himself so thoroughly agreeable in every way, and was so thoughtful in
his attentions, that by the time Helen and her aunt arrived at Azalia
they were disposed to believe that he had placed them under many
obligations, and they said so; but the general insisted that it was he
who had been placed under obligations, and he declared it to be his
intention to discharge a few of them as soon as the ladies found
themselves comfortably settled in the little town to which Dr. Buxton
had banished them.
III
AZALIA was a small town, but it was a comparatively comfortable one. For
years and years before the war it had been noted as the meeting-place of
the wagon-trains by means of which the planters transported their
produce to market. It was on the highway that led from the
cotton-plantations of Middle Georgia to the city of Augusta. It was also
a stopping-place for the stage-coaches that carried the mails. Azalia
was not a large town, even before the war, when, according to the
testimony of the entire community, it was at its best; and it certainly
had not improved any since the war. There was room for improvement, but
no room for progress, because there was no necessity for progress. The
people were contented. They were satisfied with things as they existed,
though they had an honest, provincial faith in the good old times that
were gone. They had but one regret--that the railroad station, four
miles away, had been named Azalia. It is true, the station consisted of
a water-tank and a little pigeon-house where tickets were sold; but the
people of Azalia proper felt that it was in the nature of an outrage to
give so fine a name to so poor a place. They derived some satisfaction,
however, from the fact that the world at large found it necessary to
make a distinction between the two places. Azalia was called "Big
Azalia," and the railroad station was known as "Little Azalia."
Away back in the forties, or perhaps even earlier, when there was some
excitement in all parts of the country in regard to railroad building,
one of Georgia's most famous orators had alluded in the legislature to
Azalia as "the natural gateway of the commerce of the Empire State of
the South." This fine phrase stuck in the memories of the people of
Azalia and their posterity; and the passing traveler, since that day and
time, has heard a good deal of it. There is no doubt that the figure was
fairly applicable before the railways were built; for, as has been
explained, Azalia was the meeting-place of the wagon-trains from all
parts of the State in going to market. When the cotton-laden wagons met
at Azalia, they parted company no more until they had reached August.
The natural result of this was that Azalia, in one way and another, saw
a good deal of life--much that was entertaining, and a good deal that
was exciting. Another result was that the people had considerable
practise in the art of hospitality; for it frequently happened that the
comfortable tavern, which Azalia's commercial importance had made
necessary at a very early period of the town's history, was full to
overflowing with planters accompanying their wagons, and lawyers
traveling from court to court. At such times the worthy townspeople
would come to the rescue, and offer the shelter of their homes to the
belated wayfarer.
There was another feature of Azalia worthy of attention. It was in a
measure the site and centre of a mission--the headquarters, so to speak,
of a very earnest and patient effort to infuse energy and ambition into
that indescribable class of people known in that region as the
piny-woods "Tackies." Within a stone's throw of Azalia there was a
scattering settlement of these Tackies. They had settled there before
the Revolution, and had remained there ever since, unchanged and
unchangeable, steeped in poverty of the most desolate description, and
living the narrowest lives possible in this great Republic. They had
attracted the attention of the Rev. Arthur Hill, an Episcopalian
minister, who conceived an idea that the squalid settlement near Azalia
afforded a fine field for missionary labor. Mr. Hill established himself
in Azalia, built and furnished a little church in the settlement, and
entered on a career of the most earnest and persevering charity. To all
appearances his labor was thrown away; but he was possessed by both
faith and hope, and never allowed himself to be disheartened. All his
time, as well as the modest fortune left him by his wife who was dead,
was devoted to the work of improving and elevating the Tackies; and he
never permitted himself to doubt for an instant that reasonable success
was crowning his efforts. He was gentle, patient, and somewhat finical.
This was the neighborhood toward which Miss Eustis and her aunt had
journeyed. Fortunately for these ladies, Major Haley, the genial
tavern-keeper, had a habit of sending a hack to meet every train that
stopped at Little Azalia. It was not a profitable habit in the long run;
but Major Haley thought little of the profits, so long as he was
conscious that the casual traveler had abundant reason to be grateful to
him. Major Haley himself was a native of Kentucky; but his wife was a
Georgian, inheriting her thrift and her economy from a generation that
knew more about the hand-loom, the spinning-wheel, and the cotton-cards,
than it did about the piano. She admired her husband, who was a large,
fine-looking man, with jocular tendencies; but she disposed of his
opinions without ceremony when they came in conflict with her own. Under
these circumstances it was natural that she should have charge of the
tavern and all that appertained thereto.
