AUN' JINKEY'S SUPREME TEST
The first long tragic day of hospital experience had so absorbed Miss
Lou as to relegate into the background events which a short time before
had been beyond her wildest dreams. In the utter negation of her life
she had wished that something would happen, and so much had happened
and so swiftly that she was bewildered. The strangest thing of all was
the change in herself. Lovers of the Whately and Maynard type could
only repel by their tactics. She was too high-spirited to submit to the
one, and too simple and sincere, still too much of a child, to feel
anything but annoyance at the sentimental gallantry of the other. The
genial spirit of comradeship in Scoville, could it have been maintained
through months of ordinary life, would probably have prepared the way
for deeper feeling on the part of both, but there had been no time for
the gradual development of goodwill and friendly understanding into
something more. They had been caught in an unexpected whirl of events
and swept forward into relations utterly unforeseen. He owed his escape
from much dreaded captivity and his very life to her, and, as he had
said, these facts, to her generous nature, were even more powerful in
their influence than if she herself had received the priceless favors.
At the same time, her course toward him, dictated at first by mere
humanity, then goodwill, had made his regard for her seem natural even
to her girlish heart. If she had read it all in a book, years before,
she would have said, "A man couldn't do less than love one when fortune
had enabled her to do so much for him." So she had simply approved of
his declaration, down by the run, of affection for which she was not
yet ready, and she approved of him all the more fondly because he did
not passionately and arbitrarily demand or expect that she should feel
as he did, in return. "I didn't," she had said to herself a score of
times, "and that was enough for him."
When later, for his sake, she faced the darkness of midnight, a peril
she dared not contemplate, and the cruel misjudgment which would follow
her action if discovered, something deeper awoke in her
nature--something kindled into strong, perplexing life when, in his
passionate gratitude, he had snatched her in his arms and, as she had
said, "given her his whole heart because he couldn't help himself."
From that moment, on her part there had been no more merely kind,
tranquil thoughts about Scoville, but a shy, trembling, blushing
self-consciousness even when in solitude his image rose before her.
As she sought to regain composure after the last interview with her
cousin, and to think of her best course in view of what seemed his
dangerous knowledge, a truth, kept back thus far by solemn and
absorbing scenes, suddenly became dear to her. The spirit of
all-consuming selfishness again manifested by Whately, revealed as
never before the gulf of abject misery into which she would have fallen
as his wife. "If it hadn't been for Lieutenant Scoville I might now
have been his despairing bond slave," she thought; "I might have been
any way if the Northern officer were any other kind of a man, brutal,
coarse, as I had been led to expect, or even indifferent and stupid. I
might have been forced into relations from which I could not escape and
then have learned afterward what noble, unselfish men there are in the
world. Oh, I COULD marry Allan Scoville, I could love him and devote my
life to him wholly, knowing all the time that I needn't protect myself,
because he would always be a kinder, truer, better protector. How
little I have done for him compared with that from which he has saved
me!"
There was a knock at the door and Zany quickly entered. "I des slip off
while ole miss in de sto'-room, ter gib you a warnin', Miss Lou. Hain't
had no charnce till dis minit. Dat ar ole fox, Perkins, been snoopin'
roun' yistidy arter we un's tracks en las' night he tell Mad Whately a
heap ob his 'jecterin'."
"But, Zany," said Miss Lou, "you don't think they KNOW anything."
"Reck'n hit's all des 'jecterin'," Zany replied. "Kyant be nufin' else.
We des got ter face hit out. Doan you fear on me. We uns mus' des star
stupid-like ef dey ax questions," and she whisked off again.
The girl felt that the spirit of Zany's counsel would be the best
policy to adopt. While she might not "star stupid-like," she could so
coldly ignore all reference to Scoville's escape as to embarrass any
one who sought to connect her with it. In the clearer consciousness of
her feeling toward the Union officer her heart grew glad and strong at
the thought of the service she had rendered him, nor did it shrink at
suffering for his sake. A gratitude quite as strong as his own now
possessed her that he had been the means of keeping her from a union
dreaded even as an ignorant child, and now known, by the love which
made her a woman, to be earthly perdition.
"Having escaped that," she reflected, "there's nothing else I greatly
fear," and she went down to breakfast resolving that she would be so
faithful in her duties as a nurse that no one in authority would listen
to her cousin or Perkins if they sought to make known their surmises.
