log-cabin in a pine thicket, surrounded by a little clearing that served
to show how aimlessly and how hopelessly the lack of thrift and energy
could assert itself. The surroundings were mean enough and squalid
enough at their best, but the oppressive shadows of night made them
meaner and more squalid than they really were. The sun, which shines so
lavishly in that region, appeared to glorify the squalor, showing wild
passion-flowers clambering along the broken-down fence of pine poles,
and a wistaria vine running helter-skelter across the roof of the little
cabin. But the night hid all this completely.
A dim, vague blaze, springing from a few charred pine-knots, made the
darkness visible in the one room of the cabin; and before it, with his
elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, sat what appeared to be a
man. He wore neither coat nor shoes, and his hair was long and shaggy.
"Is that you, Bud?" said Mrs. Stucky.
"Why, who'd you reckon it wuz, maw?" replied Bud, looking up with a
broad grin that was not at all concealed by his thin, sandy beard. "A
body'd sorter think, ef they 'uz ter ketch you gwine on that away, that
you 'spected ter find some great somebody er nuther a-roostin' in here."
Mrs. Stucky, by way of responding, stirred the pine-knots until they
gave forth a more satisfactory light, hung her bonnet on the bedpost,
and seated herself wearily in a rickety chair, the loose planks of the
floor rattling and shaking as she moved about.
"Now, who in the nation did you reckon it wuz, maw?" persisted Bud,
still grinning placidly.
"Some great somebody," replied Mrs. Stucky, brushing her gray hair out
of her eyes and looking at her son. At this Bud could contain himself no
longer. He laughed almost uproariously.
"Well, the great Jemimy!" he exclaimed, and then laughed louder than
ever.
"Wher've you been?" Mrs. Stucky asked, when Bud's mirth had subsided.
"Away over yander at the depot," said Bud, indicating Little Azalia.
"An' I fotch you some May-pops too. I did that! I seed 'em while I wuz
a-gwine 'long, an' I sez ter myself, sezee, 'You jess wait thar tell I
come 'long back, an' I'll take an' take you ter maw,' sezee."
Although this fruit of the passion-flowers was growing in profusion
right at the door, Mrs. Stucky gave this grown man, her son, to
understand that May-pops such as he brought were very desirable indeed.
"I wonder you didn't fergit 'em," she said.
"Who? me!" exclaimed Bud. "I jess like fer ter see anybody ketch me
fergittin' 'em. Now I jess would. I never eat a one, nuther--not a one."
Mrs. Stucky made no response to this, and none seemed to be necessary.
Bud sat and pulled his thin beard, and gazed in the fire. Presently he
laughed and said:
"I jess bet a hoss you couldn't guess who I seed; now I jess bet that."
Mrs. Stucky rubbed the side of her face thoughtfully, and seemed to be
making a tremendous effort to imagine whom Bud had seen.
"'Twer'n't no man, en 'twer'n't no Azalia folks. 'Twuz a gal."
"A gal!" exclaimed Mrs. Stucky.
"Yes'n, a gal, an' _ef_ she wa'n't a zooner you may jess take an' knock
my chunk out."
Mrs. Stucky looked at her son curiously. Her cold gray eyes glittered in
the firelight as she held them steadily on his face. Bud, conscious of
this inspection, moved about in his chair uneasily, shifting his feet
from one side to the other.
"'Twer'n't no Sal Badger," he said, after a while, laughing sheepishly;
"'twer'n't no Maria Matthews, 'twer'n't no Lou Hornsby, an' 'twer'n't no
Martha Jane Williams, nuther. She wuz a bran'-new gal, an' she went ter
the tavern, _she_ did."
"I've done saw 'er," said Mrs. Stucky placidly.
"You done saw 'er, maw!" exclaimed Bud. "Well, the great Jemimy! What's
her name, maw?"
"They didn't call no names," said Mrs. Stucky. "They jess sot thar, an'
gormandized on waffles an' batter-cakes, an' didn't call no names. Hit
made me dribble at the mouf, the way they went on."
"Wuz she purty, maw?"
"I sot an' looked at um," Mrs. Stucky went on, "an' I 'lowed maybe the
war moughter come betwixt the old un an' her good looks. The t'other one
looks mighty slick, but, Lordy! She hain't nigh ez slick ez that ar Lou
Hornsby; yit she's got lots purtier motions."
"Well, I seed 'er, maw," said Bud, gazing into the depths of the
fireplace. "Atter the ingine come a-snortin' by, I jumped up behind the
hack whar they puts the trunks, an' I got a right good glimp' un 'er;
an' ef she hain't purty, then I dunner what purty is. What'd you say her
name wuz, maw?"
