University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The day after Mrs. Darley's funeral, her sister-in-law
made her appearance at the farm-house with a mind
made up to business.

“Well, John,” began she, as soon as the preliminary
greetings were over, “Cephas says you told him this
morning you was going to enlist. Is that so?”

“Well, yes, I think some of it,” said Mr. Darley,
slowly. “You see Picter's gone.”

“Hain't you never heerd nothing from that nigger?”
asked Mrs. Wilson, indignantly.

“No; nor I don't expect to,” returned her brother,
concealing what he really did know, from an instinctive
desire to avoid the comments Mrs. Wilson would be sure
to make upon his wife's conduct.

“H'm. Run away, I suppose,” suggested the lady.
“Like enough it was he helped off that Yankee officer
that they was looking for round here. Joe Sykes said
all along he knew 'twas him that he see cutting acrost
from the barn to the house here. On'y Mary was so
sick that day that there wan't no good asking questions
of her nor the gal.”

“Yes, we'd something else to care for, before another
morning, than Yankees or niggers either,” said Darley,
gloomily.

“But,” pursued Mrs. Wilson, “that ain't what we
was saying. If you've made up your mind to jine the
army, what you going to do with the children?”

“Well, I've thought about that too,” returned her
brother; “and I've concluded to take Tom along with
me. He's sixteen years old, I believe, and as stout and
handy as any man. He'll do first rate, and I shall keep
him under my own hand.”

“But the gal, brother?”

“Well, I some thought of asking you to take her,
Polly. She's smart as a steel trap, and can earn her
salt anywheres —”

“She's too smart for me by half,” broke in Mrs. Wilson.
“A sassier young one I never did see; but it's
partly the fault of her bringing up, and she hadn't ought
to be give over without a try. I expected you'd say
just what you have said, John; and I'll tell you plain
just what I've made up my mind to do.

“I ain't a going to have no half-way works now. I
ain't a going to have the gal come to my house to be
company, and set with her hands in her lap all day. Nor
I ain't a going to have her, at the fust quick word, fly up
into my face like a young wildeat. Nor yet I ain't going
to have her, just as I've got her broke in and trained

some, go kiting off to live long o' some one else, whether
it's you or another.

“Now, what I'll do is this. I'll take the child, and
treat her just 'xactly like my own gals from fust to last;
and I shall have just the same power over her as I have
over them. I'll do well by her, and I'll make her do
well by me, if I know myself.”

“Well, sister, that's a good offer, and I thank you
kind for it, I'm sure,” began Mr. Darley; but his sister
interrupted him.

“Wait a bit,” said she, dryly; “I ain't one of them
as does something for nothing, quite. It's a resky business
and a costly business, this bringing up a gal, and
doing for her, and I'm a poor woman. But if you'll give
me your house'l stuff to boot, and Mary's clothes and
fallals, why, I'll say done.”

“You mean all that's in the house here?” asked
Darley.

“Yes; 'tain't much, nor 'twouldn't fetch much at auction,
'specially these times; but some of it'd come awful
handy over to our house, and some on't I could store
away against the gals get merried. Dora'll come in for
her full share, you may depend.”

“Yes, she'd ought to do that,” said Mr. Darley, reluctantly.
“And as for Mary's clothes, why, I think
the child had ought to have them, any way.”

“And so she shall, some of them; but there's some

that wouldn't suit her no way, though they'd do fust rate
for me. Men don't know nothing about sech things, and
you'd better leave it all to me. I shan't wrong the gal,
you may depend.”

“No, Polly, I don't s'pose you would. Nobody'd be
like to wrong a poor little motherless gal that was their
own flesh and blood. But I'm afraid Dora'll kind o' miss
home fashions. She's been used to having her own way,
pretty much, here at home, especially since her mother's
been laid up.”

“Yes; and in another year she'd ha' been spilte outright.
It's a chance, now, if she can be brought round.”

“O, I guess tain't quite so bad as that, Polly,” said
Mr. Darley, good-humoredly. “I guess she's a pretty
good sort of a gal yet. And I ain't going to give her up
neither. When my time's out I shall come and board
with you. You'll agree to take me?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” assented Mrs. Wilson, somewhat
ungraciously.

“And if I should ever get a home again, marrying or
any other way, why, I shall want her back; and, since
you're so sharp, I'll agree to let you keep all the stuff you
get with her, and, maybe, give you a present to boot.”

“Well, we can talk about that when the time comes,”
said Mrs. Wilson. “It's all settled now.”

“Yes, I reckon,” assented her brother, rather doubtfully.

At this moment a light foot came down the stairs into
the kitchen, and Dora herself appeared, looking very pale
and worn, but quite calm. She greeted her aunt quietly,
and went about some little household matter in her usual
steady manner.

“Come here, my gal,” said her father, holding out his
hand.

She went directly and stood beside him, her slender
hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. He put his arm
kindly about her.

“Here's your aunt, Dora, is going to let you come and
live with her, while Tom and I are gone to the war.
She's going to be real good and kind to you, and you'll
be the best girl that ever was to her; now won't you,
Dora?”

The child's face grew paler still, and her eyes lifted
themselves sharply to her aunt's face. She read there no
more promise than she had expected.

“How long am I to stay there, father?” asked she,
moving a little closer to his side.

“O, I don't know,” returned Mr. Darley, evasively.
“I expect I shall stay in the army till they fight it out;
and that won't be to-morrow, nor next week.”

“And when you are through, you will come for me
again?” questioned Dora.

Mr. Darley hesitated, and his sister answered for
him, —

“Now, John, what's the use of licking the devil round
the stump that way? The gal might as well know fust
as last that she's coming to me for good and all. Your
mother's dead, Dora, and 'tain't likely your father'll be
settled ag'in, — at any rate, not right away, — and he's
give you to me, to do for just as if you was my own;
and that's all about it.”

Without a word, Dora turned away and went into her
mother's bedroom, closing and buttoning the door after
her. There, all alone, upon the bed where her dear
mother had died, she silently wept the first tears she had
shed since that loss came upon her. But hers were not
the tears that soften and comfort tender hearts; they
were bitter, despairing tears, and they left her who shed
them determined and desperate.

“I was afraid she wouldn't like it,” said Mr. Darley,
in a tone of regret, when he was alone with his sister.

“Temper, that's all,” replied Mrs. Wilson, sharply.
“She's spilte, and that's all that's to be said. But she'll
come to after a while, when she finds she can't help
herself.”

“Maybe; but you ain't going to be ha'sh with the
child, Polly. I won't have that,” said the father, anxiously.

“Don't you worry. I shan't eat her up, you needn't
believe,” sniffed the indignant matron; and Mr. Darley
tried to think all was satisfactorily arranged.