"Miss Lou" Part 31

CHAPTER XXIV

A HOME A HOSPITAL

The sudden night alarm caused by firing on the ridge can be easily explained. Wearied as were the Confederate general and his men, and severe as had been the repulse of their first attack, both were undaunted and, after rest and refreshment, eager to bring the battle to a more decisive issue, and it was determined to learn long before morning whether the Federal force was on the ridge or not. During the last shower a reconnoitring party was sent out stealthily, a few of the rear-guard captured, from whom it was learned that the Union column had been on the march for hours.

Mrs. Whately was wakened and helped her disabled son to dress in haste.

Little did Miss Lou know about the term ALIBI, but she had the shrewdness to show herself and to appear much alarmed. Opening her door, she gave a glimpse of herself in night attire with her long hair hanging over her shoulders, and cried, "Oh, oh, are we attacked?"

"If we are you may have sad reason to wish that you had obeyed me this morning," replied her cousin sternly. "You no more understand your folly and danger than a child. Now I'm compelled to look after my prisoners first," and he rushed away.

"Come in my room, Louise," said her aunt. "Whatever happens, it is best that we should be together." The girl was so agitated, fearing that in some way her adventures might be discovered, that she had no occasion to feign alarm. Mrs. Whately sought only to soothe and quiet, also to extenuate her son's words. "I don't suppose we truly realize yet, as Madison does, what war means," she concluded.

Mr. Baron soon sent up word that there was no special occasion for further fears, and that the ladies might sleep, if they could, until morning.

But there was no more sleep for Mad Whately. As soon as he reached the spot where the prisoners had been kept he asked sharply, "Where is that Yankee officer and Perkins?"

The man then on duty answered, "The sergeant I relieved said that you took 'im away, sir, and that the man named Perkins followed you."

"There's been treachery here," cried Whately in a rage. "Bring that sergeant here."

The weary man was half dragged in his sleep to the officer and there thoroughly awakened by a volley of oaths. He stolidly told his story, concluding, "I cud a sworn it was you, and the overseer followed less'n three minutes after you left."

"'I left'--curse you--don't say that again. You've been fooled or was asleep and neglected your duty."

"Well, then, sir," was the dogged reply, "find that overseer who was a watchin' the Yank like a cat. Ast 'im; ast my men ef I wasn't awake en ef I didn't s'lute you soon ez you come. There's the overseer's lantern burnin' yet jis whar he left it."

At this moment Perkins came staggering toward the fire, with both hands to his head as if trying to hold it together. His clothes were muddy, his face was ghastly and he stared at Whately as if the officer was also a part of a horrid dream.

Whately seized him roughly by the arm and said sternly, "Speak, man.

What does all this mean? Where's the Yank?"

"For G.o.d's sake, quit," cried Perkins. "I'm nigh dead now. You've got me in anuff trouble for one night."

"Trouble--you! What's your trouble to mine? I'm responsible for these prisoners. Now where's that Yank? Quick, or you WILL have trouble."

"I ain't seen 'im since yer took 'im away--YOU. I ain't one of your understrappers. Ez I wuz follerin' yer some one knocked me down from behind and nigh onto killed me. I jes gittin' my senses back."

Although so enraged, Whately knew that as a soldier he must curb his pa.s.sion, report the facts immediately and see what could be done. His superior officer was called, all the parties questioned closely, the garden and Aun' Jinkey's cabin searched, but no new facts discovered.

The old negress was savagely threatened, but she only replied, "I dunno, I dunno not'n. Wat got inter you ter tink an ole tottery, skeered ooman lak me gwine out in de dark en knock Ma.r.s.e Perkins on de haid?"

"Where's your grandson, Chunk?" Whately demanded fiercely.

"He des light out wid de Yankees dis eb'nin'."

The conclusion guessed at was that Scoville had been rescued by his own men, who were known to be daring scouts. In the darkness and confusion after the battle, it was thought they had mingled with the Confederates, learned the situation of their leader and the general appearance of Whately with his disabled arm. Arrayed in the Southern uniform, of which scouts always had a supply, and favored by the sleepy condition of the guard, one of the scouts had played the trick which Whately rued so bitterly. Others, on the watch, had struck down Perkins and carried Scoville off in safety. No other theory they could hit upon explained so well what was known. The tricked sergeant was placed under arrest, and Whately, who had gone to sleep with such high and mighty notions of his prowess and friendly league with fate, found himself in partial disgrace and in the depths of mortification. He kept guard over his prisoners in person the remainder of the night and again had opportunity to repent at leisure. He mentally cursed himself as a fool, for now he remembered his mother's words. If he had shown leniency to Scoville, and brought him into the house, he might have kept the prisoner and won the goodwill of his cousin. Now, she would probably hear the humiliating facts and be less inclined either to fear or favor him. It was well that no suspicion on his part or that of others had fallen on her, for she was not one who could face coolly a severe cross-questioning.

Perkins skulked off to his house, a.s.suaged his aching head with cold water and his wounded spirit with whiskey. As he tried to think the matter over a vague suspicion of the truth began to enter his confused brain. The little slipper with which he had been hit over the eyes in the morning now became a broad hint. He knew well, however, that it would be dangerous to make any charges, or even suggestions, unless he had ample proof.

