one. It had belonged to the little preacher's wife, and he had given it
to the church. To his mind, the fact that she had used it sanctified it,
and he had placed it in the church as a part of the sacrifice he felt
called on to make in behalf of his religion. Helen played it with
uncommon skill--a skill born of a passionate appreciation of music in
its highest forms. The Rev. Mr. Hill listened like one entranced, but
Helen played unconscious of his admiration. On the outskirts of the
congregation she observed Mrs. Stucky, and by her side a young man with
long, sandy hair, evidently uncombed, and a thin stubble of beard. Helen
saw this young man pull Mrs. Stucky by the sleeve, and direct her
attention to the organ. Instead of looking in Helen's direction, Mrs.
Stucky fixed her eyes on the face of the young man and held them there;
but he continued to stare at the organist. It was a gaze at once
mournful and appealing--not different in that respect from the gaze of
any of the queer people around him, but it affected Miss Eustis
strangely. To her quick imagination, it suggested loneliness, despair,
that was the more tragic because of its isolation. It seemed to embody
the mute, pent-up distress of whole generations. Somehow Helen felt
herself to be playing for the benefit of this poor creature. The echoes
of the wedding-march sounded grandly in the little church, then came a
softly played interlude, and finally a solemn benediction, in which
solicitude seemed to be giving happiness a sweet warning. As the
congregation filed out of the church, the organ sent its sonorous echoes
after the departing crowd--echoes that were taken up by the whispering
and sighing pines, and borne far into the night. Mrs. Stucky did not go
until after the lights were out; and then she took her son by the hand,
and the two went to their lonely cabin not far away. They went in, and
soon had a fire kindled on the hearth. No word had passed between them;
but after a while, when Mrs. Stucky had taken a seat in the corner, and
lit her pipe, she exclaimed:
"Lordy! what a great big gob of a man! I dunner what on the face er the
yeth Lou Hornsby could 'a' been a-dreamin' about. From the way she's
been a-gigglin' aroun' I'd 'a' thought she'd 'a' sot her cap fer the
giner'l."
"I say it!" said Bud, laughing loudly. "Whatter you reckon the giner'l
'ud 'a' been a-doin' all that time? I see 'er now, a-gigglin' an'
a-settin' 'er cap fer the giner'l. Lordy, yes!"
"What's the matter betwixt you an' Lou?" asked Mrs. Stucky grimly.
"'Taint been no time senst you wuz a-totin' water fer her ma, an'
a-hangin' aroun' whilst she played the music in the church thar." Bud
continued to laugh. "But, Lordy!" his mother went on, "I reckon you'll
be a-totin' water an' a-runnin' er'n's fer thish yer Yankee gal what
played on the orgin up thar jess now."
"Well, they hain't no tellin'," said Bud, rubbing his thin beard
reflectively. "She's mighty spry 'long er that orgin, an' she's got
mighty purty han's an' nimble fingers, an' ef she 'uz ter let down her
ha'r, she'd be plum ready ter fly."
"She walked home wi' the giner'l," said Mrs. Stucky.
"I seed 'er," said Bud. "He sent some yuther gals home in the carriage,
an' him an' the Yankee gal went a-walkin' down the road. He humped up
his arm this away, an' the gal tuck it, an' off they put." Bud seemed to
enjoy the recollection of the scene; for he repeated, after waiting a
while to see what his mother would have to say: "Yes, siree! she tuck
it, an' off they put."
Mrs. Stucky looked at this grown man, her son, for a long time without
saying anything, and finally remarked with something very like a sigh:
"Well, honey, you neenter begrudge 'em the'r walk. Hit's a long ways
through the san'."
"Lordy, yes'n!" exclaimed Bud with something like a smile; "it's a
mighty long ways, but the giner'l had the gal wi' 'im. He jess humped up
his arm, an' she tuck it, an' off they put."