Ignorant of her son's action and its results, Mrs. Whately met her
niece kindly and insisted that she should not leave the dining-room
until she had partaken of the breakfast now almost ready. Captain
Maynard joined her with many expressions of a solicitude which the girl
felt to be very uncalled for, yet in her instinct to propitiate every
one in case her action should be questioned, she was more friendly to
him than at any time before. Meanwhile, she was asking herself, "What
would they do to me if all was found out?" and sustaining herself by
the thought, "Whatever they do to me, they can't reach Lieutenant
Scoville."
It was gall and bitterness to Whately to find her talking affably to
Maynard, but before the meal was over she had the address to disarm him
in some degree. For his own sake as well as hers and the family's she
thought, "I must not irritate him into hasty action. If he should find
out, and reveal everything, no matter what happened to me, he would
bring everlasting disgrace on himself and relatives. I could at least
show that my motives were good, no matter how soldiers, with their
harsh laws, might act toward me; but what motive could excuse him for
placing me, a young girl and his cousin, in such a position?"
Whately had already satisfied himself that no pretence of zeal for the
service could conceal his real motive or save him from general scorn
should he speak of the mere conjectures of a man like Perkins. He had
never meant to speak of them publicly, simply to use his knowledge as a
means of influencing his cousin. He now doubted the wisdom of this.
Reacting from one mood to another, as usual, his chief hope now was
that some unexpected turn of fortune's wheel would bring his
opportunity. The one thing which all the past unfitted him to accept
was personal and final denial. His egotism and impatience at being
crossed began to manifest itself in another direction, one suggested by
Maynard's evident susceptibility to his cousin's attractions. "Here is
a chance," he thought, "of righting myself in Lou's eyes. If this
fellow, thrown into her society by the fortune of war, not by courtesy,
presumptuously goes beyond a certain point in his attentions, Cousin
Lou will find that no knight of olden time would have fought for her
quicker than I will. Mother says she is one who must have her romance.
She may have it with a vengeance. It may open her eyes to the truth
that a spirit like mine brooks no opposition, and when she sees that I
am ready to face death for her she will admire, respect, and yield to a
nature that is haughty and like that of the old nobility."
Thus he blinded himself in these vain, silly vaporings, the result of a
false training and the reading of stilted romances. The thought of
studying the girl's character, of doing and being in some degree what
would be agreeable to her, never occurred to him. That kind of good
sense rarely does occur to the egotistical, who often fairly exasperate
those whom they would please by utter blindness to the simple things
which ARE pleasing. Miss Lou had read more old romances than he, but
she speedily outgrew the period in which she was carried away by the
fantastic heroes described. They became in her fancy the other extreme
of the matter-of-fact conditions in which her uncle and aunt had lived,
and as we have seen, she longed to know the actual world, to meet with
people who did not seem alien to her young and natural sympathies. Each
new character she met became a kind of revelation to her. She was the
opposite pole of the society belle, whose eyes have wearied of
humanity, who knows little and cares less for anything except her
mirrored image. With something of the round-eyed curiosity and interest
of a child, she looked at every new face, asking herself, "What is he
like?" not whether he will like and admire me, although she had not a
little feminine pleasure in discovering that strangers were inclined to
do this. Her disapproval of Maynard arose chiefly from the feeling that
his gallantry at such a time, with the dead and dying all about them,
was "more shocking than a game of cards on Sunday." She regarded his
attentions, glances, tones, as mere well-bred persiflage, indulged in
for his own amusement, and she put him down as a trifler for his pains.
That he, as she would phrase it, "was just smitten without any rhyme or
reason" seemed preposterous. She had done nothing for him as she had
for Scoville. The friendly or the frankly admiring looks of strangers,
the hearty gratitude and goodwill of the wounded, she could accept with
as much pleasure as any of her sex; but she had not yet recognized that
type of man who looks at a pretty woman and is disposed to make love to
her at once. "Why does Captain Maynard stare at me so?" she asked
herself, "when I don't care a thistle for him and never will. Why
should I care? Why should he care? Does he think I'm silly and shallow
enough to be amused by this kind of thing when that brave old colonel
is dying across the hall?"
It was a relief to her to escape from him and Whately and to visit even
poor Waldo, dying also, as she believed. "Dr. Ackley," she said, "you
may trust me to give him his food now every two hours. I won't break
down again."
"You did not break down, Miss Baron. All my nurses have their hours
off. Why shouldn't you? I reckon," he added, smiling, "you'll have to
obey my orders like the rest. I will go with you again on this visit."
To her the youth seemed ghastlier than ever, but the expression of
gladness in his eyes was unchanged.