"Lordy, jess hark ter the creetur! Hain't I jess this minute hollered,
an' tole you that they hain't called no names?"
"I 'lowed maybe you moughter hearn the name named, an' then drapt it,"
said Bud, still gazing into the fire. "I tell you what, she made that
ole hack look big, _she_ did!"
"You talk like you er start crazy, Bud!" exclaimed Mrs. Stucky, leaning
over, and fixing her glittering eyes on his face. "Lordy! what's she by
the side er me? Is she made out'n i'on?"
Bud's enthusiasm immediately vanished, and a weak, flickering smile took
possession of his face.
"No'm--no'm; that she hain't made out'n i'on! She's lots littler'n you
is--lots littler. She looks like she's sorry."
"Sorry! What fer?"
"Sorry fer we-all."
Mrs. Stucky looked at her son with amazement, not unmixed with
indignation. Then she seemed to remember something she had forgotten.
"Sorry fer we-all, honey, when we er got this great big pile er tavern
vittles?" she asked with a smile; and then the two fell to, and made the
most of Mrs. Haley's charity.
At the tavern Helen and her aunt sat long at their tea, listening to the
quaint gossip of Mrs. Haley, which not only took a wide and entertaining
range, but entered into details that her guests found extremely
interesting. Miss Tewksbury's name reminded Mrs. Haley of a Miss
Kingsbury, a Northern lady, who had taught school in Middle Georgia, and
who had "writ a sure-enough book," as the genial landlady expressed it.
She went to the trouble of hunting up this "sure-enough" book--a small
school dictionary--and gave many reminiscences of her acquaintance with
the author.
In the small parlor, too, the ladies found General Garwood awaiting
them; and they held quite a little reception, forming the acquaintance,
among others, of Miss Lou Hornsby, a fresh-looking young woman, who had
an exclamation of surprise or a grimace of wonder for every statement
she heard and for every remark that was made. Miss Hornsby also went to
the piano, and played and sang "Nelly Gray" and "Lily Dale" with a
dramatic fervor that could only have been acquired in a boarding school.
The Rev. Arthur Hill was also there, a little gentleman, whose
side-whiskers and modest deportment betokened both refinement and
sensibility. He was very cordial to the two ladies from the North, and
strove to demonstrate the liberality of his cloth by a certain gaiety of
manner that was by no means displeasing. He seemed to consider himself
one of the links of sociability, as well as master of ceremonies; and he
had a way of speaking for others that suggested considerable social tact
and versatility. Thus, when there was a lull in the conversation, he
started it again, and imparted to it a vivacity that was certainly
remarkable, as Helen thought. At precisely the proper moment, he seized
Miss Hornsby, and bore her off home, tittering sweetly as only a young
girl can; and the others, following the example thus happily set, left
Helen and her aunt to themselves, and to the repose that tired travelers
are supposed to be in need of. They were not long in seeking it.
"I wonder," said Helen, after she and her aunt had gone to bed, "if
these people really regard us as enemies?"
This question caused Miss Tewksbury to sniff the air angrily.
"Pray, what difference does it make?" she replied.
"Oh, none at all!" said Helen. "I was just thinking. The little preacher
was tremendously gay. His mind seemed to be on skates. He touched on
every subject but the war, and that he glided around gracefully. No
doubt they have had enough of war down here."
"I should hope so," said Miss Tewksbury. "Go to sleep, child: you need
rest."
Helen did not follow this timely advice at once. From her window she
could see the constellations dragging their glittering procession
westward; and she knew that the spirit of the night was whispering
gently in the tall pines, but her thoughts were in a whirl. The scenes
through which she had passed, and the people she had met, were new to
her; and she lay awake and thought of them until at last the slow-moving
stars left her wrapped in sleep--a sleep from which she was not aroused
until William shook the foundations of the tavern with his melodious
bell, informing everybody that the hour for breakfast had arrived.
Shortly afterward, William made his appearance in person, bringing an
abundance of fresh, clear water. He appeared to be in excellent humor.
"What did you say your name is?" Helen asked. William chuckled, as if he
thought the question was in the nature of a joke.
"I'm name' Willum, ma'am, en my mammy she name' Sa'er Jane, en de baby
she name' Phillypeener. Miss 'Ria she say dat baby is de likelies'
nigger baby w'at she y'ever been see sence de war en I speck she is,
kaze Miss 'Ria ain't been talk dat away 'bout eve'y nigger baby w'at
come 'long."
