any more. To the father and sister waiting at home, it seemed as if he
had been seized and swept from the earth on the bosom of the storm that
broke over the country in that period of dire confusion. Even Rumor,
with her thousand tongues, had little to say of the fate of this poor
youth. It was known that he led a squad of troopers detailed for special
service, and that his command, with small knowledge of the country, fell
into an ambush from which not more than two or three extricated
themselves. Beyond this all was mystery, for those who survived that
desperate skirmish could say nothing of the fate of their companions.
The loss of his son gave Mr. Eustis additional interest in his daughter,
if that were possible; and the common sorrow of the two so strengthened
and sweetened their lives that their affection for each other was in the
nature of a perpetual memorial of the pale lady who had passed away, and
of the boy who had perished in Virginia.
When Helen's father died, in 1867, her mother's sister, Miss Harriet
Tewksbury, a spinster of fifty or thereabouts, who, for the lack of
something substantial to interest her, had been halting between woman's
rights and Spiritualism, suddenly discovered that Helen's cause was the
real woman's cause; whereupon she went to the lonely and grief-stricken
girl, and with that fine efficiency which the New England woman acquires
from the air, and inherits from history, proceeded to minister to her
comfort. Miss Tewksbury was not at all vexed to find her niece capable
of taking care of herself. She did not allow that fact to prevent her
from assuming a motherly control that was most gracious in its
manifestations, and peculiarly gratifying to Helen, who found great
consolation in the all but masculine energy of her aunt.
A day or two after Dr. Buxton's visit, the result of which has already
been chronicled, Miss Tewksbury's keen eye detected an increase of the
symptoms that had given her anxiety, and their development was of such a
character that Helen made no objection when her aunt proposed to call in
the physician again. Dr. Buxton came, and agreed with Miss Tewksbury as
to the gravity of the symptoms; but his prescription was oral.
"You must keep Helen indoors until she is a little stronger," he said to
Miss Tewksbury, "and then take her to a milder climate."
"Oh, not to Florida!" exclaimed Helen promptly.
"Not necessarily," said the doctor.
"Please don't twist your language, Dr. Buxton. You should say
necessarily not."
"And why not to Florida, young lady?" the doctor inquired.
"Ah, I have seen people that came from there," said Helen: "they were
too tired to talk much about the country, but something in their
attitude and appearance seemed to suggest that they had seen the
sea-serpent. Dear doctor, I have no desire to see the sea-serpent."
"Well, then, my dear child," said Dr. Buxton soothingly, "not to
Florida, but to nature's own sanitarium, the pine woods of Georgia.
Yes," the doctor went on, smiling as he rubbed the glasses of his
spectacles with his silk handkerchief, "nature's own sanitarium. I
tested the piny woods of Georgia thoroughly years ago. I drifted there
in my young days. I lived there, and taught school there. I grew strong
there, and I have always wanted to go back there."
"And now," said Helen, with a charmingly demure glance at the
enthusiastic physician, "you want to send Aunt Harriet and poor Me
forward as a skirmish-line. There is no antidote in your books for the
Ku-Klux."
"You will see new scenes and new people," said Dr. Buxton, laughing.
"You will get new ideas; above all, you will breathe the fresh air of
heaven spiced with the odor of pines. It will be the making of you, my
dear child."
Helen made various protests, some of them serious and some droll, but
the matter was practically settled when it became evident that Dr.
Buxton was not only earnestly but enthusiastically in favor of the
journey; and Helen's aunt at once began to make preparations. To some of
their friends it seemed a serious undertaking indeed. The newspapers of
that day were full of accounts of Ku-Klux outrages, and of equally
terrible reports of the social disorganization of the South. It seemed
at that time as though the politicians and the editors, both great and
small, and of every shade of belief, had determined to fight the war
over again--instituting a conflict which, though bloodless enough so far
as the disputants were concerned, was not without its unhappy results.
Moreover, Helen's father had been noted among those who had early
engaged in the crusade against slavery; and it was freely predicted by
her friends that the lawlessness which was supposed to exist in every
part of the collapsed Confederacy would be prompt to select the
representatives of Charles Osborne Eustis as its victims.
Miss Tewksbury affected to smile at the apprehensions of her friends,
but her preparations were not undertaken without a secret dread of the
responsibilities she was assuming. Helen, however, was disposed to treat
the matter humorously. "Dr. Buxton is a lifelong Democrat," she said;
"consequently he must know all about it. Father used to tell him he
liked his medicine better than his politics, bitter as some of it was;
but in a case of this kind, Dr. Buxton's politics have a distinct value.