General Garwood, riding by from Little Azalia, whither his saddle-horse
had been sent to meet him, had informed the major that two ladies from
the North were coming in the hack, and begged him to make them as
comfortable as possible. This information Major Haley dutifully carried
to his wife.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Haley, "what do you reckon they want here?"
"I've been a-studyin'," said her husband thoughtfully. "The gener'l says
they're comin' fer their health."
"Well, it's a mighty fur cry for health," said Mrs. Haley emphatically.
"I've seen some monst'ous sick people around here; and if anybody'll
look at them Tackies out on the Ridge yonder, and then tell me there's
any health in this neighborhood, then I'll give up. I don't know how in
the wide world we'll fix up for 'em. That everlastin' nigger went and
made too much fire in the stove, and tee-totally ruint my light-bread; I
could 'a' cried, I was so mad; and then on top er that the whole
dinin'-room is tore up from top to bottom."
"Well," said the major, "we'll try and make 'em comfortable, and if they
ain't comfortable it won't be our fault. Jest you whirl in, and put on
some of your Greene County style, Maria. That'll fetch 'em."
"It may fetch 'em, but it won't feed 'em," said the practical Maria.
The result was, that when Helen Eustis and her aunt became the guests of
this poor little country tavern, they were not only agreeably
disappointed as to their surroundings, but they were better pleased than
they would have been at one of the most pretentious caravansaries. Hotel
luxury is comfortable enough to those who make it a point to appreciate
what they pay for; but the appointments of luxury can neither impart,
nor compensate for the lack of, the atmosphere that mysteriously conveys
some impression or reminiscence of home. In the case of Helen and her
aunt, this impression was conveyed and confirmed by a quilt of curious
pattern on one of the beds in their rooms.
"My dear," said Miss Tewksbury, after making a critical examination,
"your grandmother had just such a quilt as this. Yes, she had two. I
remember the first one was quite a bone of contention between your
mother and me, and so your grandmother made two. I declare," Miss
Tewksbury continued, with a sigh, "it quite carries me back to old
times."
"It is well made," said Helen, giving the stitches a critical
examination, "and the colors are perfectly matched. Really, this is
something to think about, for it fits none of our theories. Perhaps,
Aunt Harriet, we have accidentally discovered some of our long-lost
relatives. It would be nice and original to substitute a beautiful quilt
for the ordinary strawberry-mark."
"Well, the sight of it is comforting, anyhow," said Miss Tewksbury,
responding to the half-serious humor of her niece by pressing her thin
lips together, and tossing her gray ringlets.
As she spoke, a negro boy, apparently about ten years old, stalked
unceremoniously into the room, balancing a large stone pitcher on his
head. His hands were tucked beneath his white apron, and the pitcher
seemed to be in imminent danger of falling; but he smiled and showed his
white teeth.
"I come fer ter fetch dish yer pitcher er water, ma'm. Miss 'Ria say
she speck you lak fer have 'im right fresh from de well."
"Aren't you afraid you'll drop it?" said Miss Eustis.
"Lor', no'm!" exclaimed the boy, emphasizing his words by increasing his
grin. "I been ca'um dis away sence I ain't no bigger dan my li'l' buddy.
Miss 'Ria, she say dat w'at make I so bow-legged."
"What is your name?" inquired Miss Tewksbury, with some degree of
solemnity, as the boy deposited the pitcher on the wash-stand.
"Mammy she say I un name Willum, but Mars Maje en de turrer folks dey
des calls me Bill. I run'd off en sot in de school-'ouse all day one
day, but dat mus' 'a' been a mighty bad day, kaze I ain't never year um
say wherrer I wuz name Willum, er wherrer I wuz des name Bill. Miss
'Ria, she say dat 'taint make no diffunce w'at folks' name is, long ez
dey come w'en dey year turred folks holl'in' at um."
"Don't you go to school, child?" Miss Tewksbury inquired, with dignified
sympathy.
"I start in once," said William, laughing, "but mos' time I git dar de
nigger man w'at do de teachin' tuck'n snatch de book out'n my han' en
say I got 'im upper-side down. I tole 'im dat de onliest way w'at I kin
git my lesson, en den dat nigger man tuck'n lam me side de head. Den
atter school bin turn out, I is hide myse'f side de road, en w'en dat
nigger man come 'long, I up wid a rock en I fetched 'im a clip dat
mighty nigh double 'im up. You ain't never is year no nigger man holler
lak dat nigger man. He run't en tole Mars Peyt dat de Kukluckers wuz
atter 'im. Mars Peyt he try ter quiet 'em, but dat nigger man done
gone!"
