Books: Miss Lou
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E. P. Roe >> Miss Lou
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All smiled at her words, and Ackley remarked to one of the Union
surgeons, "Dr. Borden, I thought our men could hold their own pretty
well with the Army in Flanders, but you Yanks, I reckon, surpass all
military organizations, past or present. There was one man
especially who fairly made the night lurid and left a sulphurous
odor after him when he was brought in. It would be rather rough on
us all if we were where he consigned us with a vim that was
startling. I certainly hope that Miss Baron is not compelled to hear
any such language."
"I appeal to Miss Baron herself," said Dr. Borden, "if she has been
offended in this respect to-day?"
"No, indeed, I have not," replied the girl indignantly. "I never was
treated with more courtesy. I have not heard a rough word from the
Yankees even when they did not know I was near, and that is more
than I can say of our own men. Fight the Yankees all you please, but
don't do them injustice."
In spite of the girl's flushed, incensed face, there was an
explosion of laughter. "Pardon me, Miss Baron," said Ackley, "but
you can't know how droll your idea of injustice to the Yankees seems
to us. That you have such an idea, however, is a credit to you and
to them also, for they must have been behaving themselves
prodigiously."
"Yes, Dr. Ackley," replied Borden emphatically, "Miss Baron's
impressions ARE a credit to her and to my patients. They promptly
recognized her motives and character, and for her sake they pledged
themselves that while here, where she is one of the nurses, they
would not use language at any time which they would not have their
mothers hear. That very man you speak of, who swore so last night,
believes himself dying from his effort at self-restraint. This is
not true, for he would have died anyhow, but his death is hastened
by his effort. He has been in agony all day. Opiates make him worse,
so there is no use of giving them. But I can tell you, no man in
your Confederacy ever did a braver thing than he is doing this
minute to show his respect for this young lady who has shown
kindness to his comrades. I can assure you, Lieutenant Whately, that
you need have no fears about your cousin when visiting my patients."
"What's the name of the soldier of whom you speak?" Miss Lou asked
eagerly.
"He is called Yarry. I don't know any other name yet--been so busy
dressing wounds."
"Thank you," faltered the girl, rising, her face showing signs of
strong emotion.
"Oh, Louise! finish your supper," expostulated Mrs. Whately. "You
must not let these scenes take so strong a hold"--but she was out of
hearing. "I fear it's all going to be too much for her," sighed the
lady in conclusion.
Mr. Baron and his wife exchanged grim glances from the head and foot
of the table, as much as to say, "She has shaken off our control and
we are not responsible," but Ackley remarked, "I agree with you, Dr.
Borden, that it's fine to see a girl show such a spirit, and I
congratulate you that your men are capable of appreciating it. By
the way, Mrs. Whately, I have put her, with you, in charge of young
Waldo and truly hope that among us we can bring him through."
"Mrs. Whately," said Captain Maynard, "I reckon more than one of us
begin to regret already that we were not so desperately wounded as
to need your attention and that of Miss Baron. We must remember,
however, that she is not accustomed to these scenes, and I think we
must try to make her forget them at the table. I suppose in the
kindness of her heart she is now crying in her room over that
Yankee." Whately shot a savage glance at the speaker which plainly
implied, "It's none of your business where she is." Suddenly rising,
he departed also, his mother's eyes following him anxiously.
Miss Lou was not crying in her room. As the level rays of the sun
shone into the wide old barn, making the straw in a mow doubly
golden, and transforming even the dusty cobwebs into fairy lacework,
she crossed the threshold and paused for the first time in her
impulsive haste to find and thank the dying man of whom she had been
told. All eyes turned wonderingly toward her as she stood for a
moment in the sunshine, as unconscious of herself, of the marvellous
touch of beauty bestowed by the light and her expression, as if she
had flown from the skies.
"Is there a soldier here named Yarry?" she began, then uttered a
little inarticulate cry as she saw Captain Hanfield kneeling beside
a man to whom all eyes directed her. "Oh, it's he," she sobbed,
kneeling beside him also. "As soon as I heard I felt it was he who
told me not to worry about him. Is--is he really dying?"
"Yes, I hope so, Miss Baron," replied the captain gravely. "He
couldn't live and it's time he had rest."
The girl bent over the man, her hot tears falling on his face. He
opened his eyes and looked vacantly at her for a moment or two, then
smiled in recognition. It was the most pathetic smile she had ever
imagined. "Don't worry," he whispered, "I'm just dozin' off."