He will give us the grips, the signs, and the pass-words, dear aunt, and
I dare say we shall get along comfortably."
II
THEY did get along comfortably. Peace seemed to spread her meshes before
them. They journeyed by easy stages, stopping a while in Philadelphia,
in Baltimore, and in Washington. They stayed a week in Richmond. From
Richmond they were to go to Atlanta, and from Atlanta to Azalia, the
little piny woods village which Dr. Buxton had recommended as a
sanitarium. At a point south of Richmond, where they stopped for
breakfast, Miss Eustis and her aunt witnessed a little scene that
seemed to them to be very interesting. A gentleman wrapped in a long
linen traveling-coat was pacing restlessly up and down the platform of
the little station. He was tall, and his bearing was distinctly
military. The neighborhood people who were lounging around the station
watched him with interest. After a while a negro boy came running up
with a valise which he had evidently brought some distance. He placed it
in front of the tall gentleman, crying out in a loud voice: "Here she
is, Marse Peyton," then stepped to one side, and began to fan himself
vigorously with the fragment of a wool hat. He grinned broadly in
response to something the tall gentleman said; but, before he could make
a suitable reply, a negro woman, fat and motherly-looking, made her
appearance, puffing and blowing and talking.
"I declar' ter gracious, Marse Peyton! seem like I wa'n't never gwine
ter git yer. I helt up my head, I did, fer ter keep my eye on de kyars,
en it look like I run inter all de gullies en on top er all de stumps
'twix' dis en Marse Tip's. I des tuk'n drapt eve'ything, I did, en tole
um dey'd batter keep one eye on de dinner-pot, kaze I 'blige ter run en
see Marse Peyton off."
The gentleman laughed as the motherly-looking old negro wiped her face
with her apron. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her fat arms glistened
in the sun.
"I boun' you some er deze yer folks'll go off en say I'm 'stracted," she
cried, "but I can't he'p dat; I bleeze ter run down yer ter tell Marse
Peyton good-by. Tell um all howdy fer me, Marse Peyton," she cried, "all
un um. No diffunce ef I ain't know um all--'tain't gwine ter do no harm
fer ter tell um dat ole Jincy say howdy. Hit make me feel right foolish
in de head w'en it comes 'cross me dat I use ter tote Miss Hallie 'roun'
w'en she wuz a little bit er baby, en now she way down dar out'n de
worl' mos'. I wish ter de Lord I uz gwine 'long wid you, Marse Peyton!
Yit I 'speck, time I got dar, I'd whirl in en wish myse'f back home."
The negro boy carried the gentleman's valise into the sleeping-coach,
and placed it opposite the seats occupied by Helen and her aunt. Across
the end was stenciled in white the name "Peyton Garwood." When the train
was ready to start, the gentleman shook hands with the negro woman and
with the boy. The woman seemed to be very much affected.
"God A'mighty bless you, Marse Peyton, honey!" she exclaimed as the
train moved off; and as long as Helen could see her, she was waving her
hands in farewell. Both Helen and her aunt had watched this scene with
considerable interest, and now, when the gentleman had been escorted to
his seat by the obsequious porter, they regarded him with some
curiosity. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old. His face would
have been called exceedingly handsome but for a scar on his right cheek;
and yet, on closer inspection, the scar seemed somehow to fit the firm
outlines of his features. His brown beard emphasized the strength of his
chin. His nose was slightly aquiline, his eyebrows were a trifle rugged,
and his hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead. His face
was that of a man who had seen rough service and enjoyed it keenly--a
face full of fire and resolution with some subtle suggestion of
tenderness.
"She called him 'Master,' Helen," said Miss Tewksbury after a while,
referring to the scene at the station; "did you hear her?" Miss
Tewksbury's tone implied wrathfulness that was too sure of its own
justification to assert itself noisily.
"I heard her," Helen replied. "She called him Master, and he called her
Mammy. It was a very pleasing exchange of compliments."
Such further comment as the ladies may have felt called on to make--for
it was a matter in which both were very much interested--was postponed
for the time being. A passenger occupying a seat in the farther end of
the coach had recognized the gentleman whose valise was labeled "Peyton
Garwood," and now pressed forward to greet him. This passenger was a
very aggressive-looking person. He was short and stout, but there was no
suggestion of jollity or even of good-humor in his rotundity. No one
would have made the mistake of alluding to him as a fat man. He would
have been characterized as the pudgy man; and even his pudginess was
aggressive. He had evidently determined to be dignified at any cost,
but his seriousness seemed to be perfectly gratuitous.