"How old are you?" Miss Tewksbury inquired.
"I dunno'm," said William placidly. "Miss 'Ria she says I'm lots older
dan w'at I looks ter be, en I speck dat's so, kaze mammy sey dey got ter
be a runt 'mongst all folks's famblies."
Helen laughed, and William went on:
"Mammy say ole Miss gwine come see you all. Mars Peyt gwine bring er."
"Who is old Miss?" Helen asked.
William gazed at her with unfeigned amusement.
"Dunner who ole Miss is? Lordy! you de fus' folks w'at ain't know ole
Miss. She Mars Peyt's own mammy, dat's who she is, en ef she come lak
dey say she comin', hit'll be de fus' time she y'ever sot foot in dish
yer tavern less'n 'twuz indurance er de war. Miss 'Ria say she wish ter
goodness ole Miss 'ud sen' word ef she gwine stay ter dinner so she kin
fix up somepin n'er nice. I dunno whe'er Miss Hallie comin' er no, but
ole Miss comin', sho, kaze I done been year um sesso."
"And who is Miss Hallie?" Helen inquired, as William still lingered.
"Miss Hallie--she--dunno'm, ceppin' she des stays dar 'long wid um. Miss
'Ria say she mighty quare, but I wish turrer folks wuz quare lak Miss
Hallie."
William stayed until he was called away, and at breakfast Mrs. Haley
imparted the information which, in William's lingo, had sounded somewhat
scrappy. It was to the effect that General Garwood's mother would call
on the ladies during their stay. Mrs. Haley laid great stress on the
statement.
"Such an event seems to be very interesting," Helen said rather dryly.
"Yes'm," said Mrs. Haley, with her peculiar emphasis, "it ruther took me
back when I heard the niggers takin' about it this mornin'. If that old
lady has ever darkened my door, I've done forgot it. She's mighty nice
and neighborly," Mrs. Haley went on, in response to a smile which Helen
gave her aunt, "but she don't go out much. Oh, she's nice and proud;
Lord, if pride 'ud kill a body, that old 'oman would 'a' been dead too
long ago to talk about. They're all proud--the whole kit and b'ilin'.
She mayn't be too proud to come to this here tavern, but I know she
ain't never been here. The preacher used to say that pride drives out
grace, but I don't believe it, because that 'ud strip the Garwoods of
all they've got in this world; and I know they're just as good as they
can be."
"I heard the little negro boy talking of Miss Hallie," said Helen.
"Pray, who is she?"
Mrs. Haley closed her eyes, threw her head back, and laughed softly.
"The poor child!" she exclaimed. "I declare, I feel like cryin' every
time I think about her. She's the forlornest poor creetur the Lord ever
let live, and one of the best. Sometimes, when I git tore up in my mind,
and begin to think that everything's wrong-end foremost, I jess think
of Hallie Garwood, and then I don't have no more trouble."
Both Helen and her aunt appeared to be interested, and Mrs. Haley went
on:
"The poor child was a Herndon; I reckon you've heard tell of the
Virginia Herndons. At the beginning of the war, she was married to Ethel
Garwood; and, bless your life, she hadn't been married more'n a week
before Ethel was killed. 'Twa'n't in no battle, but jess in a kind of
skirmish. They fotch him home, and Hallie come along with him, and right
here she's been ev'ry sence. She does mighty quare. She don't wear
nothin' but black, and she don't go nowhere less'n it's somewheres where
there's sickness. It makes my blood run cold to think about that poor
creetur. Trouble hits some folks and glances off, and it hits some and
thar it sticks. I tell you what, them that it gives the go-by ought to
be monst'ous proud."
This was the beginning of many interesting experiences for Helen and her
aunt. They managed to find considerable comfort in Mrs. Haley's genial
gossip. It amused and instructed them, and, at the same time, gave them
a standard, half-serious, half-comical, by which to measure their own
experiences in what seemed to them a very quaint neighborhood. They
managed, in the course of a very few days, to make themselves thoroughly
at home in their new surroundings; and, while they missed much that
tradition and literature had told them they would find, they found much
to excite their curiosity and attract their interest.
One morning, an old-fashioned carriage, drawn by a pair of heavy-limbed
horses, lumbered up to the tavern door. Helen watched it with some
degree of expectancy. The curtains and upholstering were faded and worn,
and the panels were dingy with age. The negro driver was old and
obsequious. He jumped from his high seat, opened the door, let down a
flight of steps, and then stood with his hat off, the November sun
glistening on his bald head. Two ladies alighted. One was old, and one
was young, but both were arrayed in deep mourning. The old lady had an
abundance of gray hair that was combed straight back from her forehead,
and her features, gave evidence of great decision of character. The
young lady had large, lustrous eyes, and the pallor of her face was in
strange contrast with her sombre drapery. These were the ladies from
Waverly, as the Garwood place was called; and Helen and her aunt met
them a few moments later.
