger, I'd be afraid of
you."

"Voudoo ooman! How you talks, Miss Lou! I'se a member ob de Baptis'
Church, en you knows it."

"Oh, I know a heap 'mo'n dat,' as you so often say. If you were only
a member of the Baptist Church I wouldn't be running in to see you
so often. Uncle says a member of the Baptist Church has been
stealing some of his chickens."

"I knows some tings 'bout de members ob HE church," replied Aun'
Jinkey, with a toss of her head.

"I reckon you do, more than they would like to see published in the
county paper; but we aren't scandal-mongers, are we, Aun' Jinkey?"
and the young visitor sat down in the doorway and looked across the
green meadow seen through the opening in the trees. A dogwood stood
in the corner of the rail fence, the pink and white of its blossoms
well matching the girl's fair face and her rose-dotted calico gown,
which, in its severe simplicity, revealed her rounded outlines.

Aun' Jinkey watched her curiously, for it was evident that Miss
Lou's thoughts were far away. "Wat you tinkin' 'bout, Miss Lou?" she
asked.

"Oh, I hardly know myself. Come, Aun' Jinkey, be a nice old witch
and tell me my fortune."

"Wat you want ter know yo' fortin fur?"

"I want to know more than I do now. Look here, Aun' Jinkey, does
that run we hear singing yonder go round and round in one place and
with the same current? Doesn't it go on? Uncle and aunt want me to
go round and round, doing the same things and thinking the same
thoughts--not my own thoughts either. Oh, I'm getting so tired of it
all!"

"Lor' now, chile, I wuz des 'parin' you ter dat run in my min',"
said Aun' Jinkey in an awed tone.

"No danger of uncle or aunt comparing me to the run, or anything
else. They never had any children and don't know anything about
young people. They have a sort of prim, old-fashioned ideal of what
the girls in the Baron family should be, and I must become just such
a girl--just like that stiff, queer old portrait of grandma when she
was a girl. Oh, if they knew how tired of it all I am!"

"Bless yo' heart, Miss Lou, you ain' projeckin' anyting?"

"No, I'm just chafing and beating my wings like a caged bird."

"Now see yere, Miss Lou, isn't you onreason'ble? You hab a good
home; mars'r en miss monstus pius, en dey bringin' you up in de
nurter en 'monitions ob de Lawd." "Too much 'monition, Aun' Jinkey.
Uncle and aunt's religion makes me so tired, and they make Sunday so
awfully long. Their religion reminds me of the lavender and camphor
in which they keep their Sunday clothes. And then the pages of the
catechism they have always made me learn, and the long Psalms, too,
for punishment! I don't understand religion, anyway. It seems
something meant to uphold all their views, and anything contrary to
their views isn't right or religious. They don't think much of you
Baptists."

"We ain' sufrin' on dat 'count, chile," remarked Aun' Jinkey, dryly.

"There now, Aun' Jinkey, don't you see? Uncle owns you, yet you
think for yourself and have a religion of your own. If he knew I was
thinking for myself, he'd invoke the memory of all the Barons
against me. I don't know very much about the former Barons, except
that my father was one. According to what I am told, the girl Barons
were the primmest creatures I ever heard of. Then uncle and aunt are
so inconsistent, holding up as they do for my admiration Cousin Mad
Whately. I don't wonder people shorten his name from Madison to Mad,
for if ever there was a wild, reckless fellow, he is. Uncle wants to
bring about a match, because Mad's plantation joins ours. Mad acted
as if he owned me already when he was home last, and yet he knows I
can't abide him. He seems to think I can be subdued like one of his
skittish horses."

"You HAB got a heap on yo' min", Miss Lou, you sho'ly hab. You
sut'ny t'ink too much for a young gyurl."

"I'm eighteen, yet uncle and aunt act toward me in some ways as if I
were still ten years old. How can I help thinking? The thoughts
come. You're a great one to talk against thinking. Uncle says you
don't do much else, and that your thoughts are just like the smoke
of your pipe."

Aun' Jinkey bridled indignantly at first, but, recollecting herself,
said quietly: "I knows my juty ter ole mars'r en'll say not'n gin
'im. He bring you up en gib you a home, Miss Lou. You must
reckermember dat ar."

"I'm in a bad mood, I suppose, but I can't help my thoughts, and
it's kind of a comfort to speak them out. If he only WOULD give me a
home and not make it so much like a prison! Uncle's honest, though,
to the backbone. On my eighteenth birthday he took me into his
office and formally told me about my affairs. I own that part of the
plantation on the far side of the run. He has kept all the accounts
of that part separate, and if it hadn't been for the war I'd have
been rich, and he says I will be rich when the war is over and the
South free. He said he had allowed so much for my bringing up and
for my education, and that the rest was invested, with his own
money, in Confederate bonds. That is all right, and I respect uncle
for his downright integrity, but he wants to manage me just as he
does my plantation. He wishes to produce just such crops of thoughts
as he sows the seeds of, and he would treat my other thoughts like
weeds, which must be hoed out, cut down and burned. Then you see he
hasn't GIVEN me a home, and I'm growing to be a woman. If I am old
enough to own land, am I never to be old enough to own myself?"

"Dar now, Miss Lou, you raisin' mo' questions dan I kin tink out in
a yeah."

"There's dozens more rising in my mind and I can't get rid of them.
Aunt keeps my hands knitting and working for the soldiers, and I
like to do it. I'd like to be a soldier myself, for then I could go
somewhere and do and see something. Life then wouldn't be just doing
things with my hands and being told to think exactly what an old
gentleman and an old lady think. Of course our side is right in this
war, but how can I believe with uncle that nearly all the people in
the North are low, wicked and vile? The idea that every Northern
soldier is a monster is preposterous to me. Uncle forgets that he
has had me taught in United States history. I wish some of them
would just march by this out-of-the-way place, for I would like to
see for myself what they are like."

"Dar, dar, Miss Lou, you gittin' too bumptious. You like de fus'
woman who want ter know too much."

"No," said the girl, her blue eyes becoming dark and earnest, "I
want to know what's true, what's right. I can't believe that uncle
and aunt's narrow, exclusive, comfortless religion came from heaven;
I can't believe that God agrees with uncle as to just what a young
girl should do and think and be, but uncle seems to think that the
wickedest thing I can do is to disagree with him and aunt. Uncle
forgets that there are books in his library, and books make one
think. They tell of life very different from mine. Why, Aun' Jinkey,
just think what a lonely girl I am! You are about the only one I can
talk to. Our neighbors are so far away and we live so secluded that
I scarcely have acquaintances of my own age. Aunt thinks young girls
should be kept out of society until the proper time, and that time
seems no nearer now than ever. If uncle and aunt loved me, it would
be different, but they have just got a stiff set of ideas about
their duty to me and another set about my duty to them. Why, uncle
laughed at a kitten the other day because it was kittenish, but he
has always wanted me to behave with the solemnity of an old cat. Oh,
dear! I'm SO tired. I wish something WOULD happen."

"Hit brokes me all up ter year you talk so, honey, en I bless de
Lawd 'tain' likely any ting gwinter hap'n in dese yere parts. De wah
am ragin' way off fum heah, nobody comin' wid news, en bimeby you
gits mo' settle down. Some day you know de valley ob peace en
quietness."

"See here, Aun' Jinkey," said the girl, with a flash of her eyes,
"you know the little pond off in the woods. That's more peaceful
than the run, isn't it? Well, it's stagnant, too, and full of
snakes. I'd like to know what's going on in the world, but uncle of
late does not even let me read the county paper. I know things are
not going to suit him, for he often frowns and throws the paper into
the fire. That's what provokes me--the whole world must go just to
suit him, or else he is angry."

"Well, now, honey, you hab 'lieve yo' min', en I specs you feel
bettah. You mus' des promis yo' ole mammy dat you be keerful en not
rile up ole mars'r, kase hit'll ony be harder fer you. I'se ole, en
I knows tings do hap'n dough dey of'un come slowlike. You des gwine
troo de woods now, en kyant see fur; bimeby you come ter a clearin'.
Dat boy ob mine be comin' soon fer his pone en bacon. I'se gwinter
do a heap ob tinkin' on all de questions you riz."

"Yes, Aun' Jinkey, I do feel better for speaking out, but I expect I
shall do a heap of thinking too. Good-by," and she strolled away
toward the brook.




CHAPTER II

SOMETHING HAPPENS


It was a moody little stream which Miss Lou was following. She did
not go far before she sat down on a rock and watched the murmuring
waters glide past, conscious meantime of a vague desire to go with
them into the unknown. She was not chafing so much at the monotony
of her life as at its restrictions, its negation of all pleasing
realities, and the persistent pressure upon her attention of a
formal round of duties and more formal and antiquated circle of
thoughts. Only as she stole away into solitudes like the one in
which she now sat dreaming could she escape from the hard
materialism of routine, and chiding for idleness usually followed.
Her aunt, with an abundance of slaves at her command, could have
enjoyed much leisure, yet she was fussily and constantly busy, and
the young girl could not help feeling that much which she was
expected to do was a mere waste of time.

The serene beauty of the evening, the songs of the mocking and other
birds, were not without their effect, however, and she said aloud:
"I might be very happy even here if, like the birds, I had the heart
to sing--and I would sing if I truly lived and had something to live
for."

The sun was approaching the horizon, and she was rising wearily and
reluctantly to return when she heard the report of firearms,
followed by the sound of swiftly galloping horses. Beyond the brook,
on the margin of which she stood, rose a precipitous bank overhung
with vines and bushes, and a few rods further back was a plantation
road descending toward a wide belt of forest. A thick copse and
growth of young trees ran from the top of the bank toward the road,
hiding from her vision that portion of the lane from which the
sounds were approaching. Suddenly half a dozen cavalrymen, whom she
knew to be Federals from their blue uniforms, galloped into view and
passed on in the direction of the forest. One of the group turned
his horse sharply behind the concealing copse and spurred directly
toward her. She had only time to throw up her hands and utter an
involuntary cry of warning about the steep bank, when the horse
sprang through the treacherous shrubbery and fell headlong into the
stream. The rider saw his peril, withdrew his feet from the
stirrups, and in an instinctive effort for self-preservation, threw
himself forward, falling upon the sand almost at the young girl's
feet. He uttered a groan, shivered, and became insensible. A moment
or two later a band in gray galloped by wholly intent upon the
Federals, who had disappeared spurring for the woods, and she
recognized her cousin, Madison Whately, leading the pursuit. Neither
he nor any of his party looked her way, and it was evident that the
Union soldier who had so abruptly diverged from the road behind the
screening copse had not been discovered. The sounds died away as
speedily as they had approached, and all became still again. The
startled birds resumed their songs; the injured horse moved feebly,
and the girl saw that it was bleeding from a wound, but the man at
her feet did not stir. Truly something had happened. What should she
do? Breaking the paralysis of her fear and astonishment, she stepped
to the brook, gathered up water in her hands, and dashed it into the
face of the unconscious man. It had no effect. "Can he be dead?" she
asked herself in horror. He was as pale as his bronzed features
could become, and her woman's soul was touched that one who looked
so strong, who had been so vital a moment before, should now lie
there in pathetic and appealing helplessness. Was that fine, manly
face the visage of one of the terrible, bloodthirsty, unscrupulous
Yankees? Even as she ran to Aun' Jinkey's cottage for help the
thought crossed her mind that the world was not what it had been
represented to her, and that she must learn to think and act for
herself.

As she approached, Chunk, Aun' Jinkey's grandson, appeared coming
from the mansion house. He was nicknamed "Chunk" from his dwarfed
stature and his stout, powerful build. Miss Lou put her finger to
her lips, glanced hastily around, and led the way into the cabin.
She hushed their startled exclamations as she told her story, and
then said, "Aun' Jinkey, if he's alive, you must hide him in your
loft there where Chunk sleeps. Come with me."

In a few moments all three were beside the unconscious form. Chunk
instantly slipped his hand inside the soldier's vest over his heart.
"Hit done beats," he said, quickly, and without further hesitation
he lifted the man as if he had been a child, bore him safely to the
cabin, and laid him on Aun' Jinkey's bed. "Hi, granny, whar dat hot
stuff you gib me fer de belly misery?"

Aun' Jinkey had already found a bottle containing a decoction of the
wild ginger root, and with pewter spoon forced some of the liquid
into the man's mouth. He struggled slightly and began to revive. At
last he opened his eyes and looked with an awed expression at the
young girl who stood at the foot of the bed.

"I hope you feel better now," she said, kindly.

"Are you--am I alive?" he asked.

"Dar now, mars'r, you isn't in heb'n yet, dough Miss Lou, standin'
dar, mout favor de notion. Des you took anoder swaller ob dis
ginger-tea, en den you see me'n Chunk ain' angels."

Chunk grinned and chuckled. "Neber was took fer one in my bawn
days."

The young man did as he was bidden, then turned his eyes wistfully
and questioningly from the two dark visages back to the girl's
sympathetic face.

"You remember," she said, "you were being chased, and turned your
horse toward a steep bank, which you didn't see, and fell."

"Ah, yes--it's all growing clear. You were the woman I caught
glimpse of."

She nodded and said: "I must go now, or some one will come looking
for me. I won't speak--tell about this. I'm not on your side, but
I'm not going to get a helpless man into more trouble. You may trust
Aun' Jinkey and her grandson."