"Gener'l Garwood?" he said in an impressive tone, as he leaned over the
tall gentleman's seat.
"Ah! Goolsby!" exclaimed the other, extending his hand. "Why, how do you
do? Sit down."
Goolsby's pudginess became more apparent and apparently more aggressive
than ever when he seated himself near General Garwood.
"Well, sir, I can't say my health's any too good. You look mighty well
yourse'f, gener'l. How are things?" said Goolsby, pushing his
traveling-cap over his eyes, and frowning as if in pain.
"Oh, affairs seem to be improving," General Garwood replied.
"Well, now, I ain't so up and down certain about that, gener'l," said
Goolsby, settling himself back, and frowning until his little eyes
disappeared. "Looks like to me that things git wuss and wuss. I ain't no
big man, and I'm ruther disj'inted when it comes right down to politics;
but blame me if it don't look to me mighty like the whole of creation is
driftin' 'round loose."
"Ah, well," said the general soothingly, "a great many things are
uncomfortable; there is a good deal of unnecessary irritation growing
out of new and unexpected conditions. But we are getting along better
than we are willing to admit. We are all fond of grumbling."
"That's so," said Goolsby, with the air of a man who is willing to make
any sacrifice for the sake of a discussion; "that's so. But I tell you
we're havin' mighty tough times, gener'l--mighty tough times. Yonder's
the Yankees on one side, and here's the blamed niggers on t'other, and
betwixt and betweenst 'em a white man's got mighty little chance. And
then, right on top of the whole caboodle, here comes the panic in the
banks, and the epizooty 'mongst the cattle. I tell you, gener'l, it's
tough times, and it's in-about as much as an honest man can do to pay
hotel bills and have a ticket ready to show up when the conductor comes
along."
General Garwood smiled sympathetically, and Goolsby went on: "Here I've
been runnin' up and down the country tryin' to sell a book, and I ain't
sold a hunderd copies sence I started--no, sir, not a hunderd copies.
Maybe you'd like to look at it, gener'l," continued Goolsby, stiffening
up a little. "If I do say it myself, it's in-about the best book that a
man'll git a chance to thumb in many a long day."
"What book is it, Goolsby?" the general inquired.
Goolsby sprang up, waddled rapidly to where he had left his satchel, and
returned, bringing a large and substantial-looking volume.
"It's a book that speaks for itself any day in the week," he said,
running the pages rapidly between his fingers; "it's a history of our
own great conflict--'The Rise and Fall of the Rebellion,' by Schuyler
Paddleford. I don't know what the blamed publishers wanted to put in
'Rebellion' for. I told 'em, says I: 'Gentlemen, it'll be up-hill work
with this in the Sunny South. Call it "The Conflict,"' says I. But they
wouldn't listen, and now I have to work like a blind nigger splittin'
rails. But she's a daisy, gener'l, as shore as you're born. She jess
reads right straight along from cover to cover without a bobble. Why,
sir, I never know'd what war was till I meandered through the sample
pages of this book. And they've got your picture in here, gener'l, jest
as natural as life--all for five dollars in cloth, eight in liberry
style, and ten in morocker."
General Garwood glanced over the specimen pages with some degree of
interest, while Goolsby continued to talk.
"Now, betwixt you and me, gener'l," he went on confidentially, "I don't
nigh like the style of that book, particular where it rattles up our
side. I wa'n't in the war myself, but blame me if it don't rile me when
I hear outsiders a-cussin' them that was. I come mighty nigh not takin'
holt of it on that account; but 'twouldn't have done no good, not a bit.
If sech a book is got to be circulated around here, it better be
circulated by some good Southron--a man that's a kind of antidote to the
pizen, as it were. If I don't sell it, some blamed Yankee'll jump in and
gallop around with it. And I tell you what, gener'l, betwixt you and me
and the gate-post, it's done come to that pass where a man can't afford
to be too plegged particular; if he stops for to scratch his head and
consider whether he's a gentleman, some other feller'll jump in and
snatch the rations right out of his mouth. That's why I'm a-paradin'
around tryin' to sell this book."
"Well," said General Garwood in an encouraging tone, "I have no doubt it
is a very interesting book. I have heard of it before. Fetch me a copy
when you come to Azalia again."
Goolsby smiled an unctuous and knowing smile. "Maybe you think I ain't
a-comin'," he exclaimed, with the air of a man who has invented a joke
that he relishes. "Well, sir, you're getting the wrong measure. I was
down in 'Zalia Monday was a week, and I'm a-goin' down week after next.
