Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE
VOLUME NINE
"MISS LOU"
ILLUSTRATED
In Loving Dedication
TO LITTLE MISS LOU MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I A GIRL'S PROTEST
CHAPTER II SOMETHING HAPPENS
CHAPTER III MAD WHATELY
CHAPTER IV AUN' JINKEY'S POLICY
CHAPTER V WHATELY'S IDEA OF COURTSHIP
CHAPTER VI THE STORM BEGINS
CHAPTER VII DANGERS THICKENING
CHAPTER VIII "WHEN?"
CHAPTER IX PARALYZED WITH SHAME
CHAPTER X A BAFFLED DIPLOMATIST
CHAPTER XI AUN' JINKEY'S WARNING
CHAPTER XII A WHIRLWIND OF EVENTS
CHAPTER XIII THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
CHAPTER XIV A THREAT
CHAPTER XV MISS LOU EMANCIPATED
CHAPTER XVI A SMILE ON WAR'S GRIM FACE
CHAPTER XVII THE JOY OF FREEDOM
CHAPTER XVIII A WELL-AIMED SLIPPER
CHAPTER XIX A GIRL'S APPEAL
CHAPTER XX SCOVILLE'S HOPE
CHAPTER XXI TWO STORMS
CHAPTER XXII CHUNK'S QUEST
CHAPTER XXIII A BOLD SCHEME
CHAPTER XXIV A HOME A HOSPITAL
CHAPTER XXV A TRIBUTE TO A SOUTHERN GIRL
CHAPTER XXVI A BACKGROUND OF EGOTISM
CHAPTER XXVII AUN' JINKEY'S SUPREME TEST
CHAPTER XXVIII TRUTH IF THE HEAVENS FALL
CHAPTER XXIX "ANGEL OF DEATH"
CHAPTER XXX GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS
CHAPTER XXXI THE DUELLISTS VANQUISHED
CHAPTER XXXII SAD TIDINGS
CHAPTER XXXIII CONSPIRATORS
CHAPTER XXXIV CHUNK PLAYS SPOOK
CHAPTER XXXV A VISITATION
CHAPTER XXXVI UNCLE LUSTHAH EXHORTS
CHAPTER XXXVII A NEW ROUTINE
"MISS LOU"
CHAPTER I
A GIRL'S PROTEST
A great, rudely built stone chimney was smoking languidly one
afternoon. Leaning against this chimney, as if for protection and
support, was a little cabin gray and decrepit with age. The door of the
cabin stood wide open, for the warm spring was well advanced in the
South. There was no need of a fire, but Aun' Jinkey, the mistress of
the abode, said she "kep' hit bunin' fer comp'ny." She sat by it now,
smoking as lazily as her chimney, in an old chair which creaked as if
in pain when she rocked. She supposed herself to be in deep meditation,
and regarded her corncob pipe not merely a solace but also as an
invaluable assistant to clearness of thought. Aun' Jinkey had the
complacent belief that she could reason out most questions if she could
only smoke and think long enough. Unfortunately, events would occur
which required action, or which raised new questions before she had had
time to solve those originally presented; yet it would be hard to fancy
a more tranquil order of things than that of which she was a humble
part.
The cabin was shaded by grand old oaks and pines, through which the
afternoon sun shone in mild radiance, streaming into the doorway and
making a broad track of light over the uneven floor. But Aun' Jinkey
kept back in the congenial dusk, oblivious to the loveliness of nature
without. At last she removed her pipe from her mouth and revealed her
mental processes in words.
"In all my projeckin' dat chile's wuss'n old mars'r en miss, en de wah,
en de preachin'. I kin kin' ob see troo dem, en w'at dey dribin' at,
but dat chile grow mo' quare en on'countable eb'y day. Long as she wus
took up wid her doll en tame rabbits en pony dar wa'n't no
circum'cutions 'bout her, en now she am all circum'cution. Not'n gwine
'long plain wid her. She like de run down dar--but win' en win' ez ef
hit had ter go on, en hit couldn't mek up hits min' which way ter go.
Sometime hit larfin' in de sun en den hit steal away whar you kyant
mos' fin' hit. Dat de way wid Miss Lou. She seem right hyar wid us--she
only lil gyurl toder day--en now she 'clinin' to notions ob her own, en
she steal away to whar she tink no one see her en tink on heaps ob
tings. Won'er ef eber, like de run, she wanter go way off fum us?
"Ole mars'r en ole miss dunno en doan see not'n. Dey kyant. Dey tinks
de worl' al'ays gwine des so, dat means de way dey tink hit orter go.