"Dat you kin, mars'r," Chunk ejaculated with peculiar emphasis.

"God bless you, then, for a woman who has a heart. I'm quite content
that you're not an angel," and a smile so lighted up the soldier's
features that she thought she had never seen a pleasanter looking
man.

Worried indeed that she was returning so much later than usual, she
hastened homeward. Half-way up the path to the house she met a tall,
slender negro girl, who exclaimed, "Hi, Miss Lou, ole miss des
gettin' 'stracted 'bout you, en mars'r sez ef you ain' at supper in
five minits he's gwine down to Aun' Jinkey en know what she mean,
meckin' sech' sturbence in de fambly."

"How absurd!" thought the girl. "Being a little late is a
disturbance in the family." But she hastened on, followed by the
girl, who was employed in the capacity of waitress. This girl, Zany
by name, resented in accordance with her own ideas and character the
principle of repression which dominated the household. She threw a
kiss toward the cabin under the trees and shook with silent laughter
as she muttered, "Dat fer you, Chunk. You de beat'nst nigger I eber
see. You mos' ez bro'd ez I is high, yit you'se reachin' arter me. I
des like ter kill mysef lafin' wen we dance tergeder," and she
indulged in a jig-step and antics behind Miss Lou's back until she
came in sight of the windows, then appeared as if following a
hearse.

Miss Lou entered the rear door of the long, two-story house,
surrounded on three sides by a wide piazza. Mr. Baron, a stout,
bald-headed old gentleman, was fuming up and down the dining-room
while his wife sat in grim silence at the foot of the table. It was
evident that they had made stiff, old-fashioned toilets, and both
looked askance at the flushed face of the almost breathless girl,
still in her simple morning costume. Before she could speak her
uncle said, severely, "Since we have waited so long, we will still
wait till you can dress."

The girl was glad to escape to her room in order that she might have
time to frame some excuse before she faced the inquisition in store
for her.

Constitutional traits often assert themselves in a manner contrary
to the prevailing characteristics of a region. Instead of the easy-
going habits of life common to so many of his neighbors, Mr. Baron
was a martinet by nature, and the absence of large, engrossing
duties permitted his mind to dwell on little things and to
exaggerate them out of all proportion. Indeed, it was this utter
lack of perspective in his views and judgments which created for
Miss Lou half her trouble. The sin of tardiness which she had just
committed was treated like a great moral transgression, or rather it
was so frowned upon that it were hard to say he could show his
displeasure at a more heinous offence. The one thought now in Mr.
Baron's mind was that the sacred routine of the day had been broken.
Often there are no greater devotees to routine than those who are
virtually idlers. Endowed with the gift of persistence rather than
with a resolute will, it had become second nature to maintain the
daily order of action and thought which he believed to be his right
to enforce upon his household. Every one chafed under his inexorable
system except his wife. She had married when young, had grown up
into it, and supplemented it with a system of her own which took the
form of a scrupulous and periodical attention to all little details
of housekeeping. There was a constant friction, therefore, between
the careless, indolent natures of the slaves and the precise,
exacting requirements of both master and mistress. Miss Lou, as she
was generally called on the plantation, had grown up into this
routine as a flower blooms in a stiff old garden, and no amount of
repression, admonition and exhortation, not even in her younger days
of punishment, could quench her spirit or benumb her mind. She
submitted, she yielded, with varying degrees of grace or reluctance.
As she increased in years, her thoughts, as we have seen, were
verging more and more on the border of rebellion. But the habit of
obedience and submission still had its influence. Moreover, there
had been no strong motive and little opportunity for independent
action. Hoping not even for tolerance, much less for sympathy, she
kept her thoughts to herself, except as she occasionally relieved
her mind to her old mammy, Aun' Jinkey.

She came into the dining-room hastily at last, but the expression of
her face was impassive and inscrutable. She was received in solemn
silence, broken at first only by the long formal grace which Mr.
Baron never omitted and never varied. In her rebellious mood the
girl thought, "What a queer God it would be if he were pleased with
this old cut-and-dried form of words! All the time uncle's saying
them he is thinking how he'll show me his displeasure."

Mr. Baron evidently concluded that his best method at first would be
an expression of offended dignity, and the meal began in depressing
silence, which Mrs. Baron was naturally the first to break. "It must
be evident to you, Louise," she said in a thin, monotonous voice,
"that the time has come for you to consider and revise your conduct.
The fact that your uncle has been kept waiting for his supper is
only one result of an unhappy change which I have observed, but have
forborne to speak of in the hope that your own conscience and the
influence of your past training would lead you to consider and
conform. Think of the precious moments, indeed I may say hours, that
you have wasted this afternoon in idle converse with an old negress
who is no fit companion for you! You are becoming too old--"

"Too old, aunt? Do you at last recognize the fact that I am growing
older?"

With a faint expression of surprise dawning in her impassive face
Mrs. Baron continued: "Yes, old enough to remember yourself and not
to be compelled to recognize the duties of approaching womanhood. I
truly begin to feel that I must forbid these visits to an old,
ignorant and foolish creature whose ideas are totally at variance
with all that is proper and right."

"Uncle thinks I have approached womanhood sufficiently near to know
something of my business affairs, and even went so far as to suggest
his project of marrying me to my cousin in order to unite in sacred--
I mean legal bonds the two plantations."

The two old people looked at each other, then stared at their niece,
who, with hot face, maintained the pretence of eating her supper.
"Truly, Louise," began Mr. Baron, solemnly, "you are indulging in
strange and unbecoming language. I have revealed to you your
pecuniary affairs, and I have more than once suggested an alliance
which is in accordance with our wishes and your interests, in order
to prove to you how scrupulous we are in promoting your welfare. We
look for grateful recognition and a wise, persistent effort on your
part to further our efforts in your behalf."

"It doesn't seem to me wise to talk to a mere child about property
and marriage," said the girl, breathing quickly in the consciousness
of her temerity and her rising spirit of rebellion.

"You are ceasing to be a mere child," resumed her uncle, severely.

"That cannot be," Miss Lou interrupted. "You and aunt speak to me as
you did years ago when I was a child. Can you expect me to have a
woman's form and not a woman's mind? Are women told exactly what
they must think and do, like little children? Aunt threatens to
forbid visits to my old mammy. If I were but five years old she
couldn't do more. You speak of marrying me to my cousin as if I had
merely the form and appearance of a woman, and no mind or wishes of
my own. I have never said I wanted to marry him or any one."

"Why, Louise, you are verging toward flat rebellion," gasped her
uncle, laying down his knife and fork.

"Oh, no, uncle! I'm merely growing up. You should have kept the
library locked; you should never have had me taught to read, if you
expected me to become the mere shell of a woman, having no ideas of
my own."

"We wish you to have ideas, and have tried to inculcate right
ideas."

"Which means only your ideas, uncle."

"Louise, are you losing your mind?"

"No, uncle, I am beginning to find it, and that I have a right to
use it. I am willing to pay all due respect and deference to you and
to aunt, but I protest against being treated as a child on one hand
and as a wax figure which can be stood up and married to anybody on
the other. I have patiently borne this treatment as long as I can,
and I now reckon the time has come to end it."

Mr. Baron was thunderstruck and his wife was feeling for her
smelling-bottle. Catching a glimpse of Zany, where she stood open-
mouthed in her astonishment, her master said, sternly, "Leave the
room!" Then he added to his niece, "Think of your uttering such wild
talk before one of our people! Don't you know that my will must be
law on this plantation?"

"I'm not one of your people," responded the girl, haughtily. "I'm
your niece, and a Southern girl who will call no man master."

At this moment there was a knock at the door. Without waiting for it
to be opened, a tall, lank man entered and said, hastily, "Mr.
Baron, I reckon there's news which yer orter hear toreckly." He was
the overseer of the plantation.




CHAPTER III

MAD WHATELY


Mr. Baron was one of the few of the landed gentry in the region who
was not known by a military title, and he rather prided himself on
the fact. "I'm a man of peace," he was accustomed to say, and his
neighbors often remarked, "Yes, Baron is peaceable if he has his own
way in everything, but there's no young blood in the county more
ready for a fray than he for a lawsuit." "Law and order" was Mr.
Baron's motto, but by these terms he meant the perpetuity of the
conditions under which he and his ancestors had thus far lived. To
distrust these conditions was the crime of crimes. In his
estimation, therefore, a Northern soldier was a monster surpassed
only by the out-and-out abolitionist. While it had so happened that,
even as a young man, his tastes had been legal rather than military,
he regarded the war of secession as more sacred than any conflict of
the past, and was willing to make great sacrifices for its
maintenance. He had invested all his funds as well as those of his
niece in Confederate bonds, and he had annually contributed a large
portion of the product of his lands to the support of the army.
Living remote from the scenes of actual strife, he had been able to
maintain his illusions and hopes to a far greater extent than many
others of like mind with himself; but as the war drew toward its
close, even the few newspapers he read were compelled to justify
their name in some degree by giving very unpalatable information. As
none are so blind as those who will not see, the old man had testily
pooh-poohed at what he termed "temporary reverses," and his immunity
from disturbance had confirmed his belief that the old order of
things could not materially change. True, some of his slaves had
disappeared, but he had given one who had been caught such a lesson
that the rest had remained quiet if not contented.

The news brought by his overseer became therefore more disturbing
than the strange and preposterous conduct of his niece, and he had
demanded excitedly, "What on earth's the matter, Perkins?"

"Well, sir, fur's I kin mek out, this very plantation's been p'luted
by Yankee soldiers this very evenin'. Yes, sir."

"Great heavens! Perkins," and Mr. Baron sprang from his chair, then
sank back again with an expression suggesting that if the earth
opened next it could not be worse.

"Yes, sir," resumed Perkins, solemnly, "I drawed that much from
Jute. He seen 'em hisself. I noticed a s'pressed 'citement en talk
in the quarters this evenin', an' I follered hit right up an' I ast
roun' till I pinned Jute. He was over the fur side of the run
lookin' fur a stray crow, an' he seen 'em. But they was bein' chased
lively. Mad Whately--beg pardon--Mr. Madison was arter them with
whip and spur. Didn't yer hear a crack of a rifle? I did, and
reckoned it was one o' the Simcoe boys out gunnin', but Jute says
hit was one o' our men fired the shot, en that they chased the Yanks
to'erds the big woods. They was all mounted en goin' it lickity
switch. The thing that sticks in my crop isn't them few what Mr.
Madison chased, but the main body they belongs to. Looks as ef
there's goin' to be a raid down our way."

"If that is so," said Mr. Baron, majestically, "Lieutenant Whately
proves that our brave men are not far off, either, and the way he
chased some of them shows how all the vile invaders will eventually
be driven out of the country. Be vigilant, Perkins, and let it be
understood at the quarters that Lieutenant Whately is within call."

The overseer bowed awkwardly and limped away. His lameness had
secured him immunity from military duty.

"Ah, that's a man for you," said Mr. Baron, glaring at his niece.
"Your cousin is a true scion of Southern chivalry. That is the kind
of a man you do not know whether you wish to marry or not--a brave
defender of our hearths and liberties."

"If he wishes to marry me against my will, he's not a defender of my
liberty," retorted the girl.

"If you had the spirit which should be your birthright your eyes
would flash with joy at the prospect of seeing a hero who could thus
chase your enemies from our soil. If you could only have seen him in
his headlong--"

"I did see him."

"What!"

"I saw Cousin Madison leading a dozen or more men in pursuit of half
a dozen. That does not strike me as sublimely heroic."

"Why haven't you told me of this? How could you have seen him?" and
the old man, in his strong excitement, rose from his chair.

"My reception when I entered was not conducive to conversation. I
was merely sitting by the run and saw both parties gallop past."

"You should have come instantly to me."

"I'm sure I came in hastily," she replied, crimsoning in the
consciousness of her secret, "but I was met as if I had been guilty
of something awful."

"Well, if I had known," began her uncle, in some confusion,
mistaking her color for an expression of anger.

"I think," remarked her aunt, coldly, "that Louise should have
recognized that she had given you just cause for displeasure by her
tardiness, unless it were explained, and she should have explained
at once. I have no patience with the spirit she is displaying."

But Mr. Baron's mind had been diverted to more serious and alarming
considerations than what he characterized mentally as "a girl's
tantrum."

"It makes my blood boil," he said, "to think that this Northern scum
is actually in our neighborhood, and might be at our doors but for
my brave nephew. Thanks to him, they met a righteous reception on
this plantation; thanks to him, in all probability, we are not now
weltering in our blood, with the roof that shelters us blazing over
our heads. If those marauders had found us unprotected, young woman,
you would have rued the day. Their capacity for evil is only
equalled by their opportunities. If your cousin had not flamed after
them like an avenging sword you might have cried loudly enough for
the one of whom, in your fit of unseemly petulance, you can speak so
slightingly. I advise you to go to your room and thank Heaven for
your escape."

"Uncle, are the people of the North savages?"

"Its soldiers are worse than savages. Have you not heard me express
my opinion of them over and over again? Go to your room, and when
you appear again, I trust it will be with the meekness and
submission becoming in a young woman."