"Miss Baron feels very remorseful that she has not been to see you
before," said Dr. Ackley, "but her labors yesterday were so many and
varied that she had to rest. She will do better by you to-day."
Waldo could only reach his hand feebly toward her in welcome. She took
the brown, shapely hand in both of hers and it made her sad to feel how
cold and limp it was. "But a few hours ago," she thought, "it was
striking blows with a heavy sabre."--"I have brought you some strong,
hot soup," she said gently, "and shall bring it every two hours. You'll
be very good and take it from me, won't you?"
He laughed as he nodded assent.
"When can I begin to read to him, doctor, to help him pass the time?"
"Perhaps to-morrow if he does well, but never more than a few minutes
together until I permit. Slow and sure, Waldo, slow and sure are my
orders, and you are too good a soldier to disobey."
He shook his head mischievously and whispered "Insubordinate."
The doctor nodded portentously and said, "If you and Miss Baron don't
obey orders I'll put you both under arrest."
This seemed to amuse the young fellow immensely and he was about to
speak again, but the surgeon put his finger to his lips and departed.
As she was feeding him with eyes full of gentle commiseration his lips
framed the words, "You can talk to me."
She scarcely knew how to do this. There were questions she was eager to
ask, for his strange, exuberant happiness under the circumstances were
hard to understand, even after Dr. Ackley's explanation. She had never
seen religion produce any such results. Uncle Lusthah seemed to her
very sincere and greatly sustained in his faith, but he had always been
to her a sorrowful, plaintive figure, mourning for lost kindred whom
slavery had scattered. Like the ancient prophets also, his heart was
ever burdened by the waywardness of the people whom he exhorted and
warned. In young Waldo appeared a joyousness which nothing could
quench. From the moment she obtained a clew to his unexpected behavior,
everything in his manner accorded with the surgeon's explanation. In
his boyish face and expression there was not a trace of the fanatical
or abnormal. He seemed to think of Heaven as he did of his own home,
and the thought of going to the one inspired much the same feeling as
returning to the other.
"Well," said Miss Lou, after a little hesitancy, "it is a pleasure to
wait on one who is so brave and cheerful. It makes me feel ashamed of
worrying over my troubles."
He motioned her to get something under his pillow and she drew out a
small Testament. With the ease of perfect familiarity he turned the
leaves and pointed to the words, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and
are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He looked up at her, smiled
brightly, and shook his head when he saw tears in her eyes. Again he
turned the leaves and pointed to other words, "Beloved, think it not
strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some
strange thing happened unto you: but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are
partakers of Christ's sufferings; that, when his glory shall be
revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy." His expression was
wonderfully significant in its content, for it was that of one who had
explained and accounted for everything.
"Oh," she faltered, "I wish I felt as you do, believed as you do. I
hope you will get strong soon. I would like to tell you some things
which trouble me very much, and there is no one I can tell."
"By and by," he whispered. "Don't worry. All right."
"Oh, what does this mean?" she thought as she returned to the house.
"Awfully wounded, suffering, dying perhaps, yet 'glad with an exceeding
joy'! Uncle and aunt haven't any idea of such a religion, and for some
reason Dr. Williams never gave me any such idea of it at church. Why
didn't he? Was it my fault? What he said seemed just words that made
little or no impression. Since he tried to marry me to Cousin Mad I
feel as if I could scarcely bear the sight of him."
Yet he was the first one to greet her on the veranda. He spoke with
formal kindness, but she responded merely by a grave salutation, and
passed on, for she felt that he should have understood and protected
her in the most terrible emergency of her young life.