"Don't you think you did wrong to hit him?" Miss Tewksbury asked.
"Dat w'at Miss 'Ria say. She say I oughter be shame er myse'f by good
rights; but w'at dat nigger man wanter come hurtin' my feelin' fer w'en
I settin' dar studyin' my lesson des hard ez I kin, right spank out'n de
book? en spozen she wuz upper-side down, wa'n't de lesson in dar all de
time, kaze how she gwine spill out?"
William was very serious--indeed, he was indignant--when he closed his
argument. He turned to go out, but paused at the door, and said:
"Miss 'Ria say supper be ready 'mos' 'fo' you kin turn 'roun', but she
say ef you too tired out she'll have it sont up." William paused, rolled
his eyes toward the ceiling, smacked his mouth, and added: "I gwine
fetch in de batter-cakes myse'f."
Miss Tewksbury felt in her soul that she ought to be horrified at this
recital; but she was grateful that she was not amused.
"Aunt Harriet," cried Helen, when William had disappeared, "this is
better than the seashore. I am stronger already. My only regret is that
Henry P. Bassett, the novelist, is not here. The last time I saw him, he
was moping and complaining that his occupation was almost gone, because
he had exhausted all the types--that's what he calls them. He declared
he would be compelled to take his old characters, and give them a new
outfit of emotions. Oh, if he were only here!"
"I hope you feel that you are, in some sense, responsible for all this,
Helen," said Miss Tewksbury solemnly.
"Do you mean the journey, Aunt Harriet, or the little negro?"
"My dear child, don't pretend to misunderstand me. I can not help
feeling that if we had done and were doing our whole duty, this--this
poor negro-- Ah, well! it is useless to speak of it. We are on
missionary ground, but our hands are tied. Oh, I wish Elizabeth Mappis
were here! She would teach us our duty."
"She wouldn't teach me mine, Aunt Harriet," said Helen seriously. "I
wouldn't give one grain of your common sense for all that Elizabeth
Mappis has written and spoken. What have her wild theories to do with
these people? She acts like a man in disguise. When I see her striding
about, delivering her harangues, I always imagine she is wearing a pair
of cowhide boots as a sort of stimulus to her masculinity. Ugh! I'm glad
she isn't here."
Ordinarily, Miss Tewksbury would have defended Mrs. Elizabeth Mappis;
but she remembered that a defense of that remarkable woman--as
remarkable for her intellect as for her courage--was unnecessary at all
times, and, in this instance, absolutely uncalled for. Moreover, the
clangor of the supper-bell, which rang out at that moment, would have
effectually drowned out whatever Miss Tewksbury might have chosen to say
in behalf of Mrs. Mappis.
The bellringer was William, the genial little negro whose acquaintance
the ladies had made, and he performed his duty with an unction that left
nothing to be desired. The bell was so large that William was compelled
to use both hands in swinging it. He bore it from the dining-room to the
hall, and thence from one veranda to the other, making fuss enough to
convince everybody that those who ate at the tavern were on the point of
enjoying another of the famous meals prepared under the supervision of
Mrs. Haley.
There was nothing in the dining-room to invite the criticism of Helen
and her aunt, even though they had been disposed to be critical; there
was no evidence of slatternly management. Everything was plain, but
neat. The ceiling was high and wide; and the walls were of dainty
whiteness, relieved here and there by bracket-shelves containing shiny
crockery and glassware. The oil-lamps gave a mellow light through the
simple but unique paper shades with which they had been fitted. Above
the table, which extended the length of the room, was suspended a series
of large fans. These fans were connected by a cord, so that when it
became necessary to cool the room, or to drive away the flies, one small
negro, by pulling a string, could set them all in motion.
Over this dining-room Mrs. Haley presided. She sat at the head of the
table, serene, cheerful, and watchful, anticipating the wants of each
and every one who ate at the board. She invited Helen and her aunt to
seats near her own, and somehow managed to convince them, veteran
travelers though they were, that hospitality such as hers was richly
worth paying for.
