"Miss Lou". Edward Payson Roe
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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 pass 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?"
"Can you think that this war is a holiday to me?" he asked, gravely. "What stands between me now and death—perhaps a shameful and horrible death—except your kindly, womanly impulses? I am hourly in danger of being caught and treated as a spy."
"Oh, I didn't realize it," said the girl, simply and kindly. "Everything looks so quiet and lovely. Aun' Jinkey, there, my old mammy, is at work just as I have seen her for years, and Chunk is busy yonder in the garden. It is hard to think how suddenly all might change."
"A soldier must think and be prepared."
"Have you no fear?"
"Life is sweet to me. I know only one thing—I must do my duty and trust in God. I have the consolation that no one is dependent on me; no one would grieve for me very much. I'm quite alone in the world. My crusty old guardian would inherit my property, and you may well guess that Aunt Jinkey's tub yonder would hold all his tears if I should make a sudden exit," and again he smiled in his pleasant way, as if with the purpose to relieve his words of all sombreness.
"Are you an orphan, too?" she asked sympathetically.
"Such a mature, fully developed orphan as I am is not an object of pity, Miss Baron," he replied, laughing. Then he added, a little proudly: "I'm nearly twenty-two; I was twenty-one on my last birthday, and I celebrated it by a ride only less risky than the one which landed me at your feet. But your little word 'too' suggests that you are somewhat alone, also. I hope that your father was not killed in this war?"
"No, my father and mother died long before the war."
"I am glad of that—not glad that they died, but that you cannot associate me with the causes of their death."
"But you and yours have caused death and suffering to so many Southern people!"
"Yes, I'm sorry it is so, but things are pretty even on that score.
Your men give as many blows as they take."
"Why did you enter the army?"
"I suppose for about the same reasons that your cousin did."
"Oh, you aren't like my cousin at all. I don't wish you to keep referring to him."
"Well, then, I thought it was right. There was an urgent call for men and strong public feeling. I was at college. I couldn't see others go and not go with them. I had no influence, no one to push my interests, so I simply enlisted, and am trying to push my way by extra services. Now, Miss Baron, think for yourself a little. Here we are, two young people thrown together by a strange chance. We have been brought up differently, surrounded by different influences. Even if you think me wrong, can you not believe that I've followed my conscience and lived up to such light as I had? I can believe this of you. I don't wish you to think that we Yankees are monsters. Do I look like a monster? Why, Miss Baron, if I should live to be a hundred years I should regard a chance to do you a kindness as the best good-fortune that could befall me."
As he spoke these words his face flushed, there was a slight quiver in his dark mustache, betokening deep, honest feeling, and his expression was one of frank admiration and respect. She looked at him in silent wonder, and asked herself, "Can this be one of the Yankees of whom I have heard such horrible things?"
She began saying, "I am trying to think for myself, but I have been so shut out from the world that—" when she was suddenly interrupted. Chunk appeared and said, "Marse Scoville, des git up de ladder en shut de trap-do' quicker'n lightnin'. Miss Lou, kin'er peramberlate slow to'rd de house, des nachel like ez ef you ain' keerin' 'bout not'n. Wash away, granny. Play possum, ev'y one."
Miss Lou had gone but a little way before Mad Whately joined her, having ordered his men to pass on before. "Chunk," he shouted, "take my horse and rub him well, or you'll get rubbed down yourself."
The openings under the eaves in Aun' Jinkey's cabin were so many and large that Scoville had fairly good opportunities for observing what was going on in the immediate vicinity. In witnessing the meeting between Whately and Miss Lou he was conscious of a peculiar satisfaction when noting that her manner confirmed her words. The dashing cousin evidently was not in favor. "Well," thought the scout, with a decisive little nod toward him, "were I a young Southerner, you'd have a rival that would put you to your best speed. What a delicious little drawl she has in speaking, and how charmingly her consonants shade off into vowels! I would be more readily taken for a Southerner than she, if I did not speak. How blue her eyes are! and her fluffy hair seemed a golden halo when the sunshine touched it through the trees. And then how unsophisticated her face and expression! She is a lady from instinct and breeding, and yet she is but a sweet-faced child. Well! well! it was an odd chance to be pitched to the feet of a girl like that. Very possibly I'd be there again of my own free will should I see her often enough."
If Scoville were a rival now he certainly would have to take a wild pace to keep up with Mad Whately in his wooing. His eyes were full of resolute fire as he walked beside his cousin, and her quick intuition took speedy alarm at his expression. "Well, sweet coz," he said, "the Yanks have very prudently dusted back to the region from which they came. My mother will give herself the pleasure of a visit at The Oaks this afternoon. Can you guess her object in coming?"
"Why, as you say, to give herself the pleasure of a visit."
"Yes, and you and I will enhance her pleasure a thousand-fold."
"I shall do all that I can in courtesy."
"I'll do the rest, for I shall gladden her heart by marrying you."
"What!"
"Simply that, nothing more. Isn't that enough?"
"Far too much," replied the girl, hotly. "I don't like such jesting."
"Faith and it will prove the best joke of our lives, over which we will often laugh at our fireside hereafter. Come now, cousin, make the best of it; it is the best for you as well as for me. You know I always intended to marry you, and I have the hearty sanction of all the high contracting powers."
She stopped abruptly in the path, her face so rich in angry color that it shamed the flowers blooming in the shrubbery near.
"Mr. Whately," she said, firmly, "there is one contracting power that you have not consulted. How can you marry me when I WILL not marry you?"
"Nothing easier, pretty coz."
"But how—how?"
"Oh,