It was even so. General Garwood and Helen walked home from the little
church. The road was a long but a shining one. In the moonlight the sand
shone white, save where little drifts and eddies of pine-needles had
gathered. But these were no obstruction to the perspective, for the road
was an avenue, broad and level, that lost itself in the distance only
because the companionable pines, interlacing their boughs, contrived to
present a background both vague and sombre--a background that receded on
approach, and finally developed into the village of Azalia and its
suburbs. Along this level and shining highway Helen and General Garwood
went. The carriages that preceded them, and the people who walked with
them or followed, gave a sort of processional pomp and movement to the
gallant Goolsby's wedding--so much so that if he could have witnessed
it, his manly bosom would have swelled with genuine pride.
"The music you gave us was indeed a treat," said the general.
"It was perhaps more than you bargained for," Helen replied. "I suppose
everybody thought I was trying to make a display, but I quite forgot
myself. I was watching its effect on one of the poor creatures near the
door--do you call them Tackies?"
"Yes, Tackies. Well, we are all obliged to the poor creature--man or
woman. No doubt the fortunate person was Bud Stucky. I saw him standing
near his mother. Bud is famous for his love of music. When the organ is
to be played, Bud is always at the church; and sometimes he goes to
Waverly, and makes Hallie play the piano for him while he sits on the
floor of the veranda near the window. Bud is quite a character."
"I am so sorry for him," said Helen gently.
"I doubt if he is to be greatly pitied," said the general. "Indeed, as
the music was for him, and not for us, I think he is to be greatly
envied."
"I see now," said Helen laughing, "that I should have restrained
myself."
"The suggestion is almost selfish," said the general gallantly.
"Well, your nights here are finer than music," Helen remarked, fleeing
to an impersonal theme. "To walk in the moonlight, without wraps and
with no sense of discomfort, in the middle of December, is a wonderful
experience to me. Last night I heard a mocking-bird singing; and my aunt
has been asking Mrs. Haley if watermelons are ripe."
"The mocking-birds at Waverly," said the general, "have become something
of a nuisance under Hallie's management. There is a great flock of them
on the place, and in the summer they sing all night. It is not a very
pleasant experience to have one whistling at your window the whole night
through."
"Mrs. Haley," remarked Helen, "says that there are more mocking-birds
now than there were before the war, and that they sing louder and more
frequently."
"I shouldn't wonder," the general assented. "Mrs. Haley is quite an
authority on such matters. Everybody quotes her opinions."
"I took the liberty the other day," Helen went on, "of asking her about
the Ku Klux."
"And, pray, what did she say?" the general asked with some degree of
curiosity.
"Why, she said they were like the shower of stars--she had 'heard tell'
of them, but she had never seen them. 'But,' said I, 'you have no doubt
that the shower really occurred!'"
"Her illustration was somewhat unfortunate," the general remarked.
"Oh, by no means," Helen replied. "She looked at me with a twinkle in
her eyes, and said she had heard that it wasn't the stars that fell,
after all."
Talking thus, with long intervals of silence, the two walked along the
gleaming road until they reached the tavern, where Miss Eustis found her
aunt and Mrs. Haley waiting on the broad veranda.
"I don't think he is very polite," said Helen, after her escort had bade
them good night, and was out of hearing. "He offered me his arm, and
then, after we had walked a little way, suggested that we could get
along more comfortably by marching Indian file."
Mrs. Haley laughed loudly. "Why, bless your innocent heart, honey! that
ain't nothin'. The sand's too deep in the road, and the path's too
narrer for folks to be a-gwine along yarm-in-arm. Lord! don't talk about
perliteness. That man's manners is somethin' better'n perliteness."
"Well," said Helen's aunt, "I can't imagine why he should want to make
you trudge through the sand in that style."
"It is probably an output of the climate," said Helen.
"Well, now, honey," remarked Mrs. Haley, "if he ast you to walk wi' 'im,
he had his reasons. I've got my own idee," she added with a chuckle. "I
know one thing--I know he's monstrous fond of some of the Northron
folks. Ain't you never hearn, how, endurin' of the war, they fotch home
a Yankee soldier along wi' Hallie's husband, an' buried 'em side by
side? They tell me that Hallie's husband an' the Yankee was mighty nigh
the same age, an' had a sorter favor. If that's so," said Mrs. Haley,
with emphasis, "then two mighty likely chaps was knocked over on account
of the everlastin' nigger."
