you?"
"Tuck has gone home mad, an' he won't never come back no more," she
cried.
"What's the matter wi' 'im?"
"Oh, he's thes mad along er me."
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the old man, fumbling feebly in his
pockets for his red bandanna handkerchief, "what kind of a come-off is
this? Did you ast him to stay to dinner, honey?"
"No--no; he didn't gimme a chance."
"I 'lowed you didn't," exclaimed Grandsir Hightower triumphantly. "I
thes natchally 'lowed you didn't. That's what riled 'im. An' now he'll
go off an' vilify you. Well, well, well! he's missed his dinner! The
fust time in many's the long day. Watch 'im, Babe! Watch 'im, honey! The
Ole Boy's in 'im. I know 'im; I've kep' my two eyes on 'im. For a mess
er turnip-greens an' dumperlin's that man 'u'd do murder." The old man
paused and looked all around, as if by that means to dissipate a
suspicion that he was dreaming. "An' so Tuck missed his dinner! Tooby
shore--tooby shore!"
"Oh, hit ain't that," cried Babe; "he's jealous of Cap'n Chichester."
"Why, the good Lord, honey! what makes you run on that way?"
"He tol' me so," said Babe.
"Jealous!" exclaimed Grandsir Hightower, "jealous er that young feller!
Merciful powers, honey! he's a-begrudgin' 'im the vittles what he eats.
I know'd it the minnit I seed 'im come a-sa'nterin' in the yard. Lord,
Lord! I wish in my soul the poor creetur could git a chance at one er
them ar big Whig barbecues what they useter have."
But there was small consolation in all this for Babe; and she went into
the house, where her forlorn appearance attracted the attention of her
mother. "Why, Babe! what in the worl'!" exclaimed this practical woman,
dropping her work in amazement. "What in the name er sense ails you?"
Babe had no hesitation in telling her mother the facts.
"Well, my goodness!" was Mrs. Hightower's comment, "I wouldn't go aroun'
whinin' about it, ef I wuz you--that I wouldn't. Nobody never ketched me
whinin' 'roun' atter your pappy 'fore we wuz married, an' he wuz lots
purtier than what Tuck Peevy is. When your pappy got tetchy, I thes says
to myself, s'I: 'Ef I'm wuth havin', I'm wuth scramblin' atter;' an' ef
your pappy hadn't 'a' scrambled an' scuffled 'roun' he wouldn't 'a' got
me nuther, ef I do up an' say it myself. I'd a heap druther see you
fillin' them slays an' a-fixin' up for to weave your pappy some shirts,
than to see you a-whinin' 'roun' atter any chap on the top side er the
yeth, let 'lone Tuck Peevy."
There was little consolation even in this, but Babe went about her
simple duties with some show of spirit; and when her father and
Chichester returned from their trip on Sweetwater, it would have
required a sharp eye to discover that Babe regarded herself as "wearing
the green willow." For a few days she avoided Chichester, as if to prove
her loyalty to Peevy; but as Peevy was not present to approve her
conduct or to take advantage of it, she soon grew tired of playing an
unnecessary part. Peevy persisted in staying away; and the result was
that Babe's anger--a healthy quality in a young girl--got the better of
her grief. Then wonder took the place of anger; but behind it all was
the hope that before many days Peevy would saunter into the house, armed
with his inscrutable smile, and inquire, as he had done a hundred times
before, how long before dinner would be ready. This theory was held by
Grandsir Hightower, but, as it was a very plausible one, Babe adopted it
as her own.
Meanwhile, it is not to be supposed that two lovers, one sulking and the
other sighing, had any influence on the season. The spring had made
some delay in the valley before taking complete possession of the
mountain, but this delay was not significant. Even on the mountain, the
days began to suggest the ardor of summer. The air was alternately warm
and hazy, and crisp and clear. One day Kenesaw would cast aside its
atmospheric trappings, and appear to lie within speaking distance of
Hightower's door; the next, it would withdraw behind its blue veil, and
seem far enough away to belong to another world. On Hightower's farm the
corn was high enough to whet its green sabres against the wind. One
evening Chichester, Hightower, and Babe sat on the little porch with
their faces turned toward Kenesaw. They had been watching a line of blue
smoke on the mountain in the distance; and, as the twilight deepened
into dusk, they saw that the summit of Kenesaw was crowned by a thin
fringe of fire. As the darkness gathered, the bright belt of flame
projected against the vast expanse of night seemed to belong to the
vision of St. John.