When all became quiet again Miss Lou, in spite of deep anxieties, was overcome by extreme weariness and slept until, in a dream, she heard Scoville moaning and sighing in the extremity of physical pain.

Starting up, she saw it was broad day. She pa.s.sed her hand confusedly over her brow and tried to recall what had occurred, to understand the sounds which had suggested her dream. Then in a flash, the strange swirl of events in which she was involved presented itself and she knew she had wakened to other experiences beyond even her imagination. The groans of wounded men brought pitiful tears to her eyes and steadied her nerves by banis.h.i.+ng the thought of self. Whatever might befall her, so much worse was the fate of others that already she was pa.s.sing into the solemnity of spirit inspired by the presence of mortal pain and death. She drew the curtains of her window and then shrank back, shuddering and sobbing, for, scattered over the lawn, men and horses lay stark and motionless. More pitiful still, here and there a wounded horse was struggling feebly. The spring morning, dewy, bright, fragrant, made these evidences of strife tenfold more ghastly. There could not be a more terrible indictment of war than nature's peaceful loveliness.

By the time she was dressed she was joined by Mrs. Whately, who looked serious indeed. Before they could descend to the lower hall, Madison, haggard and gloomy of aspect, intercepted them. Looking at his cousin's red eyes and pale face, he asked abruptly, "What's the matter?"

"Do you think I am accustomed to these sights and sounds?" she answered.

"Oh," he said, in a tone which seemed to her heartless, "it's an old story to me. Mother, I must speak alone with you a moment."

She turned back with him to her room, meantime saying, "Louise, I do not think you had better go down without me."

The girl tremblingly returned to her apartment, fearing that now she might be forced to confront her own actions. But she was conscious of a sort of pa.s.sive courage. Mad Whately's anger, or that of others, was a little thing compared to the truth that men were dead and dying all about her.

"Mother," said her son, "I had cursed luck last night. I wish I had slept on the rain-soaked ground near my prisoners," and he told her what had happened.

"Oh, Madison!" sighed Mrs. Whately, "I wish this experience would teach you to be more guided by me. Louise cared nothing for this Yankee, except in a sort of grateful, friendly way. Through him, you could have done so much to disarm--"

"Oh, well, mother, the milk is spilled. If possible, let the whole affair be kept from her knowledge."

"Yes, I suppose that will be the best way. If she hears about it, we must try to explain by the usages of war. Now, Madison, you are cool.

Let experience be your teacher, for you MUST face the truth. You must either give her up--"

"I'll never give her up."

"Then, as Major Brockton said, you must win her like a Southern gentleman. Her spirit is as high as yours. You can't continue to speak to her as you did last night and this morning. Try to realize the facts. In the seclusion of her bringing up, Louise has learned nothing of the conventionalities of society which might incline her toward a good match on general principles. So far from this, the many old-fas.h.i.+oned romances she has read have made her feel that she must and WILL have her romance. If you can make Louise feel that you love her so well as to become her gallant suitor, circ.u.mstances may soon give you great advantages. She may be cold and indifferent for a time, but like all pa.s.sionate high-strung natures, present impulses against may turn just as strongly for you. At least, you have not to contend with that most fatal of all att.i.tudes--indifference. A great change in you will be a flattering tribute to her power to which no girl would be indifferent. I must tell you now once for all that I will not again a.s.sist in any high-handed measures against Louise. Not only the futility of such action, but my own dignity and sense of right, forbid it. I did not understand her at first. Now that I do, I am all the more eager to call her daughter; but I wish her to feel toward me as she should in such a relation. Yesterday, when I apologized and told her that I meant to treat her with kindness and fairness, she kissed me like the warm-hearted girl she is. I will help you win her as a man should win his wife; I will not be dragged into any more false positions which can end only in humiliation. I will be your tireless ally in the only way you can succeed, but in no other."

"Very well, mother, I agree," said Whately, whose nature it was to react from one extreme to another.

"Ah, now I have hope. How is your arm?"

"It pains horribly."

Mrs. Whately went to Miss Lou's room and said, "Forgive me for keeping you waiting. Madison is almost beside himself with pain in his arm, and I will be detained a little longer."

In her immense relief that she was not charged with all she dreaded, Miss Lou had leisure from her fears to feel commiseration for her cousin. When at last he appeared she said kindly, "I am sorry you are suffering so much."

"If I thought you really cared I wouldn't mind the pain," he replied.

"Cousin Lou, I owe an apology, several, I reckon, but I've been so distracted between conflicting feelings, duties and pain, that I scarcely know what I say."

"You little know me if you think I'm weighing WORDS at this time," she replied. "Come, let us forget the past, shake hands and remember that we are simply cousins."

He took her hand instantly, but said, "You ask what is impossible.

Suppose you had said, 'Just remember your arm is well from this moment,' would it be well? I cannot help my feelings toward you and don't wish to."

"Very well, then," she sighed, "I cannot help mine either. I don't wish to talk on that subject any more."

"Then I must plead by actions. Well, I must go now."