All this was very interesting to Helen and her aunt, and they were
anxious to learn all the particulars in regard to the young Federal
soldier who had found burial at Waverly.
"What his name was," said Mrs. Haley, "I'll never tell you. Old Prince,
the carriage-driver, can tell you lots more'n I can. He foun' 'em on the
groun', an' he fotch 'em home. Prince use to be a mighty good nigger
before freedom come out, but now he ain't much better'n the balance of
'em. You all 'ill see him when you go over thar, bekaze he's in an' out
of the house constant. He'll tell you all about it if you're mighty
perlite. Folks is got so they has to be mighty perlite to niggers sence
the war. Yit I'll not deny that it's easy to be perlite to old Uncle
Prince, bekaze he's mighty perlite hisself. He's what I call a high-bred
nigger." Mrs. Haley said this with an air of pride, as if she were in
some measure responsible for Uncle Prince's good breeding.
V
IT came to pass that Helen Eustis and her aunt lost the sense of
loneliness which they had found so oppressive during the first weeks of
their visit. In the people about them they found a never-failing fund of
entertainment. They found in the climate, too, a source of health and
strength. The resinous odor of the pines was always in their nostrils;
the far, faint undertones of music the winds made in the trees were
always in their ears. The provinciality of the people, which some of the
political correspondents describe as distressing, was so genuinely
American in all its forms and manifestations that these Boston women
were enabled to draw from it, now and then, a whiff of New England air.
They recognized characteristics that made them feel thoroughly at home.
Perhaps, so far as Helen was concerned, there were other reasons that
reconciled her to her surroundings. At any rate, she was reconciled.
More than this, she was happy. Her eyes sparkled, and the roses of
health bloomed on her cheeks. All her movements were tributes to the
buoyancy and energy of her nature. The little rector found out what this
energy amounted to, when, on one occasion, he proposed to accompany her
on one of her walks. It was a five-mile excursion; and he returned, as
Mrs. Haley expressed it, "a used-up man."
One morning, just before Christmas, the Waverly carriage, driven in
great state by Uncle Prince, drew up in front of the tavern; and in a
few moments Helen and her aunt were given to understand that they had
been sent for, in furtherance of an invitation they had accepted, to
spend the holidays at Waverly.
"Ole Miss would 'a' come," said Uncle Prince, with a hospitable chuckle,
"but she sorter ailin'; en Miss Hallie, she dat busy dat she ain't
skacely got time fer ter tu'n 'roun'; so dey tuck'n sort atter you,
ma'am, des like you wuz home folks."
The preparations of the ladies had already been made, and it was not
long before they were swinging along under the green pines in the
old-fashioned vehicle. Nor was it long before they passed from the pine
forests, and entered the grove of live-oaks that shaded the walks and
drives of Waverly. The house itself was a somewhat imposing structure,
with a double veranda in front, supported by immense pillars, and
surrounded on all sides by magnificent trees. Here, as Helen and her
aunt had heard on all sides, a princely establishment had existed in the
old time before the war--an establishment noted for its lavish
hospitality. Here visitors used to come in their carriages from all
parts of Georgia, from South Carolina, and even from Virginia--some of
them remaining for weeks at a time, and giving to the otherwise dull
neighborhood long seasons of riotous festivity, which were at once
characteristic and picturesque. The old days had gone to come no more,
but there was something in the atmosphere that seemed to recall them.
The stately yet simple architecture of the house, the trees with their
rugged and enormous trunks, the vast extent of the grounds--everything,
indeed, that came under the eye--seemed to suggest the past. A
blackened and broken statue lay prone upon the ground hard by the
weather-beaten basin of a fountain long since dry. Two tall granite
columns, that once guarded an immense gateway, supported the fragmentary
skeletons of two colossal lamps. There was a suggestion not only of the
old days before the war, but of antiquity--a suggestion that was
intensified by the great hall, the high ceilings, the wide fireplaces,
and the high mantels of the house itself. These things somehow gave a
weird aspect to Waverly in the eyes of the visitors; but this feeling
was largely atoned for by the air of tranquillity that brooded over the
place, and it was utterly dispersed by the heartiness with which they
were welcomed.