"I am so pleased to meet you," said the old lady, with a smile that made
her face beautiful. "And this is Miss Tewksbury. Really, I have heard my
son speak of you so often that I seem to know you. This is my daughter
Hallie. She doesn't go out often, but she insisted on coming with me
to-day."
"I'm very glad you came," said Helen, sitting by the pale young woman
after the greetings were over.
"I think you are lovely," said Hallie, with the tone of one who is
settling a question that had previously been debated. Her clear eyes
from which innocence, unconquered and undimmed by trouble, shone forth,
fastened themselves on Helen's face. The admiration they expressed was
unqualified and unadulterated. It was the admiration of a child. But
the eyes were not those of a child: they were such as Helen had seen in
old paintings, and the pathos that seemed part of their beauty belonged
definitely to the past.
"I lovely?" exclaimed Helen in astonishment, blushing a little. "I have
never been accused of such a thing before."
"You have such a beautiful complexion," Hallie went on placidly, her
eyes still fixed on Helen's face. "I had heard--some one had told
me--that you were an invalid. I was so sorry." The beautiful eyes
drooped, and Hallie sighed gently.
"My invalidism is a myth," Helen replied, somewhat puzzled to account
for the impression the pale young woman made on her. "It is the
invention of my aunt and our family physician. They have a theory that
my lungs are affected, and that the air of the pine-woods will do me
good."
"Oh, I hope and trust it will," exclaimed Hallie, with an earnestness
that Helen could trace to no reasonable basis but affectation. "Oh, I
do hope it will! You are so young--so full of life."
"My dear child," said Helen, with mock gravity, "I am older than you
are--ever so much older."
The lustrous eyes closed, and for a moment the long silken lashes rested
against the pale cheek. Then the eyes opened, and gazed at Helen
appealingly.
"Oh, impossible! How could that be? I was sixteen in 1862."
"Then," said Helen, "you are twenty-seven, and I am twenty-five."
"I knew it--I felt it!" exclaimed Hallie, with pensive animation.
Helen was amused and somewhat interested. She admired the peculiar
beauty of Hallie; but the efforts of the latter to repress her feelings,
to reach, as it were, the results of self-effacement, were not at all
pleasing to the Boston girl.
Mrs. Garwood and Miss Tewksbury found themselves on good terms at once.
A course of novel reading, seasoned with reflection, had led Miss
Tewksbury to believe that Southern ladies of the first families
possessed in a large degree the Oriental faculty of laziness. She had
pictured them in her mind as languid creatures, with a retinue of
servants to carry their smelling-salts, and to stir the tropical air
with palm-leaf fans. Miss Tewksbury was pleased rather than disappointed
to find that Mrs. Garwood did not realize her idea of a Southern woman.
The large, lumbering carriage was something, and the antiquated driver
threatened to lead the mind in a somewhat romantic direction; but both
were shabby enough to be regarded as relics and reminders rather than as
active possibilities.
Mrs. Garwood was bright and cordial, and the air of refinement about her
was pronounced and unmistakable. Miss Tewksbury told her that Dr. Buxton
had recommended Azalia as a sanitarium.
"Ephraim Buxton!" exclaimed Mrs. Garwood. "Why, you don't tell me that
Ephraim Buxton is practising medicine in Boston? And do you really know
him? Why, Ephraim Buxton was my first sweetheart!"
Mrs. Garwood's laugh was pleasant to hear, and her blushes were worth
looking at as she referred to Dr. Buxton. Miss Tewksbury laughed
sympathetically but primly.
"It was quite romantic," Mrs. Garwood went on, an a half-humorous,
half-confidential tone. "Ephraim was the school teacher here, and I was
his eldest scholar. He was young, green, and awkward, but the
best-hearted, most generous mortal I ever saw. I made quite a hero of
him."
"Well," said Miss Tewksbury, in her matter-of-fact way, "I have never
seen anything very heroic about Dr. Buxton. He comes and goes, and
prescribes his pills, like all other doctors."
"Ah, that was forty years ago," said Mrs. Garwood, laughing. "A hero can
become very commonplace in forty years. Dr. Buxton must be a dear, good
man. Is he married?"