"Oh, my poor, brave hero!" she said brokenly, "I know, I know it
all. God reward you, I can't."
"Don't want no reward. I be--say, miss, don't wear--yourself--out
fer us."
She took his cold hand and bowed her forehead upon it, sobbing aloud
in the overpowering sense of his self-forgetfulness. "O God!" she
cried, "do for this brave, unselfish man what I cannot. When, WHEN
can I forget such a thing as this! Oh, live, please live; we will
take such good care of you."
"There, there, little one, don't--take on--so about--me. Ain't wuth
it. I be--Say, I feel better--easier. Glad--you spoke--good word to
God--for me. I be--I mean, I think--He'll hear--sech as you. I'm--
off now. Don't--wear--yourself--"
Even in her inexperience she saw that he was dying, and when his
gasping utterance ceased she had so supported his head that it fell
back on her bosom. For a few moments she just cried helplessly,
blinded with tears. Then she felt the burden of his head removed and
herself lifted gently.
"I suspected something like this when you left the table, Miss
Baron," said Dr. Borden.
"Oh, oh, oh, I feel as if he had died for me," she sobbed.
"He would a died for you, miss," said Tom, drawing his sleeve across
his eyes, "so would we all."
"Miss Baron," resumed the doctor gravely, "remember poor Yarry's
last words, 'Don't wear yourself--he couldn't finish the sentence,
but you know what he meant. You must grant the request of one who
tried to do what he could for you. As a physician also I must warn
you to rest until morning. You can do more for these men and others
by first doing as Yarry wished," and he led her away.
They had not gone far before they met Uncle Lusthah. The girl
stopped and said, "Doctor, won't you let Uncle Lusthah bury him to-
morrow down by the run? I'll show him the place."
"Yes, Miss Baron, we all will do anything you wish if you only rest
to-night. I tell you frankly you endanger yourself and your chance
to do anything more for the wounded by continuing the strain which
these scenes put upon you."
"I reckon you're right," she said, "I feel as if I could hardly
stand."
"I know. Take my arm and go at once to your room."
On the way they encountered Whately. "Cousin! where on earth have
you been? You look ready to faint."
His presence and all that he implied began to steady her nerves at
once, but she made no reply.
"She has witnessed a painful scene, Lieutenant," began the surgeon.
"You have no business to permit her to witness such scenes," Whately
interrupted sternly. "You should see that she's little more than an
inexperienced child and--"
"Hush, sir," said Miss Lou. "Who has given you the right to dictate
to me or to this gentleman? I'm in no mood for any more such words,
cousin. To-day, at least, no one has taken advantage of my
inexperience. Good-evening," and she passed on, leaving him chafing
in impatient anger and protest.
At the house Mrs. Whately began expostulations also, but the girl
said, "Please don't talk to me now. By and by I will tell you what
will touch all the woman in your heart."
"I earnestly suggest," added Dr. Borden, "that you take Miss Baron
to her room, and that nothing more be said to disturb her. She is
overwrought and has reached the limit of endurance."
The lady had the tact to acquiesce at once. After reaching her room
Miss Lou exclaimed, "But I have not been to young Waldo."
"I have," replied her aunt, "and will see him again more than once
before I retire. Louise, if you would not become a burden yourself
at this time you must do as the doctor says."
Within an hour the girl was sleeping and her nature regaining the
strength and elasticity of youth.
As Whately stood fuming where his cousin had left him, Perkins
approached for the first time since they had parted in anger the
night before.
"I reck'n Miss Baron's gone over ter the inemy," remarked the
overseer.
"What do you mean?"
"Look yere, Leftenant, what's the use o' you bein' so gunpowdery
with me? What's the use, I say? I mout be of some use ter you ef you
wuz civil."
"Of what use were you last night? You allowed my prisoner to be
carried off right under your nose."
"Who carried 'im off? Answer that."
"Why, some gawk of a Yank that you were too stupid to tell from me."
"P'raps hit was, p'raps hit wasn't."
"Who else could it be?"
"I s'picion who it was, but I'm not goin' ter talk to one who's got
nothin' better to give me 'n uggly words."
"You don't mean to say--"
"I don't mean to say nothin' till I know who I'm talkin' ter."
Whately gave a long, low whistle and then muttered "Impossible!"
"Oh, sut'ny," remarked Perkins ironically.
The two men gave each other a long searching look; then Perkins
resumed, "That's right, Leftenant, take yer bearin's. I don't see ez
you kin do me any special good, ner harm nuther. Ef yer want no news
or help from me, we kin sheer off right yere en now."
