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.
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.
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.
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?"