"It looks like a picture out of the Bible," suggested Chichester
somewhat vaguely.
"It's wuss'n that, I reckon," said Abe. "Some un's a-losin' a mighty
sight of fencin'; an' timber's timber these days, lemme tell you."
"Maybe someun's a-burnin' bresh," said Babe.
"Bless you! they don't pile bresh in a streak a mile long," said Abe.
The thin line of fire crept along slowly, and the people on the little
porch sat and watched it. Occasionally it would crawl to the top of a
dead pine, and leave a fiery signal flaming in the air.
"What is the matter with Peevy?" asked Chichester. "I met him on the
mountain the other day, and he seemed not to know me."
"He don't know anybody aroun' here," said Babe with a sigh.
"Hit's thes some er his an' Babe's capers," Hightower remarked with a
laugh. "They er bin a-cuttin' up this away now gwine on two year'. I
reckon ag'in' camp-meetin' time Tuck'll drap in an' make hisself know'd.
Gals and boys is mighty funny wi' the'r gwines-on."
After a little, Abe went into the house, and left the young people to
watch the fiery procession on Kenesaw.
"The next time I see Peevy," said Chichester gallantly, "I'll take him
by the sleeve, and show him the road to Beauty's bower."
"Well, you nee'nter pester wi' 'im on account of me," said Babe.
Chichester laughed. The fact that so handsome a girl as Babe should
deliberately fall in love with so lank and ungainly a person as Tuck
Peevy seemed to him to be one of the problems that philosophers ought to
concern themselves with; but, from his point of view, the fact that Babe
had not gradually faded away, according to the approved rules of
romance, was entirely creditable to human nature on the mountain. A
candle, burning in the room that Chichester occupied, shone through the
window faintly, and fell on Babe, while Chichester sat in the shadow. As
they were talking, a mocking-bird in the apple trees awoke, and poured
into the ear of night a flood of delicious melody. Hearing this, Babe
seized Chichester's hat, and placed it on her head.
"There must be some omen in that," said Chichester.
"They say," said Babe, laughing merrily, "that ef a gal puts on a man's
hat when she hears a mocker sing at night, she'll get married that year
an' do well."
"Well, I'm sorry I haven't got a bonnet to put on," exclaimed
Chichester.
"Oh, it don't work that away!" cried Babe.
The mocking-bird continued to sing, and finally brought its concert to a
close by giving a most marvelous imitation of the liquid, silvery chimes
of the wood-thrush.
There was a silence for one brief moment. Then there was a red flash
under the apple trees followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. There was
another brief moment of silence, and then the young girl sighed softly,
leaned forward, and fell from her chair.
"What's this?" cried Abe, coming to the door.
"The Lord only knows!" exclaimed Chichester. "Look at your daughter!"
Abe stepped forward, and touched the girl on the shoulder. Then he shook
her gently, as he had a thousand times when rousing her from sleep.
"Babe! git up! Git up, honey, an' go in the house. You ought to 'a'
been abed long ago. Git up honey." Chichester stood like one paralyzed.
For the moment, he was incapable of either speech or action.
"I know what sh'e atter," said Abe tenderly. "You wouldn't believe it
skacely, but this yer great big chunk of a gal wants her ole pappy to
pick her up an' tote her thes like he useter when she was er little bit
of a scrap."
"I think she has been shot," said Chichester. To his own ears his voice
seemed to be the voice of some other man.
"Shot!" exclaimed Abe. "Why, who's a-gwine to shoot Babe? Lord, Cap'n!
you dunner nothin' 'tall 'bout Babe ef you talk that away.--Come on,
honey." With that Abe lifted his child in his arms, and carried her into
the house. Chichester followed. All his faculties were benumbed, and he
seemed to be walking in a dream. It seemed that no such horrible
confusion as that by which he was surrounded could have the remotest
relation to reality.
Nevertheless, it did not add to his surprise and consternation to find,
when Abe had placed the girl on her bed, that she was dead. A little
red spot on her forehead, half-hidden by the glossy curling hair, showed
that whoever held the rifle aimed it well.