"Here we is at home, ma'am," exclaimed Uncle Prince, opening the
carriage-door, and bowing low; "en yon' come ole Miss en Miss Hallie."
The impression which Helen and her aunt received, and one which they
never succeeded in shaking off during their visit, was that they were
regarded as members of the family who had been away for a period, but
who had now come home to stay. Just how these gentle hosts managed to
impart this impression, Helen and Miss Tewksbury would have found it
hard to explain; but they discovered that the art of entertaining was
not a lost art even in the piny woods. Every incident, and even
accidents, contributed to the enjoyment of the guests. Even the weather
appeared to exert itself to please. Christmas morning was ushered in
with a sharp little flurry of snow. The scene was a very pretty one, as
the soft white flakes, some of them as large as a canary's wing, fell
athwart the green foliage of the live-oaks and the magnolias.
"This is my hour!" exclaimed Helen enthusiastically.
"We enjoy it with you," said Hallie simply.
During the afternoon the clouds melted away, the sun came out, and the
purple haze of Indian summer took possession of air and sky. In an hour
the weather passed from the crisp and sparkling freshness of winter, to
the wistful melancholy beauty of autumn.
"This," said Hallie gently, "is _my_ hour." She was standing on the
broad veranda with Helen. For reply, the latter placed her arm around
the Southern girl; and they stood thus for a long time, their thoughts
riming to the plaintive air of a negro melody that found its way across
the fields and through the woods.
Christmas at Waverly, notwithstanding the fact that the negroes were
free, was not greatly different from Christmas on the Southern
plantations before the war. Few of the negroes who had been slaves had
left the place, and those that remained knew how a Christmas ought to be
celebrated. They sang the old-time songs, danced the old-time dances,
and played the old-time plays.
All this was deeply interesting to the gentlewomen from Boston; but
there was one incident that left a lasting impression on both, and
probably had its effect in changing the future of one of them. It
occurred one evening when they were all grouped around the fire in the
drawing-room. The weather had grown somewhat colder than usual, and big
hickory logs were piled in the wide fireplace. At the suggestion of
Hallie the lights had been put out, and they sat in the ruddy glow of
the firelight. The effect was picturesque indeed. The furniture and the
polished wainscoting glinted and shone, and the shadows of the big brass
andirons were thrown upon the ceiling, where they performed a witch's
dance, the intricacy of which was amazing to behold.
It was an interesting group, representing the types of much that is best
in the civilization of the two regions. Their talk covered a great
variety of subjects, but finally drifted into reminiscences of the
war--reminiscences of its incidents rather than its passions.
"I have been told," said Miss Eustis, "that a dead Union soldier was
brought here during the war, and buried. Was his name ever known?"
There was a long pause. General Garwood gazed steadily into the fire.
His mother sighed gently. Hallie, who had been resting her head against
Helen's shoulder, rose from her chair, and glided from the room as
swiftly as a ghost.
"Perhaps I have made a mistake," said Helen in dismay. "The incident was
so strange--"
"No, Miss Eustis, you have made no mistake," said General Garwood,
smiling a little sadly. "One moment--" He paused as if listening for
something. Presently the faint sound of music was heard. It stole softly
from the dark parlor into the warm firelight as if it came from far
away.
"One moment," said General Garwood. "It is Hallie at the piano."
The music, without increasing in volume, suddenly gathered coherency,
and there fell on the ears of the listening group the notes of an air so
plaintive that it seemed like the breaking of a heart. It was as soft as
an echo, and as tender as the memories of love and youth.
"We have to be very particular with Hallie," said the general, by way of
explanation. "The Union soldier in our burying-ground is intimately
connected with her bereavement and ours. Hers is the one poor heart that
keeps the fires of grief always burning. I think she is willing the
story should be told."
"Yes," said his mother, "else she would never go to the piano."
"I feel like a criminal," said Helen. "How can I apologize?"
"It is we who ought to apologize and explain," replied General Garwood.
"You shall hear the story, and then neither explanation nor apology will
be necessary."
VI
A SUMMONS was sent for Uncle Prince, and the old man soon made his
appearance. He stood in a seriously expectant attitude.