"I say your suspicion is absurd," resumed Whately, as if arguing
with himself. "When the alarm, caused by firing, came last night, it
happened she was in her room and was badly frightened."
"What time did the alarm happen?"
"About two o'clock."
"Wal, about midnight a figger that favored you 'mazingly, yes, ter
yer very walk, came up boldly en sez ter me, nodding at the Yank,
'Leave 'im ter me.' The figger wasn't jes' dressed like you in
'Federate uniform, but I kin a'most swear the figger had on them
clo's and that hat you're a wearin' now; arm in sling, too. What's
mo', when I thought hit over I was cock sure the figger wuz
shorter'n you air. I don't believe there's a Yank livin' that could
a fooled me last night, 'less he had yer clo's on en yer walk."
"My uniform and hat hung on the chairs beside me, just where they
had been put when I went to sleep."
"Jes' tell me ef the do' o' yer room wuz locked."
"I wasn't in a room. I slept at the end of the hall."
"Then enybody could git 'em en put 'em back while you wuz asleep."
"She couldn't knock you senseless. You're talking wild."
"I've schemed that out. Thar's tracks in the gyardin not so blinded
but they kin give a hint ter a blind hoss. Thar's a track nigh whar
I fell mighty like what that infernal nigger Chunk ud make. Beyond,
ez ef some uns had hidden in the bushes, right in the gyarden bed,
air two little woman-like tracks en two men tracks."
Whately ground his teeth and muttered an oath.
"I don't s'pose I kin prove anything 'clusive," resumed Perkins, "en
I don't s'pose it ud be best ef I could. Ef she was up ter such
deviltry, of co'se you don't want hit gen'ly known. Bigger ossifers
'n you ud have ter notice it. Ef I was in yu shoes howsomever, in
huntin' shy game, I could use sech a clar s'picion agin her en be
mo' on my gyard inter the bargain."
"I can use it and will," said Whately, sternly. "Perkins, keep your
eyes wide open in my behalf. If that Yankee or Chunk ever come
within our reach again--the nigger stole my horse and brought the
Yank here too in time to prevent the wedding, I believe."
"Reck'n he did, Leftenant."
"Well, he and his master may be within our reach again. We had
better not be seen much together. I will reward you well for any
real service," and he strode away in strong perturbation.
"Hang your reward," muttered Perkins. "You think you're goin' ter
use me when the boot's on t'other foot. You shall pay me fer doin'
my work. I couldn't wish the gal nuthin' worse than ter marry you.
That ud satisfy my grudge agin her, but ef I get my claws on that
nigger en dom'neerin' Yank of a master"--his teeth came together
after the grim fashion of a bulldog, by way of completing his
soliloquy.
The spring evening deepened from twilight into dusk, the moon rose
and shone with mild radiance over the scene that had abounded in
gloom, tragedy and adventure the night before. The conflict which
then had taken place now caused the pathetic life-and-death
struggles occurring in and about the old mansion. In the onset of
battle muscle and the impulse to destroy dominated; now the heart,
with its deep longings, its memories of home and kindred, the soul
with its solemn thoughts of an unknown phase of life which might be
near, came to the fore, rendering the long, doubtful straggle
complex indeed.
The stillness was broken only by the steps and voices of attendants
and the irrepressible groans of those who watched for the day with
hope that waxed and waned as the case might be. Uncle Lusthah
yearned over the Federal wounded with a great pity, the impression
that they were suffering for him and his people banishing sleep. He
hovered among them all night long, bringing water to fevered lips
and saying a word of Christian cheer to any who would listen.
Miss Lou wakened with the dawn and recognized with gladness that her
strength and courage for work had been restored. Even more potent
than thoughts of Scoville was the impulse to be at work again,
especially among those with whom she inevitably associated him.
Dressing hastily, she went first to see the old Confederate colonel.
He was evidently failing fast Ackley and an attendant were watching
him. He looked at the girl, smiled and held out his hand. She took
it and sat down beside him.
"Ah!" he said feebly, "this is a good deal better than dying alone.
Would you mind, my child, writing some things I would like to say to
my family?"
Miss Lou brought her portfolio and tearfully received his dying
messages.
"Poor little girl!" said the colonel, "you are witnessing scenes
very strange to you. Try to keep your heart tender and womanly, no
matter what you see. Such tears as yours reveal the power to help
and bless, not weakness. I can say to YOU all the sacred, farewell
words which would be hard to speak to others."