"Why, honey," said Abe, wiping away the slight blood-stain that showed
itself, "you struck your head a'in' a nail. Git up! you oughtn't to be
a-gwine on this away before comp'ny."
"I tell you she is dead!" cried Chichester. "She has been murdered!" The
girl's mother had already realized this fact, and her tearless grief was
something pitiful to behold. The gray-haired grandfather had also
realized it.
"I'd druther see her a-lyin' thar dead," he exclaimed, raising his weak
and trembling hands heavenward, "than to see her Tuck Peevy's wife."
"Why, gentermen!" exclaimed Abe, "how _kin_ she be dead? I oughter know
my own gal, I reckon. Many's an' many's the time she's worried me,
a-playin' 'possum, an' many's an' many's the time has I sot by her
waitin' tell she let on to wake up. Don't you all pester wi' her. She'll
wake up therreckly."
At this juncture Tuck Peevy walked into the room. There was a strange
glitter in his eyes, a new energy in his movements. Chichester sprang at
him, seized him by the throat, and dragged him to the bedside.
"You cowardly, skulking murderer!" he exclaimed, "see what you have
done!"
Peevy's sallow face grew ashen. He seemed to shrink and collapse under
Chichester's hand. His breath came thick and short. His long, bony
fingers clutched nervously at his clothes.
"I aimed at the hat!" he exclaimed huskily.
He would have leaned over the girl, but Chichester flung him away from
the bedside, and he sank down in a corner, moaning and shaking. Abe took
no notice of Peevy's entrance, and paid no attention to the crouching
figure mumbling in the corner, except, perhaps, so far as he seemed to
recognize in Chichester's attack on Peevy a somewhat vigorous protest
against his own theory; for, when there was comparative quiet in the
room, Hightower raised himself, and exclaimed, in a tone that showed
both impatience and excitement:
"Why, great God A'mighty, gentermen, don't go on that way! They hain't
no harm done. Thes let us alone. Me an' Babe's all right. She's bin
a-playin' this away ev'ry sence she wuz a little bit of a gal. Don't
less make her mad, gentermen, bekaze ef we do she'll take plum tell day
atter to-morrer for to come 'roun' right."
Looking closely at Hightower, Chichester could see that his face was
colorless. His eyes were sunken, but shone with a peculiar brilliancy,
and great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. His whole
appearance was that of a man distraught. Here was another tragedy!
Seeking a momentary escape from the confusion and perplexity into which
he had been plunged by the horrible events of the night, Chichester
passed out into the yard, and stood bareheaded in the cool wind that was
faintly stirring among the trees. The stars shone remote and tranquil,
and the serenity of the mountain, the awful silence that seemed to be,
not the absence of sound, but the presence of some spiritual entity,
gave assurance of peace. Out there, in the cold air, or in the wide
skies, or in the vast gulf of night, there was nothing to suggest
either pity or compassion--only the mysterious tranquillity of nature.
This was the end, so far as Chichester knew. He never entered the
Hightower house again. Something prompted him to saddle his horse and
ride down the mountain. The tragedy and its attendant troubles were
never reported in the newspapers. The peace of the mountain remained
undisturbed, its silence unbroken.
But should Chichester, who at last accounts was surveying a line of
railway in Mexico, ever return to Lost Mountain, he would find Tuck
Peevy a gaunt and shrunken creature, working on the Hightower farm, and
managing such of its small affairs as call for management. Sometimes,
when the day's work is over, and Peevy sits at the fireside saying
nothing, Abe Hightower will raise a paralytic hand, and cry out as loud
as he can that it's almost time for Babe to quit playing 'possum. At
such times we may be sure that, so far as Peevy is concerned, there is
still trouble on Lost Mountain.
AZALIA
I
MISS HELEN OSBORNE EUSTIS of Boston was very much astonished one day in
the early fall of 1873 to receive a professional visit from Dr. Ephraim
Buxton, who for many years had been her father's family physician. The
astonishment was mutual; for Dr. Buxton had expected to find Miss Eustis
in bed, or at least in the attitude of a patient, whereas she was seated
in an easy chair, before a glowing grate--which the peculiarities of the
Boston climate sometimes render necessary, even in the early fall--and
appeared to be about as comfortable as a human being could well be.
