GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS
Dr. Borden's predictions were verified in regard to his friend and
patient, Captain Hanfield, but not before the officer had dictated
calm, farewell letters to his wife and "little Sadie." To Miss Lou were
left the serene, smiling likenesses, a grave to be cared for beside
Yarry's, and a memory that could never be blotted out. She was kept
from witnessing the terrible convulsions which began soon after her
interview, but was present at his death and held his hand until it was
cold and lifeless.
Within two weeks after the battle very few patients were left, and all
these were to go with Dr. Ackley on the following day, Lieutenant Waldo
excepted. He was still too weak to be moved. His mother had become so
skilful in the care of his wound that she would be competent, with the
help of an aged resident practitioner, to carry him through his
convalescence. Mrs. Whately now spent most of the time on her
plantation, her presence being needed there to remedy the effects, as
far as possible, of the harsh measures at first adopted by her son. It
was discouraging effort. The strong ebb tide in the old order of things
had set in even far from the Union lines, and only the difficulty in
reaching them prevented a general stampede of the negroes. As it was,
two or three of her best hands would steal away from time to time, and
run the gantlet of many dangers in their travel by night Northward. Her
attempts to mollify and render her slaves contented were more than
counterbalanced by the threats and severity of her son, who was too
vacillating to adopt a fixed policy, and arbitrary by nature.
Her chief hope for him still centred in Miss Lou, upon whom his
thoughts were fixed with a steadfastness and earnestness which his
mother fondly believed would win her eventually, "I'm sure," she
reasoned, "Captain Maynard has made no deep impression. He is about to
depart. All will soon be gone, and the old monotony of plantation life
will be resumed. After what has happened Louise will not be able to
endure this. Madison will return, older and wiser from experience and
she, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts will react, like all
impulsive natures, from her opposition. Next to winning her or her
favor from the start, he has scored a success in waking a hostility far
removed from fatal indifference."
She maintained an affectionate manner toward her niece and never
discussed the hope she entertained and expectation of calling her
daughter. In truth, she had won the girl's respect and goodwill in a
very high degree. She had been a kind and successful nurse among the
wounded, confining her efforts chiefly to the Confederates. She had
also been a dignified lady in all the scenes they had passed through.
Her weakness was her son, yet the girl was compelled to admit that it
was the weakness of love. In seeking to bring about the detested union
a motherly heart and feeling toward her had ever been apparent.
The girl was already becoming depressed by a presentiment of the dull,
stagnant days to come. Scoville had been lost in the great outside,
unknown world completely. She was suffering from reaction after the
strong excitements and fatigues of her experience. Her two lovers,
remaining on the scene, possessed a sort of goading interest which
compelled her to think of them, but she contemplated their near
departure without regret. Nothing in her nature answered to their
looks, words and evident desires. She felt that she would as soon marry
one as the other, and that she would rather be buried beside Captain
Hanfield and take the journey of which Uncle Lusthah had quaintly
spoken than wed either. Yet in her lassitude she feared that she could
now be compelled to marry either or any one if enough active force was
employed, so strangely had ebbed her old fearless spirit.
It were with a kind of wondering pity that she looked at Maynard and
saw the evidences of an honest, ardent attachment. "Why does he feel
so?" she asked herself. "I have done nothing for him, given no
encouragement, and would not care if I never saw him again. I merely
wish him well, as I do so many others. Why can't he see this, and just
act on the truth? He says he is coming to see me every chance he gets
and tries to make me feel that he'll never give me up. Perhaps if I
should let him speak plainly he would see how useless it all would be."
Circumstances apparently favored the half-formed purpose. Languid from
the heat of the day, she went out on the piazza after supper, sat down
on the upper step and leaned against a rose-entwined pillar. Maynard
was entranced by the picture she made and promptly availed himself of
the opportunity. Every one else had disappeared except Zany, of whom
glimpses could be caught through the open windows of the supper-room;
but she did not count. Sitting on a lower step so as to be in a measure
at her feet Maynard began.