Fact is," continued Goolsby, rather sheepishly, "'Zalia is a mighty nice
place. Gener'l, do you happen to know Miss Louisa Hornsby? Of course you
do! Well, sir, you might go a week's journey in the wildwood, as the
poet says, and not find a handsomer gal then that. She's got style from
away back."
"Why, yes!" exclaimed the general in a tone of hearty congratulation,
"of course I know Miss Lou. She is a most excellent young lady. And so
the wind sits in that quarter? Your blushes, Goolsby, are a happy
confirmation of many sweet and piquant rumors."
Goolsby appeared to be very much embarrassed. He moved about uneasily in
his seat, searched in all his pockets for something or other that wasn't
there, and made a vain effort to protest. He grew violently red in the
face, and the color gleamed through his closely cropped hair.
"Oh, come now, gener'l!" he exclaimed. "Oh, pshaw! Why--oh, go 'way!"
His embarrassment was so great, and seemed to border so closely on
epilepsy, that the general was induced to offer him a cigar and invite
him into the smoking apartment. As General Garwood and Goolsby passed
out, Helen Eustis drew a long breath.
"It is worth the trouble of a long journey to behold such a spectacle,"
she declared. Her aunt regarded her curiously. "Who would have thought
it?" she went on--"a Southern secessionist charged with affability, and
a book-agent radiant with embarrassment!"
"He is a coarse, ridiculous creature," said Miss Tewksbury sharply.
"The affable general, Aunt Harriet?"
"No, child; the other."
"Dear aunt, we are in the enemy's country, and we must ground our
prejudices. The book-agent is pert and crude, but he is not coarse. A
coarse man may be in love, but he would never blush over it. And as for
the affable general--you saw the negro woman cry over him."
"Poor thing!" said Miss Tewksbury, with a sigh. "She sadly needs
Instruction."
"Ah, yes! that is a theory we should stand to, but how shall we instruct
her to run and cry after us?"
"My dear child, we want no such disgusting exhibitions. It is enough if
we do our duty by these unfortunates."
"But I do want just such an exhibition, Aunt Harriet," said Helen
seriously. "I should be glad to have some fortunate or unfortunate
creature run and cry after me."
"Well," said Miss Tewksbury placidly, "we are about to ignore the most
impressive fact, after all."
"What is that, Aunt Harriet?"
"Why, child, these people are from Azalia, and for us Azalia is the
centre of the universe."
"Ah, don't pretend that you are not charmed, dear aunt. We shall have
the pleasure of meeting the handsome Miss Hornsby, and probably Mr.
Goolsby himself--and certainly the distinguished general."
"I only hope Ephraim Buxton has a clear conscience to-day," remarked
Miss Tewksbury with unction.
"Did you observe the attitude of the general toward Mr. Goolsby, and
that of Mr. Goolsby toward the general?" asked Helen, ignoring the
allusion to Dr. Buxton. "The line that the general drew was visible to
the naked eye. But Mr. Goolsby drew no line. He is friendly and familiar
on principle. I was reminded of the 'Brookline Reporter,' which alluded
the other day to the London 'Times' as its esteemed contemporary. The
affable general is Mr. Goolsby's esteemed contemporary."
"My dear child," said Miss Tewksbury, somewhat anxiously, "I hope your
queer conceits are not the result of your illness."
"No, they are the result of my surroundings. I have been trying to
pretend to myself, ever since we left Washington, that we are traveling
through a strange country; but it is a mere pretense. I have been trying
to verify some previous impressions of barbarism and shiftlessness."
"Well, upon my word, my dear," exclaimed Miss Tewksbury, "I should think
you had had ample opportunity."
"I have been trying to take the newspaper view," Helen went on with some
degree of earnestness, "but it is impossible. We must correct the
newspapers, Aunt Harriet, and make ourselves famous. Everything I have
seen that is not to be traced to the result of the war belongs to a
state of arrested development."
Miss Tewksbury was uncertain whether her niece was giving a new turn to
her drollery, so she merely stared at her; but the young lady seemed to
be serious enough.
"Don't interrupt me, Aunt Harriet. Give me the opportunity you would
give to Dr. Barlow Blade, the trance medium. Everything I see in this
country belongs to a state of arrested development, and it has been
arrested at a most interesting point. It is picturesque. It is colonial.
I am amazed that this fact has not been dwelt on by people who write
about the South."
"The conservatism that prevents progress, or stands in the way of it, is
a crime," said Miss Tewksbury, pressing her thin lips together firmly.