Perhaps the appearance of comfort was heightened by the general air of
subdued luxury that pervaded the apartment into which Dr. Buxton had
been ushered. The draperies, the arrangement of the little affairs that
answer to the name of bric-a-brac, the adjustment of the
furniture--everything--conveyed the impression of peace and repose; and
the chief element of this perfect harmony was Miss Eustis herself, who
rose to greet the doctor as he entered. She regarded the physician with
eyes that somehow seemed to be wise and kind, and with a smile that was
at once sincere and humorous.
"Why, how is this, Helen?" Dr. Buxton exclaimed, taking off his
spectacles, and staring at the young lady. "I fully expected to find you
in bed. I hope you are not imprudent."
"Why should I be ill, Dr. Buxton? You know what Mr. Tom Appleton says:
'In Boston, those who are sick do injustice to the air they breathe and
to their cooks.' I think that is a patriotic sentiment, and I try to
live up to it. My health is no worse than usual, and usually it is very
good," said Miss Eustis.
"You certainly seem to be well," said Dr. Buxton, regarding the young
lady with a professional frown; "but appearances are sometimes
deceitful. I met Harriet yesterday--"
"Ah, my aunt!" exclaimed Helen, in a tone calculated to imply that this
explained everything.
"I met Harriet yesterday, and she insisted on my coming to see you at
once, certainly not later than to-day."
Miss Eustis shrugged her shoulders, and laughed, but her face showed
that she appreciated this manifestation of solicitude.
"Let me see," she said reflectively; "what was my complaint yesterday?
We must do justice to Aunt Harriet's discrimination. She would never
forgive you if you went away without leaving a prescription. My health
is so good that I think you may leave me a mild one."
Unconsciously the young lady made a charming picture as she sat with her
head drooping a little to one side in a half-serious, half-smiling
effort to recall to mind some of the symptoms that had excited her
aunt's alarm. Dr. Buxton, prescription book in hand, gazed at her
quizzically over his old-fashioned spectacles; seeing which, Helen
laughed heartily. At that moment her aunt entered the room--a
pleasant-faced but rather prim old lady, of whom it had been said by
some one competent to judge, that her inquisitiveness was so
overwhelming and so important that it took the shape of pity in one
direction, patriotism in another, and benevolence in another, giving to
her life not the semblance but the very essence of usefulness and
activity.
"Do you hear that, Dr. Buxton?" cried the pleasant-faced old lady
somewhat sharply. "Do you hear her wheeze when she laughs? Do you
remember that she was threatened with pneumonia last winter? and now she
is wheezing before the winter begins!"
"This is the trouble I was trying to think of," exclaimed Helen, sinking
back in her chair with a gesture of mock despair.
"Don't make yourself ridiculous, dear," said the aunt, giving the little
clusters of gray curls that hung about her ears an emphatic shake.
"Serious matters should be taken seriously." Whereat Helen pressed her
cheek gently against the thin white hand that had been laid caressingly
on her shoulder.
"Aunt Harriet has probably heard me say that there is still some hope
for the country, even though it is governed entirely by men," said
Helen, with an air of apology. "The men can not deprive us of the winter
climate of Boston, and I enjoy that above all things."
Aunt Harriet smiled reproachfully at her niece, and pulled her ear
gently.
"But indeed, Dr. Buxton," Helen went on more seriously, "the winter
climate of Boston, fine as it is, is beginning to pinch us harder than
it used to do. The air is thinner, and the cold is keener. When I was
younger--very much younger--than I am now, I remember that I used to run
in and out, and fall and roll in the snow with perfect impunity. But now
I try to profit by Aunt Harriet's example. When I go out, I go bundled
up to the point of suffocation; and if the wind is from the east, as it
usually is, I wear wraps and shawls indoors."
Helen smiled brightly at her aunt and at Dr. Buxton; but her aunt seemed
to be distressed, and the physician shook his head dubiously.
"You will have to take great care of yourself," said Dr. Buxton. "You
must be prudent. The slightest change in the temperature may send you
to bed for the rest of the winter."
"Dr. Buxton is complimenting you, Aunt Harriet," said Helen. "You should
drop him a courtesy."
Whereupon the amiable physician, seeing that there was no remedy for the
humorous view which Miss Eustis took of her condition, went further, and
informed her that there was every reason why she should be serious. He
told her, with some degree of bluntness, that her symptoms, while not
alarming, were not at all reassuring.