Having looked after the safety of his family, he had returned with the
best and sincerest intentions to minister to the wounded. If the good
he would do corresponded with these intentions he would have been
welcomed in most instances; but he possessed that unfortunate
temperament which is only one remove for the better from a cold
indifference to his sacred duties. He did not possess a particle of
that mysterious, yet in his calling priceless, gift termed magnetism
for the lack of a better definition. All respected him, few warmed
toward him or thought of opening to him their hearts. His mind was
literal, and within it the doctrines were like labelled and separate
packages, from which he took from time to time what he wanted as he
would supplies from a store-room. God was to him a Sovereign and a
Judge who would save a few of the human race in exact accordance with
the creed of the Church in which the good man had been trained. What
would happen to those without its pale was one of those solemn
mysteries with which he had naught to do. Conscientious in his idea of
duty to the last degree, he nevertheless might easily irritate and
repel many minds by a rigid presentation of the only formula of faith
which he deemed safe and adequate. It seemed his chief aim to have
every form and ceremony of his Church complied with, and then his
responsibility ceased. He and Mr. Baron had taken solid comfort in each
other, both agreeing on every point of doctrine and politics. Both men
honestly felt that if the world could be brought to accept their view
of life and duty little would be left to be desired. When summoned to
perform the marriage ceremony Dr. Williams no more comprehended the
desperate opposition of Miss Lou to the will of her guardian, the
shrinking, instinctive protest of her woman's nature, than he did the
hostility of so many in the world to the tenets of his faith. His
inability to understand the feelings, the mental attitude of others who
did not unquestioningly accept his views and approve the action of the
"powers that be" was perhaps the chief obstacle to his usefulness. He
was not in the least degree intolerant or vindictive toward those who
opposed him; his feeling rather was, "This is your opportunity. I
gladly afford it and there my responsibility ceases"--a comfortable
sort of belief to many, but one that would not satisfy a warm, earnest
nature like Paul's, who said, "To the weak I became as weak, that I
might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by
all means save some." Paul would have found some way to reach the ear
and heart of nearly every wounded man in the extemporized hospital, but
for the reasons suggested the visits of poor Dr. Williams soon began to
be very generally dreaded. Old Uncle Lusthah had far better success
with those who would listen to him.
Miss Lou soon found her way to the Federal wounded again. While
agreeably to her wishes there was no formality in her reception, it was
evident that the poor fellows had now learned to regard her with deep
affection.
"I have told them all," said Dr. Borden who received her, "that you did
as Yarry wished, that you took a good rest and were looking this
morning as you should, and it has pleased them greatly. Phillips died
last night, and has been removed. He hadn't any chance and did not
suffer much. Remembering your wishes, we kept Yarry here. He lies there
as if he were dozing after his pipe, as he wished you to think."
The girl stepped to the side of the dead soldier and for a moment or
two looked silently into the still, peaceful face. Quietly and
reverently the surgeon and others took off their hats and waited till
she should speak. "Oh," she breathed softly at last, "how thoughtful
and considerate you have been! You have made this brave, unselfish man
look just as if he were quietly sleeping in his uniform. There is
nothing terrible or painful in his aspect as he lies there on his side.
Poor generous-hearted fellow! I believe he is at rest, as now he seems
to be. I want you all to know," she added, looking round, "that he
shall be buried where I can often visit his grave and keep it from
neglect, for I can never forget the kindness that he--that you all have
shown me. Dr. Borden, I will now show Uncle Lusthah the place where I
wish the grave to be, and when all is ready I will come and follow poor
Yarry to it. Do you think there ought to be a minister? There is one
here now--Dr. Williams, who has a church near the Court House."
"Just as you wish, Miss Baron. For one, I think a prayer from Uncle
Lusthah, as you call him, would do just as well and be more in
accordance with Yarry's feelings if he could express them. The old
negro has been in and out nearly all night, waiting on the men, and has
won their goodwill. He certainly is a good old soul."
"I agree with the doctor," added Captain Hanfield. "Were it my case I'd
ask nothing better than a prayer from Uncle Lusthah over my grave, for
he has acted like a good, patient old saint among us."
A murmur of approval from the others followed these words, and so it
was arranged. Uncle Lusthah was soon found, and he followed the girl to
the shadow of a great pine by the run and adjacent to the grassy plot
with which the girl would ever associate Allan Scoville. It was there
that she had looked into his eyes and discovered what her own heart was
now teaching her to understand.
Aun' Jinkey followed them from her cabin and asked, "Wat you gwine ter
do yere, honey?"
"Bury here a Northern soldier who has done me a very great honor."
"Oh, Miss Lou, I des feared ter hab 'im so neah de cabin."
"Hush!" said the girl, almost sternly. "Uncle Lusthah, you ought to
teach mammy better than that."
"Ah, youn' mistis, hit's bred in de bone. I des mourns ober my people,
'fusin' ter be comf'ted. Yere Aun' Jinkey, gittin' gray lak me. She a
'fessor ob religion, ye de word 'spook' set her all a tremble. Ef dey
is spooks, Aun' Jinkey, w'at dat ter you? Dere's tunder en lightnin' en
yearthquakes en wurin' iliments en all kin' ob miseries ob de body. Who
gwine ter keep all dem fum yo' cabin? Reck'n you betteah trus' de Lawd
'bout spooks too."
"You don't believe in any such foolishness, Uncle Lusthah?"