When the girl left Aun' Jinkey's cabin the young soldier looked
after her with an expression of deep interest. "Who is she?" he
asked.

"Dat's Miss Lou," said the old negress, forcing into his mouth
another spoonful of her fiery decoction.

"Oh, that's enough, aunty, unless you wish to burn me out like a
hollow log," and he struggled to his feet to ease his tendency to
strangle. "Miss Lou? How should I know who she is?"

"Ob co'se," said Aun' Jinkey, dryly, "I ain' namin' her pedigree."

"You a Linkum man, ain' you?" Chunk asked, quickly.

"Yes, and Lincoln is a good friend of yours."

"Hi! I knows dat. W'at fer you so hidin'-in-de-grass, granny? No use
bein' dat away wid a Linkum man."

"I ain' talkin' 'bout my young mistis to folks ez drap down fum de
clouds."

"You wouldn't like me better if I came up from below, aunty. There
now, I'm not a very bad fellow, and I belong to the army that's
going to make you all free."

"I hasn't des tink out dis question ob bein' free yit. I'se too ole
to wuk much an' old mars'r's took keer on me long time."

"Well, I'se tink it out," put in Chunk, decidedly; "en I'se able to
wuk fer you en me too."

"You mighty peart, Chunk, co'tin' a gal lie a bean-pole a'ready. I
reck'n she spen' all you eber mek. You bettah boos' de Linkum man
into dat ar lof sud'n, kase ef Marse Perkins cotch 'im yere we all
ain' feelin' berry good bimeby."

"Dat ar truer'n preachin'," admitted Chunk, with alacrity. "Des you
tek hol' ob dem ladder rouns, mars'r, an' put yo' foots on my
sho'lers. Dat's hit. Nobody tink ob fin'in' you yere. I'se study how
ter git yo' hoss out of sight 'gin mawnin'."

"You stand by me, Chunk," said the soldier, "and you won't be sorry.
There's a lot of us coming this way soon, and I can be a good friend
of yours and all your people if you help me out of this scrape."

"I'se gwine ter stan' by you, boss. I'se mek up my min' ter be free
dis time, sho! Hi! w'at dat?"

He was wonderfully agile, for his arms were nearly as long as his
legs. In an instant he descended, drawing a trap-door after him.
Then he sauntered to the door, which he opened wide. A troop of
horsemen were coming single file by a path which led near the cabin,
and the foremost asked in a voice which the negro recognized as that
of Lieutenant Whately, "Is that you, Chunk?"

"Dat's me, mars'r. My 'specs."

"Be off, you skeleton. Make time for the house and help get supper
for me and the men. If you don't run like a red deer, I'll ride you
down."

"Good Lawd! w'at gwine ter hap'n nex'?" groaned Chunk, as he
disappeared toward the mansion. He burst like a bombshell into the
kitchen, a small building in the rear of the house.

"Did you eber see de likes?" exclaimed Zany. "What yo' manners--"

"Hi, dar! talk 'bout manners! Marse Whately comin' wid a army, en
want supper fer um all in des one minute en er haf by de clock!"

Great, fat Aun' Suke threw up her hands in despair, and in the brief
silence the tramp of horses and the jingling of sabres were plainly
heard. They all knew Mad Whately, and it needed not that Mrs. Baron,
desperately flurried, should bustle in a few moments later with
orders that all hands should fly around. "What you doing here?" she
asked Chunk, sharply.

"I'se here ter hep, mistis. Dem's my orders from Marse Whately. He
come ridin' by granny's."

"Then go and kill chickens."

A few moments later the dolorous outcry of fowls was added to the
uproar made by the barking dogs.

With a chill of fear Miss Lou, in her chamber, recognized her
cousin's voice, and knew that he, with his band, had come to claim
hospitality at his uncle's hands. What complications did his
presence portend? Truly, the long months of monotony on the old
plantation were broken now. What the end would be she dared not
think, but for the moment her spirit exulted in the excitement which
would at least banish stagnation.

In his secret heart Mr. Baron had hoped that his nephew would go on
to his own home, a few miles further; for applauding him as a hero
was one thing, and having him turn everything upside down at that
hour another. Routine and order were scattered to the winds whenever
Mad Whately made his appearance, but the host's second thoughts led
him to remember that this visitation was infinitely to be preferred
to one from the terrible Yankees; so he threw wide open the door,
and, with his wife, greeted his nephew warmly. Then he shouted for
Perkins to come and look after the horses.

"Ah, mine uncle," cried Whately, "where on earth is to be found a
festive board like yours? Who so ready to fill the flowing bowl
until even the rim is lost to sight, when your defenders have a few
hours to spare in their hard campaigning? You won't entertain angels
unawares to-night. You'd have been like Daniel in the den with none
to stop the lions' mouths, or rather the jackals', had we not
appeared on the scene. The Yanks were bearing down for you like the
wolf on the fold. Where's my pretty cousin?"

Mr. Baron had opened his mouth to speak several times during this
characteristic greeting, and now he hastened to the foot of the
stairs and shouted, "Louise, come down and help your aunt entertain
our guests." Meanwhile Whately stepped to the sideboard and helped
himself liberally to the sherry.

"You know me must maintain discipline," resumed Whately, as his
uncle entered the dining-room. "The night is mild and still. Let a
long table be set on the piazza for my men. I can then pledge them
through the open window, for since I give them such hard service, I
must make amends when I can. Ah, Perkins, have your people rub the
horses till they are ready to prance, then feed them lightly, two
hours later a heavier feed, that's a good fellow! You were born
under a lucky star, uncle. You might now be tied up by your thumbs,
while the Yanks helped themselves."

"It surely was a kind Providence which brought you here, nephew."

"No doubt, no doubt; my good horse, also, and, I may add, the wish
to see my pretty cousin. Ah! here she comes with the blushes of the
morning on her cheeks," but his warmer than a cousinly embrace and
kiss left the crimson of anger in their places.

She drew herself up indignantly to her full height and said, "We
have been discussing the fact that I am quite grown up. I will thank
you to note the change, also."

"Why, so I do," he replied, regarding her with undisguised
admiration; "and old Father Time has touched you only to improve you
in every respect."

"Very well, then," she replied, coldly, "I cannot help the touch of
Father Time, but I wish it understood that I am no longer a child."

"Neither am I, sweet cousin, and I like you as a woman far better."

She left the room abruptly to assist her aunt.

"Jove! uncle, but she has grown to be a beauty. How these girls
blossom out when their time comes! Can it be that I have been absent
a year?"

"Yes, and your last visit was but a flying one."

"And so I fear this one must be. The Yanks are on the move, perhaps
in this direction, and so are we. It was one of their scouting
parties that we ran into. Their horses were fresher than ours and
they separated when once in the shadow of the woods. They won't be
slow, however, in leaving these parts, now they know we are here.
I'm going to take a little well-earned rest between my scoutings,
and make love to my cousin. Olympian humbugs! how handsome and
haughty she has become! I didn't think the little minx had so much
spirit."

"She has suddenly taken the notion that, since she is growing up,
she can snap her fingers at all the powers that be."

"Growing up! Why, uncle, she's grown, and ready to hear me say,
'With all my worldly goods I thee endow.'"

"But the trouble is, she doesn't act as if very ready."

"Oh, tush! she isn't ready to throw herself at the head of any one.
That isn't the way of Southern girls. They want a wooer like a
cyclone, who carries them by storm, marries them nolens volens, and
then they're happy. But to be serious, uncle, in these stormy times
Lou needs a protector. You've escaped for a long time, but no one
can tell now what a day will bring forth. As my wife, Cousin Lou
will command more respect. I can take her within our lines, if
necessary, or send her to a place of safety. Ah, here comes my
blooming aunt to prepare for supper."

"Welcome to The Oaks," she again repeated. "Never more welcome,
since you come as defender as well as guest."

"Yes, aunt; think of a red-whiskered Yank paying his respects
instead of me."

"Don't suggest such horrors, please."

The gentlemen now joined Miss Lou in the parlor, while under Mrs.
Baron's supervision Zany, and Chunk, as gardener and man-of-all-
work, with the aid of others soon set the two tables. Then began a
procession of negroes of all sizes bearing viands from the kitchen.




CHAPTER IV

AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY


Allan Scoville, for such was the Union soldier's name, fully
realized that he was in the enemy's country as he watched through a
cranny in the cabin the shadowy forms of the Confederates file past.
Every bone in his body ached as if it had been broken, and more than
once he moved his arms and legs to assure himself that they were
whole. "Breath was just knocked right out of me," he muttered. "I
hope that's the worst, for this place may soon become too hot for
me. My good horse is not only lost, but I may be lost also through
him. That queer-looking darky, Chunk, is my best hope now unless it
is Miss Lou. Droll, wasn't it, that I should take her for an angel?
What queer thoughts a fellow has when within half an inch of the
seamy side of life! Hanged if I deserve such an awakening as I
thought was blessing my eyes on the other side. From the way I ache,
the other side mayn't be far off yet. Like enough hours will pass
before Chunk comes back, and I must try to propitiate his grandam."

He crawled painfully to the trap-door and, finding a chink in the
boards, looked down into the apartment below. Aun' Jinkey was
smoking as composedly it might seem as if a terrible Yankee, never
seen before, was not over her head, and a band of Confederates who
would have made him a prisoner and punished her were only a few rods
away. A close observer, however, might have noticed that she was not
enjoying languid whiffs, as had been the case in the afternoon. The
old woman had put guile into her pipe as well as tobacco, and she
hoped its smoke would blind suspicious eyes if any were hunting for
a stray Yankee. Chunk's pone and bacon had been put near the fire to
keep warm, and Scoville looked at the viands longingly.

At last he ventured to whisper, "Aun' Jinkey, I am as hungry as a
wolf."

"Hesh!" said the old woman softly. Then she rose, knocked the ashes
from her pipe with great deliberation, and taking a bucket started
for the spring. In going and coming she looked very sharply in all
directions, thus satisfying herself that no one was watching the
cabin. Re-entering, she whispered, "Kin you lif de trap-do'?"

Scoville opened it, and was about to descend. "No, you kyant do
dat," interposed Aun' Jinkey, quickly. "Lie down up dar, en I han'
you Chunk's supper. He gits his'n at de big house. You's got ter
play possum right smart, mars'r, or you git cotched. Den we cotch
it, too. You 'speck I doan know de resk Chunk en me tookin?"

"Forgive me, Aunt Jinkey. But your troubles will soon be over and
you be as free as I am."

"I doesn't want no sech freedom ez you got, mars'r, hid'n en
scrugin' fum tarin' en rarin' red-hot gallopers ez Mad Whately en
his men. Dey'd des bun de ole cabin en me in't ef dey knowed you's
dar. Bettah stop yo' mouf wid yo' supper."

This Scoville was well contented to do for a time, while Aun' Jinkey
smoked and listened with all her ears. Faint sounds came from the
house and the negro quarters, but all was still about the cabin.
Suddenly she took her pipe from her mouth and muttered, "Dar goes a
squinch-owl tootin'. Dat doan mean no good."

"Aunt Jinkey," said Scoville, who was watching her, "that screech-
owl worries you, doesn't it?"

"Dere's mo' kin's ob squinch-owls dan you 'lows on, mars'r. Some
toots fer de sake ob tootin' en some toots in warnin'."

"That one tooted in warning. Don't be surprised if you hear another
very near." He crawled to the cranny under the eaves and Aun' Jinkey
fairly jumped out of her chair as she heard an owl apparently
hooting on the roof with a vigor and truth to nature that utterly
deceived her senses. Scoville repeated the signal, and then crept
back to the chink in the floor. The old woman was trembling and
looking round in dismayed uncertainty. "There," he said, with a low
laugh, "that squinch-owl was I, and the first you heard was one of
my men. Now, like a good soul, make pones and fry bacon for five
men, and you'll have friends who will take good care of you and
Chunk."

"De Lawd he'p me! w'at comin' nex'? Miss Lou wuz a wishin' sump'n ud
hap'n--w'at ain' gwinter hap'n?"

"Nothing will happen to harm you if you do as I say. Our men may
soon be marching this way, and we'll remember our friends when we
come."

"I des hope dere'll be sump'n lef ob me ter reckermember," said Aun'
Jinkey, but she rose to comply with the soldier's requirement,
feeling that her only course was to fall in with the wishes of
whoever happened to be uppermost in the troublous times now
foreseen. She was in a terribly divided state of mind. The questions
she had smoked and thought over so long now pressed with bewildering
rapidity and urgency. An old family slave, she had a strong feeling
of loyalty to her master and mistress. But they had been partially
alienating Miss Lou, for whom she would open her veins, while her
grandson was hot for freedom and looked upon Northern soldiers as
his deliverers. Aun' Jinkey was not sure she wished to be delivered.
That was one of the points she was not through "projeckin'" about.
Alas! events would not wait for her conclusions, although more time
had been given her than to many others forced to contemplate vast
changes. With a shrewd simplicity she decided that it would be wise
to keep on friendly terms with all the contending powers, and do
what in her judgment was best for each.

"Hit des took all de 'visions we got," she remarked, disconsolately.

"You'll soon have visions of more to eat and wear than ever blessed
your eyes," said Scoville, encouragingly.

"Hi! granny," said Chunk, peeping in at the door.

"How you start me!" ejaculated the old woman, sinking into her
chair.

