"Miss Lou" Part 5

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

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

"I kin reach ter yo' lips," said Chunk, s.n.a.t.c.hing a kiss.

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

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

"Ve'y well, but I'se gwinter keep my eye on you, Ma.r.s.e Chunk."

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

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

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

So it was decided, and the shadows disappeared. Scoville was put into Aun' Jinkey's bed, the old woman saying that she would sit up and watch. Chunk rubbed the bruised and aching body of the Union scout till he fell asleep, and then the tireless negro went to the spot where the poor horse had died in the stream. He took off the saddle and bridle.

After a little consideration he diverted the current, then dug a hole on the lower side of the animal, rolled him into it, and changed the brook back into its old channel. Carefully obliterating all traces of his work, he returned to the cabin, bolted the door, lay down against it so that no one could enter, and was soon asleep.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI

THE STORM BEGINS

Of late years Aun' Jinkey's princ.i.p.al work had been the fine was.h.i.+ng and ironing of the family, in which task she had always been an adept.

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

As the girl pa.s.sed down through the shrubbery, she found Chunk apparently very busy. Without looking up he said, "Doan be afeard, Miss Lou, I'se be on de watch. Ma.r.s.e Link.u.m man right peart dis mawnin'."

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

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

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

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

"Well, den, sit by de ladder dar, en Miss Lou kin sit on de do'step.

Den a body kin feel tings ain' comin' ter smash 'fo' dey kin breve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uncle says that you Yankees are terrible fellows."

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

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

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

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

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

"How so?"

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

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

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

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

"Well, I'm a Northern man, and share in the feelings of my people.

Can't we agree that this is fair and natural in each case?"

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

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

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

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

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