Ef hit go any oder way, de worl's wrong, not dey. I ain' sayin' dey is
wrong, fer I ain' des tink dat all out'n. 'Long ez she keeps her foots
on de chalk line dey mark out dey ain' projeckin' how her min' go yere
en dar, zigerty-zag wid notions ob her own."
The door darkened, if the radiant girl standing on the threshold could
be said to darken any door. She did not represent the ordinary Southern
type, for her hair was gold in the sun and her eyes blue as the violets
by the brook. They were full of mirth now as she said: "There you are,
Aun' Jinkey, smoking and 'projeckin' as usual. You look like an old
Voudoo woman, and if I didn't know you as my old mammy--if I should
just happen in as a stranger, I'd be afraid of you."
"Voudoo ooman! How you talks, Miss Lou! I'se a member ob de Baptis'
Church, en you knows it."
"Oh, I know a heap 'mo'n dat,' as you so often say. If you were only a
member of the Baptist Church I wouldn't be running in to see you so
often. Uncle says a member of the Baptist Church has been stealing some
of his chickens."
"I knows some tings 'bout de members ob HE church," replied Aun'
Jinkey, with a toss of her head.
"I reckon you do, more than they would like to see published in the
county paper; but we aren't scandal-mongers, are we, Aun' Jinkey?" and
the young visitor sat down in the doorway and looked across the green
meadow seen through the opening in the trees. A dogwood stood in the
corner of the rail fence, the pink and white of its blossoms well
matching the girl's fair face and her rose-dotted calico gown, which,
in its severe simplicity, revealed her rounded outlines.
Aun' Jinkey watched her curiously, for it was evident that Miss Lou's
thoughts were far away. "Wat you tinkin' 'bout, Miss Lou?" she asked.
"Oh, I hardly know myself. Come, Aun' Jinkey, be a nice old witch and
tell me my fortune."
"Wat you want ter know yo' fortin fur?"
"I want to know more than I do now. Look here, Aun' Jinkey, does that
run we hear singing yonder go round and round in one place and with the
same current? Doesn't it go on? Uncle and aunt want me to go round and
round, doing the same things and thinking the same thoughts--not my own
thoughts either. Oh, I'm getting so tired of it all!"
"Lor' now, chile, I wuz des 'parin' you ter dat run in my min'," said
Aun' Jinkey in an awed tone.
"No danger of uncle or aunt comparing me to the run, or anything else.
They never had any children and don't know anything about young people.
They have a sort of prim, old-fashioned ideal of what the girls in the
Baron family should be, and I must become just such a girl--just like
that stiff, queer old portrait of grandma when she was a girl. Oh, if
they knew how tired of it all I am!"
"Bless yo' heart, Miss Lou, you ain' projeckin' anyting?"
"No, I'm just chafing and beating my wings like a caged bird."
"Now see yere, Miss Lou, isn't you onreason'ble? You hab a good home;
mars'r en miss monstus pius, en dey bringin' you up in de nurter en
'monitions ob de Lawd." "Too much 'monition, Aun' Jinkey. Uncle and
aunt's religion makes me so tired, and they make Sunday so awfully
long. Their religion reminds me of the lavender and camphor in which
they keep their Sunday clothes. And then the pages of the catechism
they have always made me learn, and the long Psalms, too, for
punishment! I don't understand religion, anyway. It seems something
meant to uphold all their views, and anything contrary to their views
isn't right or religious. They don't think much of you Baptists."
"We ain' sufrin' on dat 'count, chile," remarked Aun' Jinkey, dryly.
"There now, Aun' Jinkey, don't you see? Uncle owns you, yet you think
for yourself and have a religion of your own. If he knew I was thinking
for myself, he'd invoke the memory of all the Barons against me. I
don't know very much about the former Barons, except that my father was
one. According to what I am told, the girl Barons were the primmest
creatures I ever heard of. Then uncle and aunt are so inconsistent,
holding up as they do for my admiration Cousin Mad Whately. I don't
wonder people shorten his name from Madison to Mad, for if ever there
was a wild, reckless fellow, he is. Uncle wants to bring about a match,
because Mad's plantation joins ours. Mad acted as if he owned me
already when he was home last, and yet he knows I can't abide him. He
seems to think I can be subdued like one of his skittish horses."
"You HAB got a heap on yo' min', Miss Lou, you sho'ly hab. You sut'ny
t'ink too much for a young gyurl."
"I'm eighteen, yet uncle and aunt act toward me in some ways as if I
were still ten years old. How can I help thinking? The thoughts come.