"It is always the way, Dr. Buxton," said Helen, smiling tenderly at her
aunt; "I believe you would confess to serious symptoms yourself if Aunt
Harriet insisted on it. What an extraordinary politician she would make!
My sympathy with the woman-suffrage movement is in the nature of an
investment. When we women succeed to the control of affairs, I count on
achieving distinction as Aunt Harriet's niece."
Laughing, she seized her aunt's hand. Dr. Buxton, watching her, laughed
too, and then proceeded to write out a prescription. He seemed to
hesitate a little over this; seeing which, Helen remonstrated:
"Pray, Dr. Buxton, don't humor Aunt Harriet too much in this. Save your
physic for those who are strong in body and mind. A dozen of your
pellets ought to be a year's supply." The physician wrote out his
prescription, and took his leave, laughing heartily at the amiable
confusion in which Helen's drollery had left her aunt.
It is not to be supposed, however, that Miss Eustis was simply droll.
She was unconventional at all times, and sometimes wilful--inheriting
that native strength of mind and mother wit which are generally admitted
to be a part of the equipment of the typical American woman. If she was
not the ideal young woman, at least she possessed some of the attractive
qualities that one tries--sometimes unsuccessfully--to discover in one's
dearest friends. From her infancy, until near the close of the war, she
had had the advantage of her father's companionship, so that her ideas
were womanly rather than merely feminine. She had never been permitted
to regard the world from the dormer-windows of a young ladies' seminary,
in consequence of which her views of life in general, and of mankind in
particular, were orderly and rational. Such indulgence as her father had
given her had served to strengthen her individuality rather than to
confirm her temper; and, though she had a strong and stubborn will of
her own, her tact was such that her wilfulness appeared to be the most
natural as well as the most charming thing in the world. Moreover, she
possessed in a remarkable degree that buoyancy of mind that is more
engaging than mere geniality.
Her father was no less a person than Charles Osborne Eustis, the noted
philanthropist and abolitionist, whose death in 1867 was the occasion of
quite a controversy in New England--a controversy based on the fact that
he had opposed some of the most virulent schemes of his coworkers at a
time when abolitionism had not yet gathered its full strength. Mr.
Eustis, in his day, was in the habit of boasting that his daughter had a
great deal of genuine American spirit--the spirit that one set of
circumstances drives to provinciality, another to patriotism, and
another to originality.
Helen had spent two long winters in Europe without parting with the fine
flavor of her originality. She was exceedingly modest in her designs,
too, for she went neither as a missionary nor as a repentant. She found
no foreign social shrines that she thought worthy of worshiping at. She
admired what was genuine, and tolerated such shams as obtruded
themselves on her attention. Her father's connections had enabled her to
see something of the real home-life of England; and she was delighted,
but not greatly surprised, to find that at its best it was not greatly
different from the home life to which she had been accustomed.
The discovery delighted her because it confirmed her own broad views;
but she no more thought it necessary to set about aping the social
peculiarities to be found in London drawing-rooms than she thought of
denying her name or her nativity. She made many interesting studies and
comparisons, but she was not disposed to be critical. She admired many
things in Europe which she would not have considered admirable in
America, and whatever she found displeasing she tolerated as the natural
outcome of social or climatic conditions. Certainly the idea never
occurred to her that her own country was a barren waste because time had
not set the seal of antiquity on its institutions. On the other hand,
this admirable young woman was quick to perceive that much information
as well as satisfaction was to be obtained by regarding various European
peculiarities from a strictly European point of view.
But Miss Eustis's reminiscences of the Old World were sad as well as
pleasant. Her journey thither had been undertaken in the hope of
restoring her father's failing health, and her stay there had been
prolonged for the same purpose. For a time he grew stronger and better,
but the improvement was only temporary. He came home to die, and to
Helen this result seemed to be the end of all things. She had devoted
herself to looking after his comfort with a zeal and an intelligence
that left nothing undone. This had been her mission in life. Her mother
had died when Helen was a little child, leaving herself and her brother,
who was some years older, to the care of the father. Helen remembered
her mother only as a pale, beautiful lady in a trailing robe, who fell
asleep one day, and was mysteriously carried away--the lady of a dream.