Brokenly, with many pauses from weakness, he dictated his last
letter, and she wrote his words as well as she could see to do so.
"They will be all the sweeter and more soothing for your tears, my
dear," he said.
He kept up with wonderful composure until he came to his message to
"little Hal," his youngest child. Then the old soldier broke down
and reached out his arms in vain yet irrepressible longing. "Oh, if
I could kiss the little fellow just once before--" he moaned.
For a few moments he and the girl at his side just wept together,
and then the old man said almost sternly, "Tell him to honor his
mother and his God, to live for the South, for which his father
died. Say, if he will do this he shall have my blessing, not
without. Now, my child, I trust this letter to you. Good-by and God
bless you. I wish to be alone a little while and face the last enemy
calmly."
As she knelt down and kissed him tears again rushed to his eyes and
he murmured, "That was good and sweet of you, my child. Keep your
heart simple and tender as it is now. Good-by."
Returning to her room with the portfolio she met her cousin in the
upper hall. He fixed his eyes searchingly upon her and with the air
of one who knew very much began, "Cousin Lou, my eyes are not so
often blinded with tears as yours, yet they see more perhaps than
you are aware of. I'm willing to woo you as gallantly as can any
man, but you've got to keep some faith with me as the representative
of our house and of the cause which, as a Southern girl, should be
first always in its claims."
Her heart fluttered, for his words suggested both knowledge and a
menace. At the same time the scenes she had passed through,
especially the last, lifted her so far above his plane of life that
she shrank from him with something very like contempt.
"Do you know what I have been writing?" she asked sternly.
"I neither know nor care. I only wish you to understand that you
cannot trifle with me nor wrong me with impunity."
"Oh!" she cried, with a strong repellant gesture, "why can't YOU see
and understand? You fairly make me loathe the egotism which, in
scenes like these, can think only of self. As if I had either time
or inclination to be trifling with you, whatever you mean by that.
Brave men are dying heroically and unselfishly, thinking of others,
while 'I, me and gallant wooing,' combined with vague threats
against one whom you are in honor bound to protect, are the only
words on your lips. How can you be so unmanly? What are you,
compared with that noble old colonel whose last words I have just
received? If you care a straw for my opinion, why are you so foolish
as to compel me to draw comparisons? Do, for manhood's sake, forget
yourself for once."
He was almost livid from rage as he replied harshly, "You'll rue
these words!"
She looked at him scornfully as she said, "It's strange, but your
words and expression remind me of Perkins. He might make you a good
ally."
In his confusion and anger he blurted out, "Little wonder you think
of him. You and that accursed nigger, Chunk--"
"Hush!" she interrupted in a low, imperious voice, "hush, lest as
representative of our house you disgrace yourself beyond hope." And
she passed quickly to her room.
Within less than an hour he was asking himself in bitter self-
upbraiding, "What have I gained? What can I do? Prefer charges
against my own cousin which I cannot prove? Impossible!--Oh, I've
been a fool again. I should have kept that knowledge secret till I
could use it for a definite purpose. I'll break her spirit yet."
If he had seen her after she reached her room he might have thought
it broken then. Vague dread of the consequences of an act which,
from his words, she believed he knew far more about than he did,
mingled with her anger and feelings of repugnance. "Oh," she moaned,
"it was just horrible; it was coming straight down from the sublime
to the contemptible. That noble old colonel took me to the very gate
of heaven. Now I'm fairly trembling with passion and fear. Oh, why
will Cousin Mad always stir up the very worst of my feelings! I'd
rather suffer and die as poor Yarry did than marry a man who WILL
think only of his little self at such a time as this!"
CHAPTER XXVII
AUN' JINKEY'S SUPREME TEST
The first long tragic day of hospital experience had so absorbed
Miss Lou as to relegate into the background events which a short
time before had been beyond her wildest dreams. In the utter
negation of her life she had wished that something would happen, and
so much had happened and so swiftly that she was bewildered. The
strangest thing of all was the change in herself. Lovers of the
Whately and Maynard type could only repel by their tactics. She was
too high-spirited to submit to the one, and too simple and sincere,
still too much of a child, to feel anything but annoyance at the
sentimental gallantry of the other. The genial spirit of comradeship
in Scoville, could it have been maintained through months of
ordinary life, would probably have prepared the way for deeper
feeling on the part of both, but there had been no time for the
gradual development of goodwill and friendly understanding into
something more. They had been caught in an unexpected whirl of
events and swept forward into relations utterly unforeseen. He owed
his escape from much dreaded captivity and his very life to her,
and, as he had said, these facts, to her generous nature, were even
more powerful in their influence than if she herself had received
the priceless favors. At the same time, her course toward him,
dictated at first by mere humanity, then goodwill, had made his
regard for her seem natural even to her girlish heart. If she had
read it all in a book, years before, she would have said, "A man
couldn't do less than love one when fortune had enabled her to do so
much for him." So she had simply approved of his declaration, down
by the run, of affection for which she was not yet ready, and she
approved of him all the more fondly because he did not passionately
and arbitrarily demand or expect that she should feel as he did, in
return. "I didn't," she had said to herself a score of times, "and
that was enough for him."