"I do hope you'll make out to be comfortable in this poor little
neighborhood," she said as the ladies lingered over their tea, after the
other boarders--the clerks and the shopkeepers--had bolted their food
and fare. "I have my hopes, and I have my doubts. Gener'l Garwood says
you're come to mend your health," she continued, regarding the ladies
with the critical eye of one who has had something to do with herbs and
simples; "and I've been tryin' my best to pick out which is the sick
one, but it's a mighty hard matter. Yet I won't go by looks, because if
folks looked bad every time they felt bad, they'd be some mighty peaked
people in this world off and on--William, run and fetch in some hot
batter-cakes."
"I am the alleged invalid," said Helen. "I am the victim of a conspiracy
between my aunt here and our family physician.--Aunt Harriet, what do
you suppose Dr. Buxton would say if he knew how comfortable we are at
this moment? I dare say he would write a letter, and order us off to
some other point."
"My niece," said Miss Tewksbury, by way of explanation, "has weak lungs,
but she has never permitted herself to acknowledge the fact."
"Well, my goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Haley, "if that's all, we'll have
her sound and well in a little or no time. Why, when I was her age I
had a hackin' cough and a rackin' pain in my breast night and day, and I
fell off till my own blood kin didn't know me. Everybody give me up; but
old Miss Polly Flanders in Hancock, right j'inin' county from Greene,
she sent me word to make me some mullein tea, and drink sweet milk right
fresh from the cow; and from that day to this I've never know'd what
weak lungs was. I reckon you'll be mighty lonesome here," said Mrs.
Haley after William had returned with a fresh supply of batter-cakes,
"but you'll find folks mighty neighborly, once you come to know 'em.
And, bless goodness, here's one of 'em now!--Howdy, Emma Jane?"
A tall, ungainly-looking woman stood in the door of the dining-room
leading to the kitchen. Her appearance showed the most abject poverty.
Her dirty sunbonnet had fallen back from her head, and hung on her
shoulders. Her hair was of a reddish-gray color, and its frazzled and
tangled condition suggested that the woman had recently passed through a
period of extreme excitement; but this suggestion was promptly
corrected by the wonderful serenity of her face--a pale,
unhealthy-looking face, with sunken eyes, high cheek-bones, and thin
lips that seemed never to have troubled themselves to smile: a burnt-out
face that had apparently surrendered to the past, and had no hope for
the future. The Puritan simplicity of the woman's dress made her seem
taller than she really was, but this was the only illusion about her.
Though her appearance was uncouth and ungainly, her manner was
unembarrassed. She looked at Helen with some degree of interest; and to
the latter it seemed that Misery, hopeless but unabashed, gazed at her
with a significance at once pathetic and appalling. In response to Mrs.
Haley's salutation, the woman seated herself in the doorway, and sighed.
"You must be tired, Emma Jane, not to say howdy," said Mrs. Haley, with
a smile. The woman raised her right hand above her head, and allowed it
to drop helplessly into her lap.
"Ti-ud! Lordy, Lordy! how kin a pore creetur' like me be ti-ud? Hain't I
thes natally made out'n i'on?"
"Well, I won't go so fur as to say that, Emma Jane," said Mrs. Haley,
"but you're mighty tough. Now, you know that yourself."
"Yes'n--yes'n. I'm made out'n i'on. Lordy, Lordy! I thes natally hone
fer some un ter come along an' tell me what makes me h'ist up an' walk
away over yan'ter the railroad track, an' set thar tell the ingine
shoves by. I wisht some un ud up an' tell me what makes me so restless
an' oneasy, ef it hain't 'cause I'm hongry. I thes wisht they would.
Passin' on by, I sez ter myself, s' I: 'Emma Jane Stucky,' s' I, 'ef you
know what's good fer your wholesome,' s' I, 'you'll sneak in on Miss
Haley, 'cause you'll feel better,' s' I, 'ef you don't no more'n tell
'er howdy,' s' I. Lordy, Lordy! I dunner what ud 'come er me ef I hadn't
a bin made out'n i'on."
"Emma Jane," said Mrs. Haley, in the tone of one who is humoring a
child, "these ladies are from the North."
"Yes'n," said the woman, glancing at Helen and her aunt with the
faintest expression of pity; "yes'n, I hearn tell you had comp'ny. Hit's
a mighty long ways fum this, the North, hain't it, Miss Haley--a long
ways fuder'n Tennissy? Well, the Lord knows I pity um fum the bottom of
my heart, that I do--a-bein' such a long ways fum home."
