Books: Miss Lou
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E. P. Roe >> Miss Lou
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25 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--"
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