"That you, Chunk?" asked Scoville. "Is the coast clear?"

"I reck'n. Keep shy yet a while, mars'r." A few words explained the
situation, and Chunk added: "You des feed dem Yankees big, granny.
I'se pervide mo'. I mus' go now sud'n. Made Aun' Suke b'lebe dat I
knowed ob chickens w'at roos' in trees, en dey tinks I'se lookin'
fer um. High ole times up ter de house," and he disappeared in the
darkness.

In nervous haste Aun' Jinkey prepared the ample supper. Scoville
hooted again, a shadowy form stole to the cabin for the food, and
disappeared again toward the run. Then Aun' Jinkey prepared to
compose her nerves by another smoke.

"Hand me up a coal for my pipe, also," said Scoville, "and then
we'll have a sociable time."

"I des feared onsosh'ble times dis eb'nin'," remarked Aun' Jinkey.

"If you knew how my bones ached, you'd help me pass the time."

"Reck'n mine ache, too, 'fo' I troo wid dis bus'ness."

"No, Aunt Jinkey, you won't be punished for doing a good deed. Your
young mistress is on your side, anyway. Who is she?"

"Young mistis ain' got no po'r ef dey fin's out. She nuff ter do ter
hol' 'er own."

"How comes it she's friendly to 'we uns,' as you say down here?"

"She ain' friendly. You drap at her feet ez ef you wuz dead, en she
hab a lil gyurlish, soft heart, dat's all. Didn't she tole you dat
she ain' on yo' side?"

"Well, bless her heart, then."

"I circumscribe ter dat ar."

"Aren't you on our side?"

"I'se des 'twix en 'tween all de sides."

"You're all right, Aunt Jinkey. I'd trust you with my life."

"Reck'n you hab ter dis eb'nin'."

"Well, about Miss Lou--you say she has trouble to hold her own.
How's that?"

"Dem's fambly matters."

"And so none of my business, unless she tells me herself."

"How she gwine ter tol' you tings?"

"Ah, Aunt Jinkey, you've vegetated a great while in these slow
parts. I feel it in my bones, sore as they are, that some day I'll
give you a new dress that will make you look like a spike of red
hollyhocks. You'll see changes you don't dream of."

"My haid whirlin' now, mars'r. Hope ter grashus I kin do my wuk ter-
morrer in peace and quietness."

There was neither peace nor quietness at the mansion. Whately, with
a soldier's instincts to make the most of passing opportunities,
added to the hasty tendencies of his own nature, was not only
enjoying the abundant supper, but feasting his eyes meantime on the
charms developed by his cousin in his absence. He knew of his
uncle's wish to unite the two plantations, and had given his assent
to the means, for it had always been his delight to tease, frighten,
and pet his little cousin, whose promise of beauty had been all that
he could desire. Now she evoked a sudden flame of passion, and his
mind, which leaped to conclusions, was already engaged in plans for
consummating their union at once. He sought to break down her
reserve by paying her extravagant compliments, and to excite her
admiration by accounts of battles in which he would not have posed
as hero so plainly had he not been flushed with wine. There was an
ominous fire in her eyes scarcely in accord with her cool demeanor.
Unused to the world, and distrusting her own powers, she made little
effort to reply, taking refuge in comparative silence. This course
encouraged him and her uncle. The former liked her manifestation of
spirit as long as he believed it to be within control. To his
impetuous, imperious nature the idea of a tame, insipid bride was
not agreeable; while Mr. Baron, still under the illusion that she
was yet but a submissive child, thought that her bad mood was
passing and would be gone in the morning. He little dreamed how
swiftly her mind was awakening and developing under the spur of
events. She did not yet know that her cousin was meditating such a
speedy consummation of his purpose, but was aware that he and all
her relatives looked upon her as his predestined wife. Now, as never
before, she shrank from the relation, and in the instinct of self-
preservation resolved never to enter into it.

Her long, rebellious reveries in solitude had prepared her for this
hour, and her proud, excited spirit surprised her by the intensity
of its passionate revolt. Not as a timid, shrinking maiden did she
look at her cousin and his men feasting on the piazza. She glanced
at him, then through the open windows at their burly forms, as one
might face a menace which brought no thought of yielding.

The family resemblance between Whately and herself was strong. He
had her blue eyes, but they were smaller than hers, and his
expression was bold, verging toward recklessness. Her look was
steady and her lips compressed into accord with the firm little
chin.

Mrs. Baron's ideas of decorum soon brought temporary relief. She
also saw that her nephew was becoming too excited to make a good
impression, so she said, "Louise, you may now retire, and I trust
that you will waken tomorrow to the truth that your natural
guardians can best direct your thoughts and actions."

Whately was about to rise in order to bid an affectionate good-
night, but the girl almost fled from the room. In the hall she met
Chunk, who whispered, "Linkum man gittin' peart, Miss Lou."

"She'll be over her tantrum by morning," said Mr. Baron in an
apologetic tone. "Perhaps we'll have to humor her more in little
things."

"That's just where the trouble lies, uncle. You and aunt have tried
to make her feel and act as if as old as yourselves. She's no longer
a child; neither is she exactly a woman. All young creatures at her
age are skittish. Bless you, she wouldn't be a Baron if she hadn't
lots of red, warm blood. So much the better. When I've married her
she'll settle down like other Southern girls."

"I think we had better discuss these matters more privately,
nephew," said Mrs. Baron.

"Beg pardon, I reckon we had, aunt. My advice, however, is that we
act first and discuss afterward."

"We'll talk it over to-morrow, nephew," said Mr. Baron. "Of course
as guardian I must adopt the best and safest plan."

Chunk's ears were long if he was short, and in waiting on a soldier
near the window he caught the purport of this conversation.




CHAPTER V

WHATELY'S IDEA OF COURTSHIP


When waiting on the table, Zany either stood like an image carved
out of black walnut or moved with the angular promptness of an
automaton when a spring is touched. Only the quick roll of her eyes
indicated how observant she was. If, however, she met Chunk in the
hall, or anywhere away from observation, she never lost the
opportunity to torment him. A queer grimace, a surprised stare, an
exasperating derisive giggle, were her only acknowledgments of his
amorous attentions. "Ef I doesn't git eben wid dat niggah, den I eat
a mule," he muttered more than once.

But Chunk was in great spirits and a state of suppressed excitement.
"'Pears ez ef I mout own mysef 'fo' dis moon done waxin' en wanin',"
he thought. "Dere's big times comin,' big times. I'se yeard w'at
hap'n w'en de Yanks go troo de kentry like an ol bull in a crock'ry
sto'." In his duties of waiting on the troopers and clearing the
table he had opportunities of purloining a goodly portion of the
viands, for he remembered that he also had assumed the role of host
with a very meagre larder to draw upon.

Since the Confederates were greatly wearied and were doubly inclined
to sleep from the effects of a hearty supper and liberal potations,
Mr. Baron offered to maintain a watch the early part of the night,
while Perkins was enjoined to sleep with one eye open near the
quarters. Mattresses and quilts were brought down and spread on the
piazza floor, from which soon rose a nasal chorus, "des like," as
Chunk declared, "a frog-pon' in full blas'."

Whately, trained in alert, soldierly ways, slept on the sofa in the
parlor near his men. One after another the lights were extinguished,
and the house became quiet. Chunk was stealing away with his plunder
through the shrubbery in the rear of the house, when he was suddenly
confronted by Zany. "Hi! you niggah!" she whispered, "I'se cotch you
now kyarin' off nuff vittles ter keep you a mont. You gwinter run
away."

"You wan ter run wid me?" asked Chunk, unabashed.

"What you took me fer?"

"Fer better er wuss, w'ite folks say. Reck'n it ud be fer wuss in
dis case."

"I reck'n de wuss ain' fur off. I des step ter ole mars'r an' tell
'im ter 'vestigate yo' cabin dis eb'nin'," she said, and, with a
great show of offended dignity, she was about to move away.

"Look yere, Zany, doan yer be a fool. Doan you wanter be a free
gyurl?"

"Ef you had me fer wuss I'd be des 'bout ez free ez Miss Lou w'en
she mar'ed ter Mad Whately."

"Hi! you year dat, too?"

"I got eyes, en I got years, en you ain' gwinter light out dis night
en lebe yo' granny en we uns. I sut'ny put a spoke in yo' wheel dat
stop hits runnin'."

Chunk was now convinced that he would have to take Zany into his
confidence. He looked cautiously around, then whispered rapidly in
her ear. "Hi!" she exclaimed, softly, "you got longer head dan
body."

"I kin reach ter yo' lips," said Chunk, snatching a kiss.

"Stop dat foolishness!" she exclaimed, giving him a slight cuff.

"Zany, keep mum ez a possum. Dere's big times comin', en no un kin
hender um, dough dey kin git deysefs in a heap ob trouble by
blarnations. De Linkum men soon gwine ter be top of de heap an I'se
gwinter be on top wid um. Dar you be, too, ef you stan's by Miss Lou
en me."

"Ve'y well, but I'se gwinter keep my eye on you, Marse Chunk."

"Reck'n you will, kaze I am' gwinter be fur off; en ef you puts yo'
eye on some oder man, you soon fin' he ain' dar." With this ominous
assurance he stole away.

Soon afterward the hoot of an owl was heard again; shadows
approached the cabin; Scoville, assisted by Chunk, joined them, and
there was a whispered consultation. Scoville put the result in the
following words:

"The chance is a good one, I admit. It is quite possible that we
could capture the Johnnies and their horses, but that's not what
we're out for. Besides, I'm too badly broken up. I couldn't ride to-
night. You must go back to camp, and leave me to follow. Chunk here
has provisions for you. Better be moving, for Whately will probably
be out looking for you in the morning."

So it was decided, and the shadows disappeared. Scoville was put
into Aun' Jinkey's bed, the old woman saying that she would sit up
and watch. Chunk rubbed the bruised and aching body of the Union
scout till he fell asleep, and then the tireless negro went to the
spot where the poor horse had died in the stream. He took off the
saddle and bridle. After a little consideration he diverted the
current, then dug a hole on the lower side of the animal, rolled him
into it, and changed the brook back into its old channel. Carefully
obliterating all traces of his work, he returned to the cabin,
bolted the door, lay down against it so that no one could enter, and
was soon asleep.

The next morning dawned serenely, as if Nature had no sympathy with
the schemes and anxieties to which the several actors in our little
drama wakened. Whately was early on foot, for he felt that he had
much to accomplish. Mr. Baron soon joined him, and the young man
found in his uncle a ready coadjutor in his plans. They were both in
full accord in their desires, although governed by different
motives. The old man was actuated by his long-indulged greed for
land, and wholly under the dominion of his belief that one of the
chief ends of marriage was to unite estates. In this instance he
also had the honest conviction that he was securing the best
interests of his niece. No one could tell what would happen if the
invaders should appear, but he believed that the girl's future could
best be provided for in all respects if she became the wife of a
Confederate officer and a representative of his family.

Sounds of renewed life came from all directions; the troopers rolled
up their blankets, and went to look after their horses; Mrs. Baron
bustled about, giving directions for breakfast; Chunk and Zany
worked under her eye as if they were what she wished them to be, the
automatic performers of her will; Aun' Suke fumed and sputtered like
the bacon in her frying-pan, but accomplished her work with the
promptness of one who knew that no excuses would be taken from
either master or mistress; Miss Lou dusted the parlor, and listened
stolidly to the gallantries of her cousin. He was vastly amused by
her reserve, believing it to be only maidenly coyness.

Breakfast was soon served, for Whately had announced to Mr. Baron
his intention of scouting in the woods where the Federals had
disappeared; also his purpose to visit his home and summon his
mother to his contemplated wedding. He and his men soon rode away,
and the old house and the plantation resumed their normal quiet
aspect.

It had been deemed best not to inform Miss Lou of her cousin's
immediate purpose until his plans were a little more certain and
matured. Circumstances might arise which would prevent his return at
once. Moreover, he had petitioned for the privilege of breaking the
news himself. He believed in a wooing in accordance with his nature,
impetuous and regardless at the time of the shy reluctance of its
object; and it was his theory that the girl taken by storm would
make the most submissive, contented and happy of wives; that women
secretly admired men who thus asserted their will and strength, if
in such assertion every form was complied with, and the impression
given that the man was resistless because he could not resist the
charms which had captivated him. "Why, uncle," he had reasoned, "it
is the strongest compliment that a man can pay a woman, and she will
soon recognize it as such. When once she is married, she will be
glad that she did not have to hesitate and choose, and she will
always believe in the man who was so carried away with her that he
carried her away. My course is best, therefore, on general
principles, while in this particular instance we have every reason
for prompt action. Lou and I have been destined for each other from
childhood, and I'm not willing to leave her to the chances of the
hurly-burly which may soon begin. As my wife I can protect her in
many ways impossible now."




CHAPTER VI

THE STORM BEGINS


Of late years Aun' Jinkey's principal work had been the fine washing
and ironing of the family, in which task she had always been an
adept. For this reason she had been given the cabin near the run and
an unusually fine spring. Miss Lou felt a kindly solicitude and not
a little curiosity in regard to the man who in a sense had been
thrown at her feet for protection. So gathering up some of her
laces, she made them an excuse for another visit to Aun' Jinkey.
Mrs. Baron readily acquiesced, for she felt that if there was to be
a wedding, the whole house must be cleaned from top to bottom.
Moreover, by such occupation her mind could be diverted from the
dire misgivings inspired by the proximity of Yankees. Under the
circumstances, it would be just as well if her niece were absent.