"Well, young mistis, I gettin 'po'ful ole en I al'ays yeared on spooks
sence I kin reckermember. I neber seed one fer sho, but I'se had
strange 'sper'ences o' nights, en dar's dem w'at sez dey has seen de
sperets ob de 'parted. I dunno. Dere's sump'n in folk's buzzums dat
takes on quar sometimes, ez ef we libin' mighty close onter a worl' we
kyant mos' al'ays see. Dat ar doan trouble me nohow, en Aun' Jinkey
orter know bettah. Ef de Lawd 'mits spooks, dat He business. He 'mits
lots ob tings we kyant see troo. Look at dese yere old han's, young
mistis. Dey's wuked nigh on eighty yeah, yit dey neber wuked fer mysef,
dey neber wuked fer wife en chil'n. Dat mo' quar dan spooks."
"I don't know but you are right," said the girl thoughtfully. "I didn't
know you felt so about being free. Aun' Jinkey never seemed to trouble
much about it."
"I'se 'feared Aun' Jinkey tink a heap on de leeks en inions ob Egypt."
"Dar now, Uncle Lusthah, you po'ful good man, but you owns up you doan
know nufin' 'bout spooks, en I knows you doan know nufin' 'bout
freedom."
"Yes I does," replied Uncle Lusthah. "Ef de day come w'en I kin stan'
up en say fer sho, 'I own mysef, en God ony my Mars'r,' I kin starbe ef
dat He will. En dat' minds me, young mistis. IS we free? Perkins
growlin' roun' agin dis mawnin', en say we he'p 'bout de horspital
ter-day, but we all go ter wuk ter-morrer. I 'lowed he orter talk ter
us 'bout wages en he des larf en cuss me. Wat's gwine ter be de end?
Marse Scoville en de big Linkum gin'ral say we free, en Perkins larf
'temptuous like. We des all a-lookin' ter you, young mistis."
"Oh, uncle! what can I do?"
"Shame on you, Uncle Lusthah, fer pilin' up sech a heap ob 'plexity on
my honey," cried Aun' Jinkey, who was as practical as she was
superstitious. "I kin tell you w'at ter do. I doan projeck en smoke in
my chimbly-corner fer not'n. W'at kin you do but do ez you tole twel
Marse Scoville en de Linkum gin'ral come agin? S'pose you say you woan
wuk en woan 'bey, how you hole out agin Perkins en Mad Whately? Dey'd
tar you all ter pieces. Dey say dis wah fer freedom. Whar yo' patience
twel de wah'll end? De Yanks mus' do mo' dan say we free; dey mus' keep
us free. Dar Aun' Suke. She say she free one minit en a slabe nex'
minute twel her haid mos' whirl off her shol'ers. Now she say, 'I doan
know 'bout dis freedom business; I does know how ter cook en I'se
gwinter cook twel dey gets troo a whirlin' back en forth.' You says I
mus' trus' de Lawd 'bout spooks, Uncle Lusthah. W'y kyant you trus' de
Lawd 'bout freedom?"
The old man shook his head sorrowfully, for Aun' Suke and Aun' Jinkey's
philosophy didn't satisfy him. "I'se willin' ter do my shar," he said
musingly, "de Lawd knows I be. Ef I cud die lak po' Marse Yarry en de
oders fer freedom I'se willin' ter die."
"Now, Uncle Lusthah, your strong feeling and not your good sense
speaks," said Miss Lou, who had been thinking earnestly, meanwhile
recalling Scoville's prediction that the negroes might come to her for
help and counsel. "Aun' Jinkey is certainly right in this case, and you
must tell all our people from me that their only safe course now is to
obey all orders and bide their time. Perkins' authority would be
sustained by all the soldiers on the place and anything like
disobedience would be punished severely. If what Lieutenant Scoville
and the Northern general said is true you will soon be free without
useless risks on your part. If that time comes I want you and mammy to
stay with me. You shall be as free as I am and I'll give you wages."
"Dar now, young mistis, ef I know I free I bress de Lawd fer de charnce
ter gib my wuk ter you. Dere's a po'ful dif'unce 'twix' bein' took en
kep en des gibin' yosef out ob yo' own heart. Slav'y couldn't keep me
fum gibin' mysef ter de Lawd en I been He free man many a long yeah, en
I be yo' free man, too, fer lub."
"Look yere, now, honey," added Aun' Jinkey, wiping her eyes with her
apron, "you kin bury sogers all 'bout de cabin ef you wanter. Uncle
Lusthah kyant do mo' fer you, honey, ner me, tookin resks ob spooks.
Des bury dem sogers, ef you wanter, right un'er my win'er."