"Miss Baron, I am thinking very sadly, if you are not, over the fact
that I am to go away in the morning."
"Yes," she replied, half-consciously ignoring his personal view, "the
old house and plantation will soon be as quiet and deserted as before."
"Do you regret this?"
"I scarcely know. I am very tired and feel sad over all that has
happened. Perhaps I'll feel differently by and by, when I've rested and
had time to think."
"Oh, Miss Baron, if you knew how earnestly I hope to be remembered in
those thoughts, to give you something definite to think of."
She had scarcely the energy to check him, the thought occurring more
than once, "I might just as well let him speak his mind and see how
vain his hope is."
"You have not given me encouragement," he resumed. "You have seemed too
preoccupied, sad or weary; but this phase of your life will pass away.
Our glorious cause must soon be crowned with success. If I survive, may
I not hope that when I come again you will give me a hearing, a chance?
I can be patient, even though not patient by nature. I will do all that
a man--"
"Captain," interrupted the girl, at last, "I suppose, from the books
I've read, I should make some fine speeches about the honor you are
bestowing on me, and all that. I'm too tired and sad for anything
conventional and appropriate. I'm just going to answer you like a
simple, honest girl. One of my chief reasons for sadness is that you
feel as you do. I see no reason for it. I'm glad you say I've given you
no encouragement, I know I have not. Why should you care so for me when
I do not and cannot respond at all? I do sincerely wish you well, but
it seems to me that it should be enough for a man when a girl listens
to such words as yours in weary sadness only."
"It may be hard indeed for a man to recognize this truth, Miss Baron,
but I am not speaking of the present--of the future rather. There has
been much to make you sad and weary. Your very youth and high spirit
will soon lead you to react from your present depression. Let me speak
of the future. Please let me fill that with hope for you and for me."
"Oh, I don't know about the future. For some reason I dread even to
think of it."
At this instant Whately galloped to the piazza, threw the reins on the
neck of his horse as he dismounted, evidently not caring in his
perturbation where the animal wandered. He was in a bad mood, for
things were not going smoothly at home. The attitude of his rival at
his cousin's feet stung him into a jealous rage and he remarked
bitterly as he strode past them, "Don't let my inopportune arrival
disturb this charming tete-a-tete. In fact, I had no business to remain
at my uncle's home at all, even at the call of duty, after Captain
Maynard signified his intention of making it the long-continued field
of his operations."
Cut to the quick, Maynard sprang to his feet, but Miss Lou merely made
a gesture of annoyance and went to her room.
"Lieutenant Whately," began the captain in low, stern tones, "were I
not in some sense a guest, even though an unwelcome one--"
"You are no guest of mine, sir, nor indeed of anyone that I am aware
of."
"Thank you. I was haunted by some restraining consideration of Southern
hospitality, but if I am free--"
"You are perfectly free, sir," again interrupted Whately, dropping his
hand on the hilt of his sabre. "Let me also add that a Southern
gentleman would not have made Southern hospitality a subterfuge for an
opportunity to press a suit repugnant to the family concerned. We have
never failed in hospitality to any invited guest."
"Your words are offensive, sir."
"I mean them to be so."
"Very well; then I have but one answer. I challenge you. Choose your
weapons, hour and place of meeting."
"Revolvers, if you please. Meet me back of the grove yonder, at the
right of the house, at daybreak."
"I'll not fail you. There is no need of seconds in this affair, I take
it, and we are to keep our purpose secret. Dr. Ackley would interfere
and the family be distressed were our intentions known."
"No one need know till our shots are heard and then it will be too late
to interfere. I insist that we fight to the death."
"Certainly, if that's your wish. Good-evening, sir."
"Good-evening," and Whately went to his room to remove the dust of his
ride and prepare for the late supper which his aunt had ordered for him.