As the girl passed down through the shrubbery, she found Chunk
apparently very busy. Without looking up he said, "Doan be afeard,
Miss Lou, I'se be on de watch. Marse Linkum man right peart dis
mawnin'."

Aun' Jinkey was at her washtub near the door, and the cabin
presented the most innocent aspect imaginable. "Good-morning," said
the girl, affably. "How is your patient?"

"Recovering rapidly, thanks to your kindness and the good friends in
whose care you placed me," answered a hearty voice from the doorway.

Aun' Jinkey made a sort of rush to the door, exclaiming in tones
that were low, yet almost stern, "Marse Linkum man, ef you show
yo'sef--ef you doan stay by dat ar ladder so you git up sud'n, I des
troo wid dis bus'ness! Tain' far ter dem w'at's reskin' dere bodies
en a'most dere souls!"

"You are right, aunty," said Scoville, retreating. "It's wrong for
me to do anything which might bring trouble to you or Chunk; but I
was so eager to thank this other good Samaritan--"

"Well, den, sit by de ladder dar, en Miss Lou kin sit on de do'step.
Den a body kin feel tings ain' comin' ter smash 'fo' dey kin breve."

"Good Samaritan!" repeated Miss Lou, taking her old place in the
doorway where she had so recently wished something would happen;
"you have not fallen among thieves, sir."

"My fear has been that you would think that a thief had fallen among
the good Samaritans. I assure you that I am a Union soldier in good
and regular standing."

"I reckon my uncle and cousin would scout the idea that you, or any
of your army, had any standing whatever."

"That does not matter, so that I can convince you that I would not
do or say anything unbecoming a soldier."

"You are a Yankee, I suppose?" she asked, looking at him with strong
yet shyly expressed interest.

"I suppose I am, in your Southern vernacular. I am from New York
State, and my name is Allan Scoville."

"Uncle says that you Yankees are terrible fellows."

"Do I look as if I would harm you, Miss Lou? Pardon me, I do not
know how else to address you."

"Address me as Miss Baron," she replied, with a droll little
assumption of girlish dignity.

"Well, then, Miss Baron, you have acted the part of a good angel
toward me."

"I don't like such talk," she replied, frowning. "You were merely
thrown helpless at my feet. You didn't look as if you could do the
South much harm then. What I may feel to be my duty hereafter--"

"I have no fears at all of what YOU may do," he interrupted, with a
smile that made his expression very pleasing.

"How so?"

"Because you are incapable of betraying even an enemy, which I am
not to you. On the contrary, I am a grateful man, who would risk his
life to do you a service. The little unpleasantness between the
North and South will pass away, and we shall all be friends again."

"My uncle and cousin--indeed all the people I know--will never look
upon you Northern soldiers as friends."

"Never is a long time. I certainly feel very friendly toward you."

"I wish you to know that I am a Southern girl," she replied stiffly,
"and share in the feelings of my people."

"Well, I'm a Northern man, and share in the feelings of my people.
Can't we agree that this is fair and natural in each case?"

"But why do you all come marauding and trampling on the South?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Baron, but your question opens up all the
differences between the two sections. I have my views, but am not a
politician--simply a soldier. You and I are not at war. Let us talk
about something else. With your brave cousin enlisting your
sympathies against our side, what use would there be of my saying
anything?"

"My brave cousin does not enlist any of my sympathies; but that,
certainly, is a matter which we cannot talk about."

"Pardon, but your reference to him made it natural--"

"There is no need of speaking of him," she interrupted, coldly. "I
merely meant that he and those with him in what you slightingly term
an unpleasantness can never be friendly to you. This war may be a
small thing to you, but suppose your home and family were in danger,
as ours are?"

"Can you think that this war is a holiday to me?" he asked, gravely.
"What stands between me now and death--perhaps a shameful and
horrible death--except your kindly, womanly impulses? I am hourly in
danger of being caught and treated as a spy."

"Oh, I didn't realize it," said the girl, simply and kindly.
"Everything looks so quiet and lovely. Aun' Jinkey, there, my old
mammy, is at work just as I have seen her for years, and Chunk is
busy yonder in the garden. It is hard to think how suddenly all
might change."

"A soldier must think and be prepared."

"Have you no fear?"

"Life is sweet to me. I know only one thing--I must do my duty and
trust in God. I have the consolation that no one is dependent on me;
no one would grieve for me very much. I'm quite alone in the world.
My crusty old guardian would inherit my property, and you may well
guess that Aunt Jinkey's tub yonder would hold all his tears if I
should make a sudden exit," and again he smiled in his pleasant way,
as if with the purpose to relieve his words of all sombreness.

"Are you an orphan, too?" she asked sympathetically.

"Such a mature, fully developed orphan as I am is not an object of
pity, Miss Baron," he replied, laughing. Then he added, a little
proudly: "I'm nearly twenty-two; I was twenty-one on my last
birthday, and I celebrated it by a ride only less risky than the one
which landed me at your feet. But your little word 'too' suggests
that you are somewhat alone, also. I hope that your father was not
killed in this war?"

"No, my father and mother died long before the war."

"I am glad of that--not glad that they died, but that you cannot
associate me with the causes of their death."

"But you and yours have caused death and suffering to so many
Southern people!"

"Yes, I'm sorry it is so, but things are pretty even on that score.
Your men give as many blows as they take."

"Why did you enter the army?"

"I suppose for about the same reasons that your cousin did."

"Oh, you aren't like my cousin at all. I don't wish you to keep
referring to him."

"Well, then, I thought it was right. There was an urgent call for
men and strong public feeling. I was at college. I couldn't see
others go and not go with them. I had no influence, no one to push
my interests, so I simply enlisted, and am trying to push my way by
extra services. Now, Miss Baron, think for yourself a little. Here
we are, two young people thrown together by a strange chance. We
have been brought up differently, surrounded by different
influences. Even if you think me wrong, can you not believe that
I've followed my conscience and lived up to such light as I had? I
can believe this of you. I don't wish you to think that we Yankees
are monsters. Do I look like a monster? Why, Miss Baron, if I should
live to be a hundred years I should regard a chance to do you a
kindness as the best good-fortune that could befall me."

As he spoke these words his face flushed, there was a slight quiver
in his dark mustache, betokening deep, honest feeling, and his
expression was one of frank admiration and respect. She looked at
him in silent wonder, and asked herself, "Can this be one of the
Yankees of whom I have heard such horrible things?"

She began saying, "I am trying to think for myself, but I have been
so shut out from the world that--" when she was suddenly
interrupted. Chunk appeared and said, "Marse Scoville, des git up de
ladder en shut de trap-do' quicker'n lightnin'. Miss Lou, kin'er
peramberlate slow to'rd de house, des nachel like ez ef you ain'
keerin' 'bout not'n. Wash away, granny. Play possum, ev'y one."

Miss Lou had gone but a little way before Mad Whately joined her,
having ordered his men to pass on before. "Chunk," he shouted, "take
my horse and rub him well, or you'll get rubbed down yourself."

The openings under the eaves in Aun' Jinkey's cabin were so many and
large that Scoville had fairly good opportunities for observing what
was going on in the immediate vicinity. In witnessing the meeting
between Whately and Miss Lou he was conscious of a peculiar
satisfaction when noting that her manner confirmed her words. The
dashing cousin evidently was not in favor. "Well," thought the
scout, with a decisive little nod toward him, "were I a young
Southerner, you'd have a rival that would put you to your best
speed. What a delicious little drawl she has in speaking, and how
charmingly her consonants shade off into vowels! I would be more
readily taken for a Southerner than she, if I did not speak. How
blue her eyes are! and her fluffy hair seemed a golden halo when the
sunshine touched it through the trees. And then how unsophisticated
her face and expression! She is a lady from instinct and breeding,
and yet she is but a sweet-faced child. Well! well! it was an odd
chance to be pitched to the feet of a girl like that. Very possibly
I'd be there again of my own free will should I see her often
enough."

If Scoville were a rival now he certainly would have to take a wild
pace to keep up with Mad Whately in his wooing. His eyes were full
of resolute fire as he walked beside his cousin, and her quick
intuition took speedy alarm at his expression. "Well, sweet coz," he
said, "the Yanks have very prudently dusted back to the region from
which they came. My mother will give herself the pleasure of a visit
at The Oaks this afternoon. Can you guess her object in coming?"

"Why, as you say, to give herself the pleasure of a visit."

"Yes, and you and I will enhance her pleasure a thousand-fold."

"I shall do all that I can in courtesy."

"I'll do the rest, for I shall gladden her heart by marrying you."

"What!"

"Simply that, nothing more. Isn't that enough?"

"Far too much," replied the girl, hotly. "I don't like such
jesting."

"Faith and it will prove the best joke of our lives, over which we
will often laugh at our fireside hereafter. Come now, cousin, make
the best of it; it is the best for you as well as for me. You know I
always intended to marry you, and I have the hearty sanction of all
the high contracting powers."

She stopped abruptly in the path, her face so rich in angry color
that it shamed the flowers blooming in the shrubbery near.

"Mr. Whately," she said, firmly, "there is one contracting power
that you have not consulted. How can you marry me when I WILL not
marry you?"

"Nothing easier, pretty coz."

"But how--how?"

"Oh, that you will learn at the proper time. Everything shall go as
simply, naturally and merrily as fate. The blessing of parent and
guardian, the clergyman in robes, prayer-book, wedding feast--
nothing shall be wanting."

"This is absurd talk," she cried, and rushed to the house. In the
upper hall she encountered her aunt engaged in superintending a
general dusting and polishing of the old-fashioned furniture.

"What is the meaning of this wild talk of Cousin Madison?" the girl
asked, breathlessly.

"I've heard no wild talk," was the cool response.

"Well, come into my room and hear it, then."

Mrs. Baron reluctantly followed, rather aggrieved that she must bear
the first brunt of the storm.

"What are you putting the house in such wonderful order for?" asked
Miss Lou, with flashing eyes. "What do all these preparations mean?
What is Aunt Whately coming here for this evening?"

"It is very natural she should wish to be present at her son's
wedding," was the quiet and exasperating answer.

"When is this wedding to be?" was the next query, accompanied by a
harsh laugh.

"I think we can be ready by to-morrow evening."

"Are you a woman, that you can thus try to sacrifice the motherless
girl committed to your charge?"

"So far from sacrificing you, I am trying to further your best
interests, and at the same time carrying out the wishes of my
husband and your guardian. These are solemn times, in which you need
every safeguard and protection. We should be faithless, indeed, to
our trust did we not give a brave soldier the best right in the
world to shield and care for you."

"Bah!" cried the girl, now almost furious. "Where's uncle?"

"In his office, I suppose."

Whately had preceded her thither, and had already made known to Mr.
Baron the nature of his interview with his cousin, adding: "Our best
policy will be just to take our course as a matter of course, in a
genial, friendly way. We certainly are the girl's best friends, and
it won't be long before she acknowledges the fact. All we do is to
secure her safety, welfare and happiness. She will be as skittish as
a blooded filly over it all at first--a feature in the case which
only increases my admiration and affection. She doesn't and can't
realize the need of the step, how it's best for all concerned in
general and herself in particular. The thing to do, therefore, is to
go right straight along. Mother will be here this evening, and will
do much toward talking her into it. Lou's anger and revolt will
probably be well over by to-morrow, and all--"

Further predictions were interrupted by the swift entrance of the
girl. She stood still a moment and regarded the two men in silent
scorn. "So you are plotting?" she said at last.

"Oh, dear, no, sweet coz. Nothing is more foreign to my nature than
plotting. I am a man of action."

"If your words have any truth or meaning, you are bent on very
dishonorable action."

"Far from it. I shall have the sanction of both Church and State."

"This, then, is the boasted Southern chivalry of which I have heard
so much."

"It has been knightly in all times to protect and rescue lovely
woman."

"I need no protection, except against you. Please leave the room. I
wish to speak to uncle."

He attempted to kiss her hand as he passed out, but she snatched it
away. "Uncle," she said, coming directly to him, "can it be that you
sanction anything so wicked as this? It seems as if you and aunt
were permitting my cousin to put upon me a cruel practical joke."

"Ahem! Your very words, Louise, prove how unfit you are to judge and
act in accordance with this emergency. You even dream that we are in
a mood for jesting at this time, when our days and even hours may be
numbered. No, indeed. I am resolved to unite with my protection all
the power and dignity vested in a Confederate officer."

"In other words, to shield me against some possible danger you will
try to inflict on me the worst thing that could happen."

"Hoity-toity! Is an honorable marriage which has always been
contemplated the worst that could happen? If we are driven forth by
hordes of Northern vandals, you would think it the best thing that
had happened."

"I don't fear these Northern vandals. I have"--and then she checked
herself in time.

"You don't fear them! Why, Louise, every word you speak makes it
more imperative that I should act for one so utterly inexperienced
and ignorant."

"Do you actually mean to say that you will try to marry me against
my will?"