You're a great one to talk against thinking. Uncle says you don't do
much else, and that your thoughts are just like the smoke of your pipe."
Aun' Jinkey bridled indignantly at first, but, recollecting herself,
said quietly: "I knows my juty ter ole mars'r en'll say not'n gin 'im.
He bring you up en gib you a home, Miss Lou. You must reckermember dat
ar."
"I'm in a bad mood, I suppose, but I can't help my thoughts, and it's
kind of a comfort to speak them out. If he only WOULD give me a home
and not make it so much like a prison! Uncle's honest, though, to the
backbone. On my eighteenth birthday he took me into his office and
formally told me about my affairs. I own that part of the plantation on
the far side of the run. He has kept all the accounts of that part
separate, and if it hadn't been for the war I'd have been rich, and he
says I will be rich when the war is over and the South free. He said he
had allowed so much for my bringing up and for my education, and that
the rest was invested, with his own money, in Confederate bonds. That
is all right, and I respect uncle for his downright integrity, but he
wants to manage me just as he does my plantation. He wishes to produce
just such crops of thoughts as he sows the seeds of, and he would treat
my other thoughts like weeds, which must be hoed out, cut down and
burned. Then you see he hasn't GIVEN me a home, and I'm growing to be a
woman. If I am old enough to own land, am I never to be old enough to
own myself?"
"Dar now, Miss Lou, you raisin' mo' questions dan I kin tink out in a
yeah."
"There's dozens more rising in my mind and I can't get rid of them.
Aunt keeps my hands knitting and working for the soldiers, and I like
to do it. I'd like to be a soldier myself, for then I could go
somewhere and do and see something. Life then wouldn't be just doing
things with my hands and being told to think exactly what an old
gentleman and an old lady think. Of course our side is right in this
war, but how can I believe with uncle that nearly all the people in the
North are low, wicked and vile? The idea that every Northern soldier is
a monster is preposterous to me. Uncle forgets that he has had me
taught in United States history. I wish some of them would just march
by this out-of-the-way place, for I would like to see for myself what
they are like."
"Dar, dar, Miss Lou, you gittin' too bumptious. You like de fus' woman
who want ter know too much."
"No," said the girl, her blue eyes becoming dark and earnest, "I want
to know what's true, what's right. I can't believe that uncle and
aunt's narrow, exclusive, comfortless religion came from heaven; I
can't believe that God agrees with uncle as to just what a young girl
should do and think and be, but uncle seems to think that the wickedest
thing I can do is to disagree with him and aunt. Uncle forgets that
there are books in his library, and books make one think. They tell of
life very different from mine. Why, Aun' Jinkey, just think what a
lonely girl I am! You are about the only one I can talk to. Our
neighbors are so far away and we live so secluded that I scarcely have
acquaintances of my own age. Aunt thinks young girls should be kept out
of society until the proper time, and that time seems no nearer now
than ever. If uncle and aunt loved me, it would be different, but they
have just got a stiff set of ideas about their duty to me and another
set about my duty to them. Why, uncle laughed at a kitten the other day
because it was kittenish, but he has always wanted me to behave with
the solemnity of an old cat. Oh, dear! I'm SO tired. I wish something
WOULD happen."
"Hit brokes me all up ter year you talk so, honey, en I bless de Lawd
'tain' likely any ting gwinter hap'n in dese yere parts. De wah am
ragin' way off fum heah, nobody comin' wid news, en bimeby you gits mo'
settle down. Some day you know de valley ob peace en quietness."
"See here, Aun' Jinkey," said the girl, with a flash of her eyes, "you
know the little pond off in the woods. That's more peaceful than the
run, isn't it? Well, it's stagnant, too, and full of snakes. I'd like
to know what's going on in the world, but uncle of late does not even
let me read the county paper. I know things are not going to suit him,
for he often frowns and throws the paper into the fire. That's what
provokes me--the whole world must go just to suit him, or else he is
angry."
"Well, now, honey, you hab 'lieve yo' min', en I specs you feel bettah.
You mus' des promis yo' ole mammy dat you be keerful en not rile up ole
mars'r, kase hit'll ony be harder fer you. I'se ole, en I knows tings
do hap'n dough dey of'un come slowlike. You des gwine troo de woods
now, en kyant see fur; bimeby you come ter a clearin'. Dat boy ob mine
be comin' soon fer his pone en bacon. I'se gwinter do a heap ob tinkin'
on all de questions you riz."
"Yes, Aun' Jinkey, I do feel better for speaking out, but I expect I
shall do a heap of thinking too. Good-by," and she strolled away toward
the brook.