This lady, hearing his step in the hall, hastened downstairs and called
for Zany. "Yassum," came in quick response. The young woman emerged
from the dining-room looking as stolid as a wooden image.
"Attend to Lieutenant Whately's supper and see that he has the best you
can get for him."
"Yassum."
Mrs. Baron then repaired to her husband's office, where he and Surgeon
Ackley were closeted, making up the accounts relating to the occupation
of the property for hospital purposes. Maynard lighted his pipe, and
strolled out into the grounds. He was in a cold, deadly mood of anger.
There was just enough sting of truth in Whately's words to make the
insult unendurable. Added to this was intense exasperation that he had
been interrupted at a critical and, as he believed, a hopeful, moment.
He had seen that the girl was not ready for his suit or that of any one
at present, but was quite sure he could have won permission to renew
his addresses in the future. Now--well, he was ready enough to fight to
the death and utterly oblivious of the still, serene beauty of the
night. He appeared but a shadow as he walked quietly under the trees,
but it was a shadow of death. An hour since and he was but a passionate
youth, full of ardent love and longing, vaguely inspired, under the
influence of his passion, toward all noble enthusiasms. At the touch of
a few words his heart overflowed with bitterness, and a cold,
vindictive hate rendered the hours interminable till he could aim a
bullet at his rival's heart, reckless meantime that another bullet was
aimed at his.
In his walk he passed the tent in which Lieutenant Waldo and his mother
were talking quietly of their home and the prospects of maintaining it
during the troublous times clearly foreseen.
"Mother," said Waldo, "have you any definite idea as to the success of
our arms?"
"No, Vincent, nor do I suppose we can at this remote plantation. We
only know that there is heavy fighting at various points and great
successes are claimed; but it seems very hard to get at the real truth.
Our chief confidence must be in the sacredness and justness of our
cause and in the prayers of so many sincere hearts to the God of
justice. In giving you, my son, to our country, when you were scarcely
more than a boy, you can understand why I feel that such sacrifices
cannot be in vain. Now that I have watched beside you in your patient,
heroic suffering, the feeling becomes a conviction that our sunny land
must be enriched and blessed for all time by such blood as yours."
"Well, mother, I do not begrudge my blood or my life. You have taught
me that to die is gain; but almost hourly I pray for recovery that I
may soon rejoin my regiment and do more toward achieving our liberty.
How strange it is that men of the North should be animated by much the
same spirit! Miss Baron has been showing me the lovely faces of the
wife and daughter of a Federal officer who died heroically a few days
ago. She says the war is all a dreadful mystery to her."
"I am beginning to understand her better," replied Mrs. Waldo musingly,
"for to some extent she has given me her confidence. If she had been
brought up as you have been she would feel as you do. I can see why her
uncle and aunts have not won her sympathy, while her cousin's conduct
has been well calculated to alienate her. I can also understand why the
negroes on the place have so enlisted her sympathy. I do not think they
have been treated very harshly, but it is too clear that they are
regarded simply as property, and Mr. Baron has allowed himself to be
represented among them by a brutal, coarse-fibred man. If she had been
your sister and had witnessed the spirit in which our slaves are
governed and cared for she would feel as you do, not vindictive hatred
of the North--such feeling is not permissible toward any of the human
race--but a stern, lofty spirit of independence, such as our fathers
had in separating from England."
"Well, she is a brave, good girl, mother, and has been as kind to me as
if I were her brother."
"Very true, Vincent. She is a remarkably good girl for one brought up
as she has been. She has told me much about her past repressed, unhappy
life. I hope she may visit us some day."
Meantime, the subject of this conversation sat at her window looking
out into the warm, fragrant, starlit night. The words of Maynard, the
passionate resentment of her cousin toward the young captain merely
added to the heavy burden of experience which had been crowded into the
past few weeks. "Oh," she sighed longingly, "if I could only see Allan
Scoville! He is so strong, unselfish and restful. I could tell him
everything. He would know just how weary and depressed I am, nor would
he want me to do what I can't, what I'm not ready for. Oh, what a
blessed thing it would be to have a friend near who wasn't always
exacting or expecting or passionately urging something or other. I
wouldn't need urging in his case, and would even know his hand would be
the first to restrain me for my own good. Where is he now? Oh, he'd be
here if my thoughts could bring him, yet my two lovers would be eager
to take his life. Lovers indeed! Well, it's a strange, tangled up world
that I'm learning about."