"Certainly, against your present will. Do you suppose that I can be
guided in my solemn trust by your petulance, your ignorant notions
of life, and your almost childish passion? In France, the most
civilized country in the world, parents and guardians arrange these
affairs as a matter of course, and with the best results. It is the
general method all over the world. Far more than mere family and
pecuniary interests are concerned in this instance. We are giving
you a protector in the time of your deepest need."

"How could Lieutenant Whately protect me if the Yankees should come
in numbers?"

"In more ways than you can imagine. Moreover, he would probably be
permitted to escort you and your mother to a place of safety. You
would have his name, and the name of a Confederate officer would
always entitle you to respect."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" cried the girl, bewildered and almost
paralyzed by the old man's inexorable words and manner. So
unsophisticated was she, so accustomed to be governed, that the
impression was strong that she could be controlled even in this
supreme crisis.

She rushed into the parlor, where her cousin was striding up and
down in a whirl of the glad excitement so congenial to his spirit.
"Cousin Madison," she exclaimed, "I know you are hasty and
impetuous, but generous impulses should go with such a nature. You
surely will not use your advantage against an orphan girl?"

"No, indeed, dear coz, not against, but for you. I love you too well
to leave you to the chances of war."

"Oh, but this is the certainty of evil. You know I do not love you.
If you would wait--if you would give me time to think it all over--"

"Why, so you shall when I've escorted you and mother to some place
where none can molest or make you afraid."

"Escort me, then, as I am, under your mother's care. Truly this
would be a better way to win my heart than such hasty violence to
all my feelings and wishes."

"My dear Louise, you may think me a hasty, inconsiderate wooer to-
day, but that is because you do not know all that I know. I must,
like your guardians, be guided by your best welfare. When you learn
to know me as a kind, loyal, considerate husband, you will
appreciate my most friendly and decisive action at this time. You
are in great danger; you may soon be homeless. In the case of one so
young and fair as you are, those who love you, as you know I do
passionately, must act, not in accordance with your passing mood,
but in a way to secure your peace and honor for all time."

"Oh, this is all a terrible dream! You can--you can protect me as
your cousin, should I need any such protection, which I cannot
believe. Northern soldiers are not savages. I know it! I know it!"

"How can you know it? Have I not seen more of them than you have? I
tell you that for the honor of our house I shall and will give you
the protection of my name at once. Your uncle and aunt feel as
strongly as I do about it, and your happiness will be the only
result. We Southern people take no chances in these matters."

Overwhelmed, frightened, bewildered, the girl left the room and
mournfully climbed to her own apartment. She was too utterly
absorbed in her own desperate plight to observe Zany whisking away
in the background.




CHAPTER VII

DANGERS THICKENING


Mr. Baron was scarcely less miserable than his ward, yet from wholly
different causes. His anxieties concerning her were deep indeed, his
very solicitude impelling him toward the plan which he was eager to
consummate. He was distracted by fears and forebodings of every kind
of evil; he was striving to fortify his mind against the dire
misgiving that the Confederacy was in a very bad way, and that a
general breaking up might take place. Indeed his mental condition
was not far removed from that of a man who dreads lest the hitherto
immutable laws of nature are about to end in an inconceivable state
of chaos. What would happen if the old order of things passed away
and the abominable abolitionists obtained fall control? He felt as
if the door of Dante's Inferno might be thrown wide at any moment.
There was no elasticity in his nature, enabling him to cope with
threatening possibilities; no such firmness and fortitude of soul as
he might be required to exercise within the next few hours. To start
with, he was wretched and distracted by the breaking up of the
methodical monotony of his life and household affairs. Since general
wreck and ruin might soon ensue, he had the impulses of those who
try to secure and save what is most valuable and to do at once what
seems vitally important. Amid all this confusion and excitement of
mind his dominant trait of persistence asserted itself. He would
continue trying to the last to carry out the cherished schemes and
purposes of his life; he would not stultify himself by changing his
principles, or even the daily routine of his life, as far as he
could help himself. If events over which he had no control hastened
action, such action should be in harmony with previous purpose to
the extent of his power. The plan, therefore, of marrying his niece
immediately to her cousin doubly commended itself to him. It would
throw around her additional safeguards and relieve him in part from
a heavy responsibility; it would also consummate one of the
cherished intentions of his life. Things might take a happy turn for
the better, and then just so much would be gained and accomplished.

Thus he reasoned, and his nephew spared no pains in confirming his
views. The truth urged by his niece that she did not love her cousin
seemed a small matter to the unemotional, legal mind of the old man
when safety and solid interests were concerned. "A child like
Louise," he said, "must be taken care of, not humored." Mrs. Baron
had long since formed the habit of yielding complete deference to
her husband, and now was sincerely in accord with his views. She had
never had much heart; her marriage had satisfied her ambition, had
been pleasing to her kith and kin, and she saw no good reason why
her niece should not, under any circumstances, form a similar union.
That the girl should revolt now, in the face of such urgent
necessity, was mere perverseness. Sharing in her husband's anxieties
and fears, she found solace and diversion of mind in her beloved
housekeeping. Neither of the old people had the imagination or
experience which could enable them to understand the terror and
distress of their niece, whom with good intentions they were driving
toward a hated union.

Dinner was served two hours later than usual--a fact in itself very
disturbing to Mr. Baron; while Aun' Suke, compelled to cook again
for the Confederate troopers, was in a state of suppressed
irritation, leading her satellites to fear that she might explode.
Small, pale and bloodless as "ole miss" appeared, none of her
domestics dared to rebel openly; but if any little darky came within
the reach of Aun' Suke's wooden spoon, she relieved her feelings
promptly. In dining-room and kitchen, therefore, was seething and
repressed excitement. The very air was electric and charged with
rumors.

Perkins, the overseer, was at his wits' end, also, about the field-
hands. They were impassive or sullen before his face, and abounding
in whispers and significant glances behind his back. What they knew,
how much they knew, he could not discover by any ingenuity of
questioning or threatening, and he was made to feel that excessive
harshness might lead to serious trouble. Disturbing elements were on
all sides, in the air, everywhere, yet he could not lay his finger
on any particular culprit.

Of all the slaves on the plantation, Chunk appeared the most docile
and ready to oblige every one. He waited on the Confederate troopers
with alacrity, and grinned at their chaffing with unflagging good-
nature. In all the little community, which included an anxious Union
scout, Chunk was about the most serene and even-pulsed individual.
Nature had endowed him with more muscle than nerves, more shrewdness
than intellect, and had quite left out the elements of fear and
imagination. He lived intensely in the present; excitement and
bustle were congenial conditions, and his soul exulted in the
prospect of freedom. Moreover, the fact that he had proved himself
to Zany to be no longer a mere object for ridicule added not a
little to his elation. Shrewd as himself, she was true to her word
of keeping an eye on him, and she was compelled to see that he was
acting his part well.

Miss Lou positively refused to come down to dinner. She had buried
her face in her pillow, and was almost crying her eyes out; for in
the confusion of her mind, resulting from her training and
inexperience, she feared that if all her kin insisted on her
marriage, and gave such reasons as had been urged upon her, she must
be married. She was sorely perplexed. Could the Yankees be such
ravening wolves as her uncle and cousin represented them to be?
Certainly one was not, but then he might be different from the
others because he had been to college and was educated.

"He said he would be glad to do me any kindness," she sobbed. "Oh,
if he could only prevent this marriage! Yet what can he do? I could
not even speak to a stranger of my trouble, much less to a Northern
soldier. I wish I could see my old mammy. She's the only one who in
the least understands me and feels a little like a mother toward me.
Oh, what a dreadful thing to be a motherless girl at such a time!"

The powers below stairs concluded that it would be best to leave
Miss Lou to herself for a time, that she might think over and become
reconciled to the need and reasonableness of their action, but Mrs.
Baron considerately sent up her dinner by Zany. The unhappy girl
shook her head and motioned the tray away.

"Hi, now, Miss Lou, w'at you tookin on so fer?" asked the diplomatic
Zany.

"For more than you can understand."

"I un'erstan's a heap mo'n you tink," said Zany, throwing off all
disguise in her strong sympathy. "Marse Whately des set out ter
mar'y you, ez ef you wuz a post dat cud be stood up en mar'd to
enybody at eny time. Hi! Miss Lou, I'se bettah off dan you, fer I
kin pick en choose my ole man."

"Everybody in the world is better off than I am."

"I wudn't stan' it, Miss Lou. I sut'ny wudn't. I'd runned away."

"How could I run away? Where could I go to?"

"See yere, Miss Lou," and Zany sank her voice to a whisper, "dere's
a Linkum man"--

"Hush! how did you know that?"

"Chunk en me's fren's. Don' be 'feard, fer I'd like ter see de gyurl
dat kin beat me playin' possum. Dat Linkum man he'p you ter run
away."

"For shame, Zany! The idea of my going away with a stranger!"

"'Pears to me I'se rudder runned away wid one man dan hab anoder man
runned away wid me."

"Don't ever speak to me of such a thing again."

"Well, den, Miss Lou, de niggahs on dis plantashon des lub you, en
dey ain' hankerin' arter Marse Whately. Ef you say de wud, I des
belebe dey riz right up again dis mar'age."

"Oh, horrible!" said the girl, in whose mind had been instilled the
strong and general dread of a negro insurrection. "There, Zany, you
and Chunk mean kindly, but neither you nor any one can help me. If
either does or says anything to make a disturbance I'll never
forgive you. My cousin and the men with him would kill you all. I'd
rather be left alone, for I must think what to do."

"I ain' sayin' not'n, Miss Lou, sence dat yo' 'quest, but doan you
gib up," and Zany took her departure, resolving to have a conference
with Chunk at the earliest possible moment.

The impossible remedies suggested by Zany depressed Miss Lou all the
more, for they increased her impression of the hopeless character of
her position. She felt that she was being swept forward by
circumstances hard to combat, and how to resist or whether she could
resist, were questions which pressed for an immediate answer. She
possessed a temperament which warned her imperatively against this
hasty marriage, nor was there any hesitancy in her belief that it
would blight her young life beyond remedy. She was not one to moan
or weep helplessly very long, however, and the first gust of passion
and grief having passed, her mind began to clear and face the
situation. Looking out of her window, she saw that her cousin and
his men were mounted and were about to ride away again. Having
waited till they had disappeared, she bathed her eyes and then
descended to her uncle.

"Where has Lieutenant Whately gone?" she asked.

"Your cousin does not forget, even at such a time, that he is a
soldier, and he is scouting the country far and wide. Moreover, it
is his intention to ask the Rev. Dr. Williams to be here to-morrow
evening, and a few friends also. I trust that by that time your
perverse mood will pass away, and that you will unite with your
kindred in their efforts in your behalf."

"Is there no use of reasoning with you, uncle--no use of pleading
with you?"

Perkins stood in the door and knocked to announce his presence.

"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Baron, nervously.

"Have you heard anything, sir?"

"Good heavens, no! Heard what?"

"Well, sir, I dunno. The field-hands are buzzing like bees, en I
kyant get nothin' out of 'em."

"Well, Perkins, be watchful. Do your best. God only knows what's
coming. You are well armed, I suppose?"

"You may reckon that, sir, en I'll use 'em too, ef need be. The
hands are cute, mighty cute. I kyant lay my finger on any one in
particular, but they're all a sort of bilin' up with 'citement."

"Best to stay among them and be stern and vigilant." When Perkins
withdrew Mr. Baron said to his niece with strong emotion, "You see
we are beset with danger, and you talk of reasoning and pleading
against my best efforts for your safety. There! I'm too harassed,
too overwhelmed with weighty subjects for consideration, to discuss
this matter further. I must give my attention to securing some
papers of vital importance."

Miss Lou departed with the feeling that dangers were thickening on
every hand, and that she was only one of the causes for anxiety in
her uncle's mind. She knew it would be useless to say anything to
her aunt; and with a longing for a little sympathy and advice, she
resolved on another visit to her old mammy, Aun' Jinkey.

The Union soldier had a remote place in the background of her
thoughts, and yet she felt that it was preposterous to hope for
anything from him.




CHAPTER VIII

"WHEN?"


The vigilant eyes and constant demands of her mistress prevented
Zany from giving Chunk more than a few significant hints, but he was
quick to comprehend the situation. When he saw Miss Lou bending her
steps toward his granny's cottage, he thanked his stars that the
garden was in that direction also, and soon apparently was very busy
at a good point from which to observe the cabin. In view of the
approaching wedding Mrs. Baron had given Aun' Jinkey much to do, and
she was busily ironing when Miss Lou again stood within the door.
The old woman's fears had been so greatly aroused that she had
insisted that Scoville should remain in the loft. "Folks 'll be
comin' en gwine all the eb'nin', en ole miss hersef mout step dis
away."

At the same time her heart ached for the young girl. At sight of the
sweet, troubled face the faithful creature just dropped into a
chair, and throwing her apron over her head, rocked back and forth,
moaning "You po' chile, you po' chile!"

"Yes, mammy," cried Miss Lou, forgetting for the moment that a
stranger was within hearing. "I'm in desperate straits, and I don't
know what to do."

The trap-door was lifted instantly, and Scoville was about to
descend.

"You mustn't do dat!" exclaimed Aun' Jinkey. "We's all in mis'ry
anuff now."