"No," said Miss Tewksbury. "He has been wise in his day and generation."
"What a pity!" exclaimed the other. "He would have made some woman
happy."
Mrs. Garwood asked many questions concerning the physician who had once
taught school at Azalia; and the conversation of the two ladies finally
took a range that covered all New England, and, finally, the South. Each
was surprised at the remarkable ignorance of the other; but their
ignorance covered different fields, so that they had merely to exchange
facts and information and experiences in order to entertain each other.
They touched on the war delicately, though Miss Tewksbury had never
cultivated the art of reserve to any great extent. At the same time
there was no lack of frankness on either side.
"My son has been telling me of the little controversies he had with
you," said Mrs. Garwood. "He says you fairly bristle with arguments."
"The general never heard half my arguments," replied Miss Tewksbury. "He
never gave me an opportunity to use them."
"My son is very conservative," said Mrs. Garwood, with a smile in which
could be detected a mother's fond pride. "After the war he felt the
responsibility of his position. A great many people looked up to him.
For a long time after the surrender we had no law and no courts, and
there was a great deal of confusion. Oh, you can't imagine! Every man
was his own judge and jury."
"So I've been told," said Miss Tewksbury.
"Of course you know something about it, but you can have no conception
of the real condition of things. It was a tremendous upheaval coming
after a terrible struggle, and my son felt that some one should set an
example of prudence. His theory was, and is, that everything was for the
best, and that our people should make the best of it. I think he was
right," Mrs. Garwood added with a sigh, "but I don't know."
"Why, unquestionably!" exclaimed Miss Tewksbury. She was going on to say
more; she felt that here was an opening for some of her arguments: but
her eyes fell on Hallie, whose pale face and sombre garb formed a
curious contrast to the fresh-looking young woman who sat beside her.
Miss Tewksbury paused.
"Did you lose any one in the war?" Hallie was asking softly.
"I lost a darling brother," Helen replied.
Hallie laid her hand on Helen's arm, a beautiful white hand. The
movement was at once a gesture and a caress.
"Dear heart!" she said, "you must come and see me. We will talk
together. I love those who are sorrowful."
Miss Tewksbury postponed her arguments, and after some conversation they
took their leave.
"Aunt Harriet," said Helen, when they were alone, "what do you make of
these people? Did you see that poor girl, and hear her talk? She chilled
me and entranced me."
"Don't talk so, child," said Miss Tewksbury; "they are very good people,
much better people than I thought we should find in this wilderness. It
is a comfort to talk to them."
"But that poor girl," said Helen. "She is a mystery to me. She reminds
me of a figure I have seen on the stage, or read of in some old book."
When Azalia heard that the Northern ladies had been called on by the
mistress of Waverly, that portion of its inhabitants which was in the
habit of keeping up the forms of sociability made haste to follow her
example, so that Helen and her aunt were made to feel at home in spite
of themselves. General Garwood was a frequent caller, ostensibly to
engage in sectional controversies with Miss Tewksbury, which he seemed
to enjoy keenly; but Mrs. Haley observed that when Helen was not visible
the general rarely prolonged his discussions with her aunt.
The Rev. Arthur Hill also called with some degree of regularity; and it
was finally understood that Helen would, at least temporarily, take the
place of Miss Lou Hornsby as organist of the little Episcopal church in
the Tacky settlement, as soon as Mr. Goolsby, the fat and enterprising
book-agent, had led the fair Louisa to the altar. This wedding occurred
in due time, and was quite an event in Azalia's social history. Goolsby
was stout, but gallant; and Miss Hornsby made a tolerably handsome
bride, notwithstanding a tendency to giggle when her deportment should
have been dignified. Helen furnished the music, General Garwood gave the
bride away, and the little preacher read the ceremony quite
impressively; so that with the flowers and other favors, and the
subsequent dinner--which Mrs. Haley called an "infair"--the occasion was
a very happy and successful one.
Among those who were present, not as invited guests, but by virtue of
their unimportance, were Mrs. Stucky and her son Bud. They were
followed and flanked by quite a number of their neighbors, who gazed on
the festal scene with an impressive curiosity that can not be described.
Pale-faced, wide-eyed, statuesque, their presence, interpreted by a
vivid imagination, might have been regarded as an omen of impending
misfortune. They stood on the outskirts of the wedding company, gazing
on the scene apparently without an emotion of sympathy or interest. They
were there, it seemed, to see what new caper the townspeople had
concluded to cut, to regard it solemnly, and to regret it with grave
faces when the lights were out and the fantastic procession had drifted
away to the village.