Meantime Zany, bursting with her secret, was unable to tell any one,
and not yet sure she wished to tell. For one at her point of
civilization her motives were a little complex and sophisticated. In a
vicarious way she felt not a little the elation of many a high-born
dame that two men were about to fight over her young mistress,
regarding it as an undeniable compliment. She was also inclined to
indulge the cynical thought that it might save Miss Lou, Scoville,
Chunk--indeed, all in whom she was interested--further trouble if, as
she phrased it, "Dat ar young cap'n gib Mad Whately he way onst too
of'un. He des natchelly bawn ter mek folks trouble en I reck'n we git
on wid he spook bettah ner hesef."
Whately would not have relished his supper if he had divined the
thoughts of his waitress. As it was, he had little appetite for it and
paid his respects chiefly to his uncle's decanter. He felt no need of
false courage, but was irritated and depressed over the general aspect
of affairs, and here was an easy way of raising his spirits. By the
time he was ready to dispense with Zany's services he was so affected
by his potations that his aunt, who had appeared on the scene, hastened
his retirement. He told the sergeant of the guard to have him called at
daybreak and was soon asleep.
The indomitable housekeeper, Mrs. Baron, kept the girl busy until
everything was put away and the dining-room in perfect order. Meantime
Zany concluded that she had better tell Miss Lou. Her young mistress
might blame her severely if she did not, and keeping such a secret over
night would also be a species of torture.
When she was dismissed she watched her opportunity, whisked up to Miss
Lou's room, and was glad to find the girl still awake.
"Oh, Miss Lou," she whispered breathlessly, "I des got de orfulest,
quarest news, en I darsn't kep hit eny longer. Marse cap'n en Mad
Whately gwine ter fight 'bout you fo' sun-up."
"What!"
"Dey sut'ny is. Dey gwine ter fight one anoder 'bout you wid
'volvers--fight ter de deth dey said. I yeared dem troo de dine-room
winders."
"Oh, Zany! this is horrible!"
"Hit mout be wuss. Yo' cousin hot fer hit. He say orful tings ter marse
cap'n who didin't gib back a inch en sez, sez he, 'I challing you.
Shoose yo' weapons en place ob meetin'. Dem he berry words. Den yo'
cousin shose 'volvers en de far side ob de grobe up dar en said 'we
fight ter de deth.' Deth useter seem orful, Miss Lou, but sech a heap
ob mens die dat ef Mad Whately des set on dyin', w'y not let 'im hab he
way? Dat orter suit 'im bes'. I reck'n he mek we uns en Marse Scoville
en Chunk berry lil trouble arter he dead."
"Zany, Zany, that's a dreadful way to look at it. You should know
better. This meeting must be prevented. Where is my cousin?"
"He des sound a sleep ez a log," and she made it clear that there would
be no use in trying to remonstrate with him.
"Where's Captain Maynard?"
"Dunno. Sleepin' in he tent too, s'pose. Hit too late now, Miss Lou,
ter do anyting fo' mawnin'."
The girl thought deeply a few moments and then muttered, "Shame on them
both!"
"Dar now, Miss Lou, you doan reckermember dey payin' you a big
compelment."
"I shall tell them to their faces how I regard this outrage rather.
Still, for their sakes, as well as my own, I will keep the affair quiet
if I can. Zany, you must stay with me to-night and at the earliest dawn
we must watch them and be on the ground as soon as they are."
"Berry well, Miss Lou. I lak not'n bettah."
"Go to sleep, then. I won't sleep to-night."