"I hope that in no sense I am the cause of it," said Scoville,
earnestly.

"Oh, no," replied Miss Lou, wiping her eyes hastily, "not directly.
Pardon me, I forgot for the moment that you were here. My trouble is
with my family, and you have nothing to do with it except as you
Yankees are coming South and making trouble of every kind."

"Well, Miss Baron," said the scout, regarding her sympathetically
through the open door, "it is too late to talk about our coming
South. Isn't there something I can do for you, to show my gratitude
and good-will?"

"Oh, no, indeed!"

"De bes' ting you kin do, Marse Scoville, is ter shet dat do' an'
kep still; den git back ter yo' folks soon ez you kin trabble. We
uns got des ez much ez we kin stan' up un'er, en ef dey foun' you
yere, hit ud be de worl' comin' ter smash."

"If Miss Baron would tell me her trouble, she might find that I am
not so powerless to help as I seem. Since she has done so much for
me, I have a certain kind of right to do what I can in return."

"You forget, sir, that we are strangers and aliens."

"No one is an alien to me from whom I am accepting life and safety,"
and his glance was so kind and friendly that, in her dire extremity,
she was induced to ask a question.

"If you feel that you owe anything to me," she said, hesitatingly,
"tell me truly, if your people came to this plantation, would our
home be burned and we all be in danger of insult and death?"

"Is that all you fear?" he asked, smiling.

"But answer me on your word and honor."

"No, Miss Baron, not from our regular troops. There are vile
wretches connected with all armies, on your side as well as ours,
who act without orders or any control except their lawless will. If
you and your friends are tortured by the fear of Northern soldiers,
should they come this way, you may set your mind comparatively at
rest. I must add, however, that our troops have to live off the
country, and so take food for man and beast. They also help
themselves to better horses when they find them. I have told you the
truth. Why, believe me, Miss Baron, I would defend you with my life
against any one."

"Oh, dear!" cried the girl, with another rush of tears, "my uncle
believes that our house will be burned and we all murdered, and they
are going to marry me to my cousin against my will, so that he can
take me to a place of safety."

"When?" asked Scoville, excitedly.

"To-morrow evening."

Aun' Jinkey in her trepidation had stepped to the door, and there,
sure enough, was Mrs. Baron coming down the path with her hand full
of crumpled muslins. She had appeared so silently and suddenly
before Chunk that he had started and stared at her. When he tried to
edge off toward the cabin, she had said, sharply, "Keep at your
work. What is the matter with you? I reckon your granny is smoking
instead of doing my work," and she hastened her steps to surprise
the supposed delinquent.

Entering the cabin, she saw only Aun' Jinkey ironing, and her niece
sitting with her handkerchief to her face. "Ah!" said the old lady
to her laundress, "I'm glad you realize the importance of doing my
work when it's needed." Then followed a few brief directions in
regard to the articles she had brought. "Louise, I wish you to come
with me. This is no place for you," concluded Mrs. Baron, turning to
depart.

The girl rose and followed submissively, for she was overwhelmed by
a confused sense of danger, not merely to the Union soldier, but
also to her old mammy, who was sheltering him. The extremity of her
fears and the fact that Chunk had not come to warn them led her to
dread that her aunt's suspicions were already aroused. Chunk gave
her a very anxious look as she passed, but she only shook her head
slightly, as much as to say, "I don't know."

The negro's elation and confidence now passed utterly; he became
deeply alarmed, not only for the scout, but for himself and
grandmother as well. He was not long in coming to a decision.
Whately and his troopers were absent, and now, perhaps, was the best
time to act. After satisfying himself that he was not observed, he
slipped away to the cabin.

When Mrs. Baron finally disappeared, Aun' Jinkey sank into a chair
almost in a state of collapse. "O good Lawd!" she gasped, "I des
tremblin' so in my knee-jints I kyant stan'."

"Courage, Aunt Jinkey," said Scoville, through the chink in the
floor. "Try to get Chunk here as soon as possible."

"I des done beat. I kyant lif my han' no mo'."

"Granny," said Chunk, sauntering in, "you des watch at de do'," and
without waiting for a word he went up the ladder, lifted the door
and closed it.

"Ah, Chunk, I wanted you badly," said Scoville. "Do you think it
possible for me to get away at once?"

"Dat des w'at I come ter see 'bout, mars'r, en I'se gwine wid you.
Marse Whately and he men all done gone till eb'nin'."

"Well, there's no need of further words. See what you can do about
getting horses and a good start. I will explain on the way. Hoot
like an owl when the coast is clear and you are ready."

A few moments later Chunk emerged from the cabin, with careless
mien, eating a pone of hoecake.

"Go back to yer work," shouted Perkins, who was passing in the
distance.

This Chunk did, his eyes following the overseer until the hated form
was lost to sight in a distant field where a squad of hands were at
work. Perkins was simply trying to be ubiquitous that day. Chunk's
next step was to steal to the rear of the stables. To his delight he
found that Whately had left his horse in order that it might rest
for further hard service, and had borrowed one of his uncle's
animals for the afternoon ride. As Chunk was stealthily putting on a
bridle, a gruff voice asked, "What yer doin' thar?"

The negro's heart stood still. Turning quickly, he saw, to his
dismay, one of the Confederate soldiers lying on a pile of straw. A
closer scrutiny revealed that the man was drowsy from partial
intoxication, and Chunk, feeling that he was in for it now, said
boldly: "Marse Whately tole me at dinner ter tek his hoss ter de run
fer a drink en ter limber his jints 'bout dis time in de eb'nin'."

"Very well; bring 'im back safe en sud'n or I'll make you a head
shorter'n you air."

"Ob co'se, mars'r, I do ez I tol'. I des ride ole bay down, too.
Mout ez well took 'im ter water de same time."

The soldier making no response Chunk slipped away with the horses,
trembling as if in an ague fit. Nothing was left for him now but to
get away and take his chances. Fortune in this instance, as it often
does, favored the bolder course. The Confederate soldier was
familiar with Chunk, since he had been the waiter at the troopers'
mess; moreover, his faculties were confused and blunted and he was
soon asleep again. Perkins' back was turned and every one at the
mansion deeply preoccupied. Even Zany, who had been charged not to
leave the dining-room, was not on the watch.

Chunk hastened the horses down the lane toward the run, which having
reached, he looked cautiously around, then hooted in fairly
successful imitation of the ominous bird of night. Aun' Jinkey
dropped into her chair again with an ejaculation of terror.

"Look out of the door and tell me if you see any one," said
Scoville, quickly.

Mechanically she obeyed, saying, "No, mars'r, but dat squinch-owl
des shook me like a ghos'."

Before she knew it he was beside her, his eyes shining with
excitement. "There," he said, putting into the hand he pressed a
ten-dollar bill, "I'll see you again, and you won't be sorry. Good-
by," and with a swift glance around he strode away toward the run. A
moment or two later he was mounted on the bare back of Mad Whately's
horse, following Chunk down the stream so that the flowing water
might obliterate the hoof-prints. They soon left the water and put
their horses to a gallop toward the forest, within whose shades they
disappeared. Both had deemed best not to tell Aun' Jinkey of their
departure, so that she might honestly plead ignorance.

With the unerring instinct of a scout the soldier led the way hour
after hour toward the point where he expected to find the Union
cavalry force. On the way he and Chunk compared notes, and thus
Scoville more truly understood Miss Lou's position. "We must be back
to-morrow afternoon," he said, "in time to prevent this marriage.
So, Chunk, be careful. You must not get sleepy or let your horse
stumble."

Leaving them to pursue their way to the northwest, we can return to
The Oaks. Miss Lou followed her aunt into the house, burdened for
the moment with a new and pressing anxiety. Did the resolute old
lady suspect that one of the class which she most detested had been
concealed within earshot of her voice, and would a search be
instituted? The girl's sympathies had gone out to the stranger, and
the fact that he so trusted her appealed strongly to her woman's
nature. In her alienation from her relatives she was peculiarly
isolated and lonely at just the period in life when she most craved
appreciative understanding, and her intuitions led her to believe
that this stranger could both understand and respect her feelings.
His genial, kindly smile warmed her sore, lonely heart, and
convinced her that there was a world of human affections and simple
faith as well as of imperious wills and formal beliefs. His words in
regard to himself and the North was another shock to her confidence
in her uncle and aunt, and another proof that there was no good
reason for the marriage they were forcing upon her.

For a brief time she watched with keen-eyed interest to see if her
aunt would take any steps to have Aun' Jinkey's cabin searched. Her
mind was soon relieved on this score, for she became convinced that
her uncle was distracted by various anxieties; while Mrs. Baron,
from force of habit and with the purpose of diverting her mind from
all she feared, was pursuing her preparations with restless energy,
keeping every one in her employ as busy as herself. It was evident
that her niece's idle hands and perturbed wanderings to and fro
annoyed her, and at last she broke out: "Louise, it would be much
more becoming in you to unite with me in my efforts. The idea of
your sitting and idly bemoaning your case in that foolish old
woman's cabin! I'm glad you had the grace to show obedience to me
before her, for this is a time when to our people the example of
obedience is most necessary, and you should be the first to set it
in all respects. It will only increase the trouble which your uncle
and Perkins are having if our people see that you are rebellious.
There is much that you should be doing and seeing to, for your uncle
says that it may be best for you to leave the plantation with Mrs.
Whately and her son immediately after your marriage."

"I am not married yet. I shall appeal to Aunt Whately, and if she
has a woman's heart she will not sanction the marriage."

"You will find that because she has a woman's heart, and a Baron's
heart, she will sanction it and insist upon it."

"We shall see," replied the girl, turning to go to her room.

"Louise, it is my wish that you should put your things in order to
be packed hastily, if need be."

Miss Lou made no answer.




CHAPTER IX

PARALYZED WITH SHAME


So far from obeying her aunt's injunctions, Miss Lou sat down by her
window, but she did not note the smiling spring landscape over which
the western sun was throwing its long, misty rays. Tears so blurred
her eyes and blinded her vision that she could scarcely see at all.
At last she was aroused by the crunching of wheels, and became aware
that Mrs. Whately had arrived. From what she knew of this aunt she
had a good deal of hope from her appeal, for Mrs. Whately had always
seemed a kind-hearted woman. True, she had been over-indulgent to
her son, and, in her blind idolatry of this only child, blind to his
faults, always comforting herself with the belief that he was merely
high-spirited and would settle down when he grew older.

Miss Lou wished to speak to the mother before the son returned, and
in the hope of securing a merciful ally in the lady, went down
immediately to receive her. Mr. Baron was on the back porch calling,
"Chunk, where in the mischief are you?" Where, indeed, with the
start he had gained for the Union lines?

"My dear niece," cried Mrs. Whately, effusively, "how glad I am to
see you, and to take you in my arms on this deeply interesting
occasion!" but the matron was troubled at the girl's red eyes and
pallid face.

"I will show you to your room at once," said Mrs. Baron to her
guest, decisively and significantly.

Miss Lou was right in believing that the situation and the unhappy
appearance of the prospective bride would be explained. She had been
forestalled in her chance to make an appeal. Mrs. Baron emphatically
sustained her husband's purpose, concluding: "My dear sister, in
this crisis you will have to take a firm stand with the rest of us.
Louise is acting like a perverse child, and no more realizes the
necessity and wisdom of our course than a baby."

Meantime the outcry for Chunk increased, and Miss Lou was troubled
that he did not respond. Taking advantage of the fact that her
mistress was upstairs, Zany stole swiftly, with many a misgiving, to
Aun' Jinkey's cabin.

"Whar dat gran'boy o' you'n?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Ain' he in de gyardin?"

"No, he ain'. Does you KNOW whar he is? Bettah tell me de truf. Mout
sabe you a heap ob trouble."

"Des you min' yo' business, en doan cum trapesin' yere 'bout Chunk.
You talks ez ef you own 'im."

"Ole mars'r tinks he own 'im, en he des a yellin' fer 'im. De
oberseer hollerin', too, en de lil niggahs runnin' yere, dar, en
yander lookin' fer 'im. Yere one ob um now."

With new and direful forebodings Aun' Jinkey declared loudly: "I
doan know what he be. He ain' say not'n ter me 'bout gwine anywhar."

Uttering an angry and contemptuous exclamation, Zany sped back, and,
with a scared look, said to Miss Lou, "Aun' Jinkey 'clar she dunno
not'n 'bout Chunk's doin's. Ef she ain' foolin' me, I des belebe
he's runned away."

At these tidings and at this suggestion the young girl was almost
distracted. She went instantly to the cabin, supposing that it would
soon be searched.

"Mammy!" she exclaimed, "where's Chunk?"

"Fo' de Lawd, honey, I doan know. I des gwine all ter pieces wid de
goin's on."

"But people will be here looking. Is he up there?" asked the girl in
a whisper.

"No, he des lit out two hour ago, en he guv me dis" (showing the
money), "en say he see me agin. I'se feared he'n Chunk gwine off
togeder."

"Well, you don't know. Hide the money and declare you don't know
anything. I'll stand by you as far as I can."

As she hastened back she saw a Confederate soldier running toward
the house and Perkins limping after him as fast as possible.
Entering the rear door she heard the soldier demanding fiercely of
her uncle, "Where's that cursed nigger you call Chunk?"