When later, for his sake, she faced the darkness of midnight, a
peril she dared not contemplate, and the cruel misjudgment which
would follow her action if discovered, something deeper awoke in her
nature--something kindled into strong, perplexing life when, in his
passionate gratitude, he had snatched her in his arms and, as she
had said, "given her his whole heart because he couldn't help
himself." From that moment, on her part there had been no more
merely kind, tranquil thoughts about Scoville, but a shy, trembling,
blushing self-consciousness even when in solitude his image rose
before her.
As she sought to regain composure after the last interview with her
cousin, and to think of her best course in view of what seemed his
dangerous knowledge, a truth, kept back thus far by solemn and
absorbing scenes, suddenly became dear to her. The spirit of all-
consuming selfishness again manifested by Whately, revealed as never
before the gulf of abject misery into which she would have fallen as
his wife. "If it hadn't been for Lieutenant Scoville I might now
have been his despairing bond slave," she thought; "I might have
been any way if the Northern officer were any other kind of a man,
brutal, coarse, as I had been led to expect, or even indifferent and
stupid. I might have been forced into relations from which I could
not escape and then have learned afterward what noble, unselfish men
there are in the world. Oh, I COULD marry Allan Scoville, I could
love him and devote my life to him wholly, knowing all the time that
I needn't protect myself, because he would always be a kinder,
truer, better protector. How little I have done for him compared
with that from which he has saved me!"
There was a knock at the door and Zany quickly entered. "I des slip
off while ole miss in de sto'-room, ter gib you a warnin', Miss Lou.
Hain't had no charnce till dis minit. Dat ar ole fox, Perkins, been
snoopin' roun' yistidy arter we un's tracks en las' night he tell
Mad Whately a heap ob his 'jecterin'."
"But, Zany," said Miss Lou, "you don't think they KNOW anything."
"Reck'n hit's all des 'jecterin'," Zany replied. "Kyant be nufin'
else. We des got ter face hit out. Doan you fear on me. We uns mus'
des star stupid-like ef dey ax questions," and she whisked off
again.
The girl felt that the spirit of Zany's counsel would be the best
policy to adopt. While she might not "star stupid-like," she could
so coldly ignore all reference to Scoville's escape as to embarrass
any one who sought to connect her with it. In the clearer
consciousness of her feeling toward the Union officer her heart grew
glad and strong at the thought of the service she had rendered him,
nor did it shrink at suffering for his sake. A gratitude quite as
strong as his own now possessed her that he had been the means of
keeping her from a union dreaded even as an ignorant child, and now
known, by the love which made her a woman, to be earthly perdition.
"Having escaped that," she reflected, "there's nothing else I
greatly fear," and she went down to breakfast resolving that she
would be so faithful in her duties as a nurse that no one in
authority would listen to her cousin or Perkins if they sought to
make known their surmises.
Ignorant of her son's action and its results, Mrs. Whately met her
niece kindly and insisted that she should not leave the dining-room
until she had partaken of the breakfast now almost ready. Captain
Maynard joined her with many expressions of a solicitude which the
girl felt to be very uncalled for, yet in her instinct to propitiate
every one in case her action should be questioned, she was more
friendly to him than at any time before. Meanwhile, she was asking
herself, "What would they do to me if all was found out?" and
sustaining herself by the thought, "Whatever they do to me, they
can't reach Lieutenant Scoville."
It was gall and bitterness to Whately to find her talking affably to
Maynard, but before the meal was over she had the address to disarm
him in some degree. For his own sake as well as hers and the
family's she thought, "I must not irritate him into hasty action. If
he should find out, and reveal everything, no matter what happened
to me, he would bring everlasting disgrace on himself and relatives.
I could at least show that my motives were good, no matter how
soldiers, with their harsh laws, might act toward me; but what
motive could excuse him for placing me, a young girl and his cousin,
in such a position?"
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