"Miss Lou" Part 40

"Well, Miss Baron," he replied with dignity, "I'm no better than thousands of others. I always knew this might happen any day. You have learned why it is peculiarly hard for me--but that's not to be thought of now. If I've got my marching orders, that's enough for a soldier. It was scarcely right in Borden to give you this heavy task. I could have faced the truth from his lips."

"He felt so dreadfully about it," she replied. "He said he had been giving you false hopes in trying to make you get well."

"Oh, yes, he meant kindly. Well, if it hasn't been too much for you, I'm glad you told me. Your sympathy, your face, will be a sweet memory to carry, G--od only knows where. Since it can't be little Sadie's face or my wife's I'm glad it's yours. What am I saying? as if I should forget their dear faces through all eternity."

"Ah! captain, I wish you could hear one of our soldiers, talk. Dying with him just means going to Heaven."

The officer shook his head. "I'm not a Christian," he said simply.

"Neither am I," she replied, "but I've been made to feel that being one is very different from what I once thought it was."

"Well, Miss Baron, what is it to be a Christian--what is your idea of it? There has always seemed to me such a lot of conflicting things to be considered--well, well, I haven't given the subject thought and it's too late now. I must give my mind to my family and--"

Uncle l.u.s.thah stepped before him with clasped hands and quivering lips.

"Ef ma.r.s.e cap'n des list'n ter de ole man a minit. I ain't gwine ter talk big en long. I kyant. I des wanter say I hab 'spearance. Dat sump'n, ma.r.s.e cap'n, you kyant say not'n agin--rale 'spearance, sump'n I KNOWS."

"Well, you kind old soul, what do you know?"

"P'raps des what mars'r knows ef he ony tinks a lil. Let us git right down ter de root ob de marter, kaze I feared dere ain' time fer 'locutions."

"Now you're right at least, uncle. I must set my house in order. I must write to my wife."

"Ma.r.s.e cap'n, you gwine on a journey. Wa't yo' wife wish mo'n dat you git ready fer de journey? She tek dat journey too, bime by soon, en you bof be at de same deah home."

"Ah, uncle, if that could be true, the sting of death would be gone."

"Sut'ny, ma.r.s.e cap'n. Didn't I know dat ar w'en I mek bole ter speak?

Now des tink on hit, mars'r. Yere I is, an ole ign'rant slabe, kyant eben read de good Book. De worl' full ob poor folks lak me. Does you tink ef de Lawd mean ter sabe us't all He'd do hit in some long rounerbout way dat de wise people kyant mos' fin' out? No, bress He gret big heart, He des stan' up en say to all, 'Come ter me en I gib you res'."

"Yes, uncle, but I haven't gone to Him. I don't know how to go, and what's more, I don't feel it's right to go now at the last minute as if driven by fear."

"Now, cap'n, fergib de ole man fer sayin' you all wrong. Haint young mistis been breakin' her lil gyurlish heart ober yo' trouble? Am de Lawd dat die fer us wuss'n a graven himage? Doan He feel fer you mo'n we kin? I reck'n you got des de bes' kin' of prep'ration ter go ter 'Im. You got trouble. How He act toward folks dat hab trouble--ev'y kin' ob trouble? Ma.r.s.e cap'n, I des KNOWS dat de Lawd wanter brung you en yo' wife en dat lil Sadie I year you talk 'bout all togeder whar He is. I des KNOWs. .h.i.t. Hit's 'spearance."

"Miss Baron," said the captain calmly, "Isn't it wonderful? This old slave says he knows what, if true, is worth more to me than all the acc.u.mulated wisdom of the world. What do you think of it?"

"It seems as if it ought to be true," she answered earnestly. "I never so felt before that it OUGHT to be true. We never should have been born, or given such love as you have for your dear ones, if it isn't true. Oh, to be just s.n.a.t.c.hed hopelessly away from such ties is horrible. My whole soul revolts at it."

"See here, uncle," said the captain almost sternly, "I'm not going to groan, sigh, weep, and take on in any of your camp-meeting tactics. I am before the last great enemy and I know how to meet him like a man and soldier, if not a Christian. I'm willing to do anything not insincere or unmanly to meet my wife and children again. If my thought and feeling for them at this time isn't right, then I've been created wrong."