She had once been on the platform in some of the little country towns of
New England, and had made quite a reputation for pith and fluency.
"Ah, dear aunt, that sounds like an extract from a lecture. We can have
progress in some things, but not in others. We have progressed in the
matter of conveniences, comforts, and luxuries, but in what other
directions? Are we any better than the people who lived in the days of
Washington, Jefferson, and Madison? Is the standard of morality any
higher now than it was in the days of the apostles?"
"Don't talk nonsense, Helen," said Miss Tewksbury. "We have a higher
civilization than the apostles witnessed. Morality is progressive."
"Well," said Helen, with a sigh, "it is a pity these people have
discarded shoe-buckles and knee-breeches."
"Your queer notions make me thirsty, child," said Miss Tewksbury,
producing a silver cup from her satchel. "I must get a drink of water."
"Permit me, madam," said a sonorous voice behind them; and a tall
gentleman seized the cup, and bore it away.
"It is the distinguished general!" exclaimed Helen in a tragic whisper,
"and he must have heard our speeches."
"I hope he took them down," said Miss Tewksbury snappishly. "He will
esteem you as a sympathizer."
"Did I say anything ridiculous, Aunt Harriet?"
"Dear me! you must ask your distinguished general," replied Miss
Tewksbury triumphantly.
General Garwood returned with the water, and insisted on fetching more.
Helen observed that he held his hat in his hand, and that his attitude
was one of unstudied deference.
"The conductor tells me, madam," he said, addressing himself to Miss
Tewksbury, "that you have tickets for Azalia. I am going in that
direction myself, and I should be glad to be of any service to you.
Azalia is a poor little place, but I like it well enough to live there.
I suppose that is the reason the conductor told me of your tickets. He
knew the information would be interesting."
"Thank you," said Miss Tewksbury with dignity.
"You are very kind," said Miss Eustis with a smile.
General Garwood made himself exceedingly agreeable. He pointed out the
interesting places along the road, gave the ladies little bits of local
history that were at least entertaining. In Atlanta, where there was a
delay of a few hours, he drove them over the battle-fields, and by his
graphic descriptions gave them a new idea of the heat and fury of war.
In short, he made himself so agreeable in every way that Miss Tewksbury
felt at liberty to challenge his opinions on various subjects. They had
numberless little controversies about the rights and wrongs of the war,
and the perplexing problems that grew out of its results. So far as Miss
Tewksbury was concerned, she found General Garwood's large tolerance
somewhat irritating, for it left her no excuse for the employment of her
most effective arguments.
"Did you surrender your prejudices at Appomattox?" Miss Tewksbury asked
him on one occasion.
"Oh, by no means; you remember we were allowed to retain our side-arms
and our saddle-horses," he replied, laughing. "I still have my
prejudices, but I trust they are more important than those I entertained
in my youth. Certainly they are less uncomfortable."
"Well," said Miss Tewksbury, "you are still unrepentant, and that is
more serious than any number of prejudices."
"There is nothing to repent of," said the general, smiling, a little
sadly as Helen thought. "It has all passed away utterly. The best we
can do is that which seems right and just and necessary. My duty was as
plain to me in 1861, when I was a boy of twenty, as it is to-day. It
seemed to be my duty then to serve my State and section; my duty now
seems to be to help good people everywhere to restore the Union, and to
heal the wounds of the war."
"I'm _very_ glad to hear you say so," exclaimed Miss Tewksbury in a tone
that made Helen shiver. "I was afraid it was quite otherwise. It seems
to me, that, if I lived here, I should either hate the people who
conquered me, or else the sin of slavery would weigh heavily on my
conscience."
"I can appreciate that feeling, I think," said General Garwood, "but the
American conscience is a very healthy one--not likely to succumb to
influences that are mainly malarial in their nature; and even from your
point of view some good can be found in American slavery."
"I have never found it," said Miss Tewksbury.
"You must admit that but for slavery the negroes who are here would be
savages in Africa. As it is, they have had the benefit of more than two
hundred years' contact with the white race. If they are at all fitted
for citizenship, the result is due to the civilizing influence of
slavery. It seems to me that they are vastly better off as American
citizens, even though they have endured the discipline of slavery, than
they would be as savages in Africa."
Miss Tewksbury's eyes snapped. "Did this make slavery right?" she asked.
"Not at all," said the general, smiling at the lady's earnestness. "But,
at least, it is something of an excuse for American slavery. It seems to
be an evidence that Providence had a hand in the whole unfortunate
business."