"Whom are you addressing, sir?" asked Mr. Baron, indignantly.

"Well, see yere, boss," was the excited reply, "this ere ain't no
time fer standin' on nice words. That cursed nigger o' your'n took
the lieutenant's horse ter the run fer a drink, an one o' your'n
'long of him, en me en Perkins kyant find nary one of 'em."

"Yes, sir," added Perkins in great wrath, "we uns follered the hoof-
prints ter the run en inter the water, en there's no hoof-prints
comin' back. That infernal nigger has lit out with the two horses."

"Why don't you go after him then?" shouted Mr. Baron, distracted
with anger and accumulating perplexities. "He can't be far yet."

"I'd like ter see the hoss on this place that could ketch the
lieutenant's black mare. Oh, why didn't I shoot the nigger?" and the
soldier strode up and down as if demented.

"You deserve to be shot yourself, sir, if you, who had been placed
on guard, permitted that black rascal to take the horses."

"Yes," replied the soldier, desperately, "en the lieutenant is ther
man ter shoot me--cuss his red-hot blood!" and he stalked away
toward the stables as if possessed by a sudden resolve.

Turning to enter the house, Mr. Baron encountered his niece, who had
been a witness to the scene, which explained everything to her. "You
see, you see," cried the old man, "everything going to rack and
ruin! Would to Heaven you could be married to-night and sent away to
a place of safety!"

"Uncle," said the girl, almost fiercely, "did you not hear that man
say of my cousin, 'curse his red-hot blood'? Is that the kind of a
protector you would force upon me?"

"Yes," almost shouted the angry man, "because he has the spirit to
deal justly with such reprobates. He's just the kind of protector
you need in these lurid times, when it seems as if no one could be
trusted. To think that that boy Chunk, who has been treated so well,
could play us such an infernal trick! His old crone of a grandam
must know something about it, and I'll make her tell. Perkins!" and
Mr. Baron rushed toward the door again.

The ladies had now descended and joined the excited group on the
veranda. Zany was listening with craned neck from the dining-room
door, and other "yard folks," great and small, were gathering also.

"What IS the matter?" cried Mrs. Baron.

Paying no heed to her, Mr. Baron said to his overseer, "Aun' Jinkey
must know about this rascally flight and theft. Bring her here."

"Uncle," said Miss Lou, firmly, "Aun' Jinkey doesn't know anything
about Chunk's disappearance. I've been to her cabin and asked her."

"As if the cunning old witch would tell you anything! Bring her
here, I say, Perkins. It's time the spirit of insubordination on
this place received a wholesome check."

"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, "it seems but a little while ago that
Chunk was working quietly in the garden."

"En I reckon hit ain't much more'n two hours gone sence I seed 'im
comin' out o' the cabin, lazin' and eatin' hoe-cake," added Perkins
as he started angrily to obey his orders.

"He had mischief in his mind, though, now I think of it." resumed
Mrs. Baron, "for he seemed startled when he saw me, and tried to
edge away to the cabin. I thought he was afraid I would catch his
granny smoking instead of doing urgent work. Louise, you were in the
cabin at the time. Why should Chunk be so anxious to get there
before I did?"

"I have not spoken to him this afternoon, and know nothing of his
movements except what I have heard," replied the girl, coldly.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Whately, "what troublous times we've
fallen upon!"

In the silence which followed they heard the gallop of a horse. A
moment later a negro came running up and exclaiming, "Dat sojer in
de stable des saddle he hoss en put out ez ef de debil wuz arter
'im!"

Miss Lou smiled bitterly as she thought, "He evidently doesn't think
it wise to wait for my protector."

At this moment Mad Whately appeared cantering smartly up the avenue
at the head of his men. Throwing his reins to a colored boy, he
strode smilingly up the steps, exclaiming, "Why, this is a regular
committee of reception. I am doubled honored since my fair cousin is
present also."

Miss Lou made no reply, and the expression on all faces led him to
ask quickly, "Why, what's the matter?"

The young man's brow grew black as Mr. Baron gave a hasty
explanation. A half-suppressed oath rose to his lips as he turned on
his heel and shouted to his men, "Halt, there! Let every man mount
and await orders. Simson, you and two others follow the guard I left
with my horse. Where's that nigger who saw him start? Here, you, put
these men on his track as you value your life! Simson, take him,
dead or alive!"

The men saluted, and departed at once. The galloping of their horses
soon died away in the distance. "Now for this beldam," said Whately,
sternly, as Aun' Jinkey approached, tottering in her excess of fear
and accompanied by Perkins.

Miss Lou saw that her cousin was terribly excited; indeed, that he
fairly trembled with passion. She was scarcely less stirred herself,
for she possessed much of the hot blood of her kindled, and during
the last twenty-four hours nearly all that had, occurred tended to
fire her spirit. Now that she saw her own dear old mammy led
cowering under the hostile eyes of every one, she was almost beside
herself with pity and anger. Unaccustomed to conventional restraint,
reacting from long years of repression, a child still in some
respects, in others a passionate woman revolting at a fate from
which her whole nature shrank, she was carried far above and beyond
her normal condition, and was capable of following her impulses,
whatever they might be.

Aun' Jinkey turned her eyes appealingly, and was awed, even in that
terrible moment, by the intensity of the girl's expression, as she
half consciously drew nearer and nearer. The field-hands, deeply
excited, had also edged up from the quarters. Mr. Baron and his
overseer observed yet tolerated this, thinking that it might be just
as well to have the negroes learn from Aun' Jinkey's experience that
authority would still be sternly enforced.

Whately's headlong temperament was so overcome by anger that he
noted nothing except the presence of one whom he believed the aider
and abetter in his great loss, for a favorite and trusty horse is
one of the dearest possessions of a cavalryman.

"Where's your grandson?" he demanded, fiercely.

"'Fo' de Lawd, I dunno," gasped Aun' Jinkey.

"The truth, now, or you'll be sorry."

"I dunno, I dunno. Ef he gone, he ain' say neber a word ter me, not
eben good-by."

"No use of your lying. You knew the rascal's purpose. Why didn't you
tell Mr. Baron? Which way did he go?"

"I des declar, mars'r, I dunno."

"You DO know," cried Whately, driven almost to frenzy, "and I'll cut
the truth out of you."

His whip fell before he could arrest it, but it struck the arm and
shoulder of Miss Lou. She had drawn very near, and, swift as light,
had sprung forward and encircled the form of her mammy. There were
startled exclamations from those near, echoed by a groan from the
negroes, and then the girl spoke in stern, deep tones, "You thought
to strike ONE woman, and you have struck TWO."

Whately dropped his whip and stood with bowed head, paralyzed with
shame. There were wild cries and a swaying of the field-hands toward
the house. The mounted soldiers drew their revolvers and looked from
the thronging black faces to that of their commander, but he paid no
heed to them. Perkins did not wait, however, but drawing his weapon,
began to limp toward the threatening mass, with oaths and orders to
disperse. As for Mr. Baron and the ladies, they were just helpless
in the whirl of events.

Although Miss Lou's back was toward this new phase of the drama, she
instantly and instinctively comprehended it. With a fear almost
hereditary, as well as one vaguely dreaded from childhood, she
recognized the possible horrors of an insurrection, her own action
the indirect cause. She turned and sprang forward so swiftly to
interpose that her comb fell away, and her golden hair streamed
behind her. She stood between the blacks and those who could harm
them; also those whom, in their wild excitement, they were ready to
attack.

"Silence!" she cried; then in the deep hush that followed she called
out, in clear, ringing tones: "Every friend of mine will go back to
quarters, keep quiet, and obey orders. I promise that no harm shall
come to any of you."

The men doffed their ragged hats, and a voice from the crowd
answered, "We 'bey you, Miss Lou, en we won' let no harm come ter
you, noder." Then as the dense, angry mass of a hundred or more men
and women melted away toward the quarters, it was seen that many a
heavy club was carried among them. Miss Lou watched them silently
two or three moments, the rest looking on in wonder and suppressed
anger mingled with fear. The girl returned, and taking her mammy by
the hand, was about to lead her into the house. Whately started as
she essayed to pass him unheedingly, and seized her hand. "Lou,
Cousin Lou, forgive me!" he cried. "You know I meant you no such
indignity."

"I know you mean me a greater one," she replied, coldly, withdrawing
her hand.

"See! I ask your forgiveness on my knees!" he urged, passionately.

But her heart was steeled against him, for her very soul was hot
with indignation. "Come, mammy," she said, firmly, "such shelter and
protection as I still have in this house you shall share."

"Louise, this is monstrous!" began Mrs. Baron.

"NO!" cried the girl. "This poor creature is the nearest approach I
have ever known to a mother. She doesn't know about her grandson,
and no one shall try to cut the truth out of her. Come, mammy," and
she led the trembling old negress up to her room. When hidden from
all eyes her courage and excitement gave way, and she cried on her
mammy's breast like the child she was.




CHAPTER X

A BAFFLED DIPLOMATIST


Miss Lou left consternation, confusion and deep anxiety below
stairs. Mad Whately had his own code of ethics, and he felt as if he
had committed the unpardonable sin. His mother was shocked and
pained beyond measure. She understood the feelings of her son, and
sympathized with him. Drawing him into the parlor, she soothed and
cheered him with the assurance that when his cousin's anger passed
she would explain and intercede.

"Oh, mother!" he exclaimed, "I did love her honestly before, but now
I adore her. I must marry her, and by a lifetime of devotion wipe
out the wrong I did not intend to inflict."

"It will all come about right yet, my boy," she whispered. "I never
understood Louise before. I fear they have been too strict and
unsympathetic in her bringing up, and so she has naturally rebelled
against all their plans. You didn't think at the time--indeed, in
our excitement we all forgot--that Aun' Jinkey was her mammy, and
you know how strong that tie is, even in your case, and you have
always had a mother's love."

"Oh, fool, fool that I was in my mad anger! Brave, grand, heroic
girl! I'd have done as much for my old mammy; or rather I'd have
struck down a general before he should harm her. Oh, mother,
mother!" concluded the much-indulged youth, "I must marry her. She
is just the bride for a soldier."

"Rather than have her fall into the hands of the enemy, we will lead
her to see that it is the only thing to be done," replied Mrs.
Whately.

Perkins had a consultation with Mr. Baron, as far as that
desperately perturbed old gentleman was capable of holding one, the
result of which was the decision to let the negroes alone, provided
they kept quiet and obeyed. It was evident to both of them that the
approach of Union forces, though yet comparatively distant, had
produced the usual demoralizing effects. The government at The Oaks
had not been harsh, but it had been strict and animated by a spirit
which alienated sympathy. The situation was now seen to be too
critical to admit of severity, all the more as the protection of
Whately and his troopers might soon be withdrawn.

It was a silent and depressing meal to which they sat down that
evening, long after the accustomed hour, a fact which Mr. Baron
would not forget, even in the throes of an earthquake. He groaned
over it; he groaned over everything, and especially over his niece,
who had suddenly developed into the most unmanageable element in the
whole vexed problem of the future. He felt that they owed her very
much, and that she held the balance of power through her influence
over the negroes; and yet he was incensed that she was not meek and
submissive as a young woman should be under all circumstances. An
angry spot burned in each of Mrs. Baron's cheeks, for she felt that
Miss Lou's conduct reflected very unfavorably on her bringing up.
She was so scandalized and vexed that she could scarcely think of
anything else. Mrs. Whately was all deprecation and apology, trying
to pour oil on the troubled waters in every way, while her son was
as savagely angry at himself as he had been at poor Aun' Jinkey and
her grandson.

Most fortunately the main feature in the case remained undiscovered.
The fact that a Union scout had been hidden and permitted to depart
would have been another bombshell, and the consequences of its
explosion would have been equally hard to predict or circumscribe.
As it was, Miss Lou and Aun' Jinkey received a certain remorseful
sympathy which they would have forfeited utterly had the truth been
revealed. And the secret did tremble on the lips of Zany. She was
not only greatly aggrieved that Chunk had "runned away" after all,
without her, and had become a sort of hero among his own kind on the
plantation, but she also felt keenly her own enforced insignificance
when she knew so much more than that Chunk had merely decamped. Her
mistress little dreamed, as the girl waited stolidly and sullenly on
the table, that she was so swelling with her secret as to be like a
powder magazine. But fear rather than faith finally sealed Zany's
lips. She was aware that the first question asked would be, "If you
knew so much, why didn't YOU tell?" and she could give no reason
which would save her from condign punishment. Moreover, she hoped
that Chunk would soon return with no end of "Linkum men," and then
her silence would be rewarded.

Supper was sent up to Miss Lou and her guest, and the old woman,
having at last some sense of security, made her first good meal
since "things began to happen." Then she hankered after her pipe.
"I'll get it for you," said the warm-hearted girl. She stole to the
head of the landing, and, the hall below being clear at the moment,
she flitted down and out at the back door, reaching the deserted
cabin unobserved. How desolate it looked in the fading twilight! The
fire was out on the hearth, and the old creaking chair was empty.
But Miss Lou did not think of Aun' Jinkey. Her thoughts were rather
of a stranger whose face had been eloquent of gratitude as he
offered to shield her with his life. Then she remembered his excited
question as to the time of the marriage. "When?"