"Ma.r.s.e cap'n, I'se seen de mos' po'ful feelin's en miseries ob de 'victed ones vaperate lak de maunin' dew en I'se larn in my ole age dat de sabin po'r ain' in we uns, ner in any ting we is ob oursefs ner in w'at we po' lil chil'n of yearth kin do. De Lawd say, He come ter seek en sabe de loss; I wuz loss. De wuss ting He enemies cud speak agin 'Im wuz, Dis man 'ceiveth sinners: I wuz a sinner. I des arst 'Im ter sabe me, en He did. I des trus' 'Im fer life en death en does de bes' I kin.

Dat's all. But hit's 'SPEARANCE, ma.r.s.e cap'n, en I KNOWs. .h.i.t. Now, ma.r.s.e cap'n, w'at fo' you go way in the de dark, you dunno whar? De bressed Lawd say, I go ter prepare a place fer you. Now you des let young mistis write ter yo' folks dat you gwine wid Jesus ter dat ar place en dat you gwine ter wait fer dem dar en welcome urn home bime by des lak dey wud welcome you home way up Norf. Dat ud comf't em a heap, en hit's all true. I knows. .h.i.t. Young mistis berry sens'ble w'en she say we neber orter be bawn ef hit ain' true."

The officer looked fixedly at the tearful, wrinkled face for a few moments and then said firmly, "I'll soon find out if it's true. If I do this thing at all, I'll do it in the only way I can. Miss Baron, you may write to my wife that I accept her faith. It's much the same as Uncle l.u.s.thah's--too simple and unphilosophical, I used to think; but it meets my need now. I can't deal even with G.o.d in any other way than this. The mind he has endowed me with revolts at anything else as hypocritical. I can and do say that I will accept in grateful, downright sincerity the terms which Uncle l.u.s.thah accepted, which my wife accepted. I submit myself to His will. I do this calmly, as I would give my hand and pledge my faith to a man, and I cannot do any more. Now He may do with me as He pleases. Miss Baron, you do the same and you'll be just as good--yes, a much better Christian than I, for I've done rough, bad things in my life. Don't you wait till you're in my extremity. I must say that I have a wretched sense of self-contempt that I am looking Heavenward with dying eyes. There's only one thing that reconciles me to it--the words 'Our Father.' G.o.d knows that I'd open my arms to my little Sadie under any possible circ.u.mstances. What the old man here says must be true, for to trifle with or mock a man in my position presupposes a degree of malignity inconceivable. I ask nothing better than that Christ will receive me as I would receive my child from world-wide wandering."

"Ah, bress He big gret heart," cried Uncle l.u.s.thah, dropping on his knees, "w'en yo' fader en yo' moder forsook you den de Lawd took you up."

"Miss Baron, I wish to think a while and learn from Borden just how much time I have left. You will come to me again?"

"Yes, whenever you wish."

"Well, then, good-by for a short time. Thank G.o.d for sending me such an angel of death. You stay with me, uncle, till I send you for Borden."

CHAPTER x.x.x

GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS

Dr. Borden's predictions were verified in regard to his friend and patient, Captain Hanfield, but not before the officer had dictated calm, farewell letters to his wife and "little Sadie." To Miss Lou were left the serene, smiling likenesses, a grave to be cared for beside Yarry's, and a memory that could never be blotted out. She was kept from witnessing the terrible convulsions which began soon after her interview, but was present at his death and held his hand until it was cold and lifeless.

Within two weeks after the battle very few patients were left, and all these were to go with Dr. Ackley on the following day, Lieutenant Waldo excepted. He was still too weak to be moved. His mother had become so skilful in the care of his wound that she would be competent, with the help of an aged resident pract.i.tioner, to carry him through his convalescence. Mrs. Whately now spent most of the time on her plantation, her presence being needed there to remedy the effects, as far as possible, of the harsh measures at first adopted by her son. It was discouraging effort. The strong ebb tide in the old order of things had set in even far from the Union lines, and only the difficulty in reaching them prevented a general stampede of the negroes. As it was, two or three of her best hands would steal away from time to time, and run the gantlet of many dangers in their travel by night Northward. Her attempts to mollify and render her slaves contented were more than counterbalanced by the threats and severity of her son, who was too vacillating to adopt a fixed policy, and arbitrary by nature.

Her chief hope for him still centred in Miss Lou, upon whom his thoughts were fixed with a steadfastness and earnestness which his mother fondly believed would win her eventually, "I'm sure," she reasoned, "Captain Maynard has made no deep impression. He is about to depart. All will soon be gone, and the old monotony of plantation life will be resumed. After what has happened Louise will not be able to endure this. Madison will return, older and wiser from experience and she, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts will react, like all impulsive natures, from her opposition. Next to winning her or her favor from the start, he has scored a success in waking a hostility far removed from fatal indifference."