"The North is ever so much farther than Tennessee," said Helen
pleasantly, almost unconsciously assuming the tone employed by Mrs.
Haley; "but the weather is so very cold there that we have to run away
sometimes."
"You're right, honey," said Mrs. Stucky, hugging herself with her long
arms. "I wisht I could run away fum it myself. Ef I wa'n't made out'n
i'on, I dunner how I'd stan' it. Lordy! when the win' sets in from the
east, hit in-about runs me plum destracted. Hit kills lots an' lots er
folks, but they hain't made out'n i'on like me."
While Mrs. Stucky was describing the vigorous constitution that had
enabled her to survive in the face of various difficulties, and in spite
of many mishaps, Mrs. Haley was engaged in making up a little parcel of
victuals. This she handed to the woman.
"Thanky-do! thanky-do, ma'am! Me an' my son'll set down an' wallop this
up, an' say thanky-do all the time, an' atter we're done we'll wipe our
mouves, an' say thanky-do."
"I reckon you ladies'll think we're mighty queer folks down here," said
Mrs. Haley, with an air of apology, after Mrs. Stucky had retired; "but
I declare I can't find it in my heart to treat that poor creetur' out of
the way. I set and look at her sometimes, and I wish I may never budge
if I don't come mighty nigh cryin'. She ain't hardly fittin' to live,
and if she's fittin' to die, she's lots better off than the common run
of folks. But she's mighty worrysome. She pesters me lots mor'n I ever
let on."
"The poor creature!" exclaimed Miss Tewksbury. "I am truly sorry for
her--truly sorry."
"Ah! so am I," said Helen. "I propose to see more of her. I am
interested in just such people."
"Well, ma'am," said Mrs. Haley dryly, "if you like sech folks it's a
thousand pities you've come here, for you'll git a doste of 'em. Yes'm,
that you will; a doste of 'em that'll last you as long as you live, if
you live to be one of the patrioks. And you nee'nter be sorry for Emma
Jane Stucky neither. Jest as you see her now, jesso she's been a-goin'
on fer twenty year, an' jest as you see her now, jesso she's been
a-lookin' ev'ry sence anybody around here has been a-knowin' her."
"Her history must be a pathetic one," said Miss Tewksbury with a sigh.
"Her what, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Haley.
"Her history, the story of her life," responded Miss Tewksbury. "I dare
say it is very touching."
"Well, ma'am," said Mrs. Haley, "Emma Jane Stucky is like one of them
there dead pines out there in the clearin'. If you had a stack of
almanacs as high as a hoss-rack, you couldn't pick out the year she was
young and sappy. She must 'a' started out as a light'd knot, an' she's
been a-gittin' tougher year in an' year out, till now she's tougher'n
the toughest. No'm," continued Mrs. Haley, replying to an imaginary
argument, "I ain't predijiced ag'in' the poor creetur'--the Lord knows I
ain't. If I was, no vittels would she git from me--not a scrimption."
"I never saw such an expression on a human countenance," said Helen.
"Her eyes will haunt me as long as I live."
"Bless your soul and body, child!" exclaimed Mrs. Haley; "if you're
going to let that poor creetur's looks pester you, you'll be worried to
death, as certain as the world. There's a hunderd in this settlement
jest like her, and ther' must be more'n that, old an' young, 'cause the
children look to be as old as the'r grannies. I reckon maybe you ain't
used to seein' piny-woods Tackies. Well, ma'am, you wait till you come
to know 'em, and if you are in the habits of bein' ha'nted by looks,
you'll be the wuss ha'nted mortal in this land, 'less'n it's them that's
got the sperrit-rappin's after 'em."
IV
MRS. STUCKY, making her way homeward through the gathering dusk, moved
as noiselessly and as swiftly as a ghost. The soft white sand beneath
her feet gave forth no sound, and she seemed to be gliding forward,
rather than walking; though there was a certain awkward emphasis and
decision in her movements altogether human in their suggestions. The way
was lonely. There was no companionship for her in the whispering sighs
of the tall pines that stood by the roadside, no friendliness in the
constellations that burned and sparkled overhead, no hospitable
suggestion in the lights that gleamed faintly here and there from the
windows of the houses in the little settlement. To Mrs. Stucky all was
commonplace. There was nothing in her surroundings as she went toward
her home, to lend wings even to her superstition, which was eager to
assert itself on all occasions.