She maintained an affectionate manner toward her niece and never discussed the hope she entertained and expectation of calling her daughter. In truth, she had won the girl's respect and goodwill in a very high degree. She had been a kind and successful nurse among the wounded, confining her efforts chiefly to the Confederates. She had also been a dignified lady in all the scenes they had pa.s.sed through.

Her weakness was her son, yet the girl was compelled to admit that it was the weakness of love. In seeking to bring about the detested union a motherly heart and feeling toward her had ever been apparent.

The girl was already becoming depressed by a presentiment of the dull, stagnant days to come. Scoville had been lost in the great outside, unknown world completely. She was suffering from reaction after the strong excitements and fatigues of her experience. Her two lovers, remaining on the scene, possessed a sort of goading interest which compelled her to think of them, but she contemplated their near departure without regret. Nothing in her nature answered to their looks, words and evident desires. She felt that she would as soon marry one as the other, and that she would rather be buried beside Captain Hanfield and take the journey of which Uncle l.u.s.thah had quaintly spoken than wed either. Yet in her la.s.situde she feared that she could now be compelled to marry either or any one if enough active force was employed, so strangely had ebbed her old fearless spirit.

It were with a kind of wondering pity that she looked at Maynard and saw the evidences of an honest, ardent attachment. "Why does he feel so?" she asked herself. "I have done nothing for him, given no encouragement, and would not care if I never saw him again. I merely wish him well, as I do so many others. Why can't he see this, and just act on the truth? He says he is coming to see me every chance he gets and tries to make me feel that he'll never give me up. Perhaps if I should let him speak plainly he would see how useless it all would be."

Circ.u.mstances apparently favored the half-formed purpose. Languid from the heat of the day, she went out on the piazza after supper, sat down on the upper step and leaned against a rose-entwined pillar. Maynard was entranced by the picture she made and promptly availed himself of the opportunity. Every one else had disappeared except Zany, of whom glimpses could be caught through the open windows of the supper-room; but she did not count. Sitting on a lower step so as to be in a measure at her feet Maynard began.

"Miss Baron, I am thinking very sadly, if you are not, over the fact that I am to go away in the morning."

"Yes," she replied, half-consciously ignoring his personal view, "the old house and plantation will soon be as quiet and deserted as before."

"Do you regret this?"

"I scarcely know. I am very tired and feel sad over all that has happened. Perhaps I'll feel differently by and by, when I've rested and had time to think."

"Oh, Miss Baron, if you knew how earnestly I hope to be remembered in those thoughts, to give you something definite to think of."

She had scarcely the energy to check him, the thought occurring more than once, "I might just as well let him speak his mind and see how vain his hope is."

"You have not given me encouragement," he resumed. "You have seemed too preoccupied, sad or weary; but this phase of your life will pa.s.s away.

Our glorious cause must soon be crowned with success. If I survive, may I not hope that when I come again you will give me a hearing, a chance?

I can be patient, even though not patient by nature. I will do all that a man--"

"Captain," interrupted the girl, at last, "I suppose, from the books I've read, I should make some fine speeches about the honor you are bestowing on me, and all that. I'm too tired and sad for anything conventional and appropriate. I'm just going to answer you like a simple, honest girl. One of my chief reasons for sadness is that you feel as you do. I see no reason for it. I'm glad you say I've given you no encouragement, I know I have not. Why should you care so for me when I do not and cannot respond at all? I do sincerely wish you well, but it seems to me that it should be enough for a man when a girl listens to such words as yours in weary sadness only."

"It may be hard indeed for a man to recognize this truth, Miss Baron, but I am not speaking of the present--of the future rather. There has been much to make you sad and weary. Your very youth and high spirit will soon lead you to react from your present depression. Let me speak of the future. Please let me fill that with hope for you and for me."

"Oh, I don't know about the future. For some reason I dread even to think of it."

At this instant Whately galloped to the piazza, threw the reins on the neck of his horse as he dismounted, evidently not caring in his perturbation where the animal wandered. He was in a bad mood, for things were not going smoothly at home. The att.i.tude of his rival at his cousin's feet stung him into a jealous rage and he remarked bitterly as he strode past them, "Don't let my inopportune arrival disturb this charming tete-a-tete. In fact, I had no business to remain at my uncle's home at all, even at the call of duty, after Captain Maynard signified his intention of making it the long-continued field of his operations."