"Prince," said General Garwood, "these ladies are from the North. They
have asked me about the dead Union soldier you brought home during the
war. I want you to tell the whole story."
"Tell 'bout de what, Marse Peyton?" Both astonishment and distress were
depicted on the old negro's face as he asked the question. He seemed to
be sure that he had not heard aright.
"About the Union soldier you brought home with your young master from
Virginia."
"Whar Miss Hallie, Marse Peyton? Dat her in dar wid de peanner?"
"Yes, she's in there."
"I 'lowed she uz some'r's, kaze I know 'tain't gwine never do fer ter
git dat chile riled up 'bout dem ole times; en it'll be a mighty wonder
ef she don't ketch col' in dar whar she is."
"No," said General Garwood; "the room is warm. There has been a fire in
there all day."
"Yasser, I know I builted one in dar dis mornin', but I take notice dat
de drafts dese times look like dey come bofe ways."
The old man stood near the tall mantel, facing the group. There was
nothing servile in his attitude: on the contrary, his manner, when
addressing the gentleman who had once been his master, suggested easy,
not to say affectionate, familiarity. The firelight, shining on his
face, revealed a countenance at once rugged and friendly. It was a face
in which humor had many a tough struggle with dignity. In looks and
tone, in word and gesture, there was unmistakable evidence of that
peculiar form of urbanity that can not be dissociated from gentility.
These things were more apparent, perhaps, to Helen and her aunt than to
those who, from long association, had become accustomed to Uncle
Prince's peculiarities.
"Dem times ain't never got clean out'n my min'," said the old negro,
"but it bin so long sence I runn'd over um, dat I dunner wharbouts ter
begin skacely."
"You can tell it all in your own way," said General Garwood.
"Yasser, dat's so, but I fear'd it's a mighty po' way. Bless yo' soul,
honey," Uncle Prince went on, "dey was rough times, en it look like ter
me dat ef dey wuz ter come 'roun' ag'in hit 'u'd take a mighty rank
runner fer ter ketch one nigger man w'at I'm got some 'quaintance wid.
Dey wuz rough times, but dey wa'n't rough 'long at fust. Shoo! no! dey
wuz dat slick dat dey ease we-all right down 'mongs' de wuss kind er
tribbylation, en we ain't none un us know it twel we er done dar.
"I know dis," the old man continued, addressing himself exclusively to
Miss Eustis and her aunt; "I knows dat we-all wuz a-gittin' 'long
mighty well, w'en one day Marse Peyton dar, he tuck 'n' jinded wid de
army; en den 'twa'n't long 'fo' word come dat my young marster w'at
gwine ter college in Ferginny, done gone en jinded wid um. I ax myse'f,
I say, w'at de name er goodness does dey want wid boy like dat? Hit's de
Lord's trufe, ma'am, dat ar chile wa'n't mo' dan gwine on sixteen, ef he
wuz dat, en I up'n' ax myse'f, I did, w'at does de war want wid baby
like dat? Min' you, ma'am, I ain't fin' out den w'at war wuz--I ain't
know w'at a great big maw she got."
"My son Ethel," said Mrs. Garwood, the soft tone of her voice chiming
with the notes of the piano, "was attending the University of Virginia
at Charlottesville. He was just sixteen."
"Yassum," said Uncle Prince, rubbing his hands together gently, and
gazing into the glowing embers, as if searching there for some clue that
would aid him in recalling the past. "Yassum, my young marster wuz des
gone by sixteen year, kaze 'twa'n't so mighty long 'fo' dat, dat we-all
sont 'im a great big box er fixin's en doin's fer ter git dar on he's
birfday; en I sot up mighty nigh twel day tryin' ter make some 'lasses
candy fer ter put in dar wid de yuther doin's."
Here Uncle Prince smiled broadly at the fire.
"Ef dey wuz sumpin' w'at dat chile like, hit wuz 'lasses candy; en I say
ter my ole 'oman, I did: ''Mandy Jane, I'll make de candy, en den w'en
she good en done, I'll up en holler fer you, en den you kin pull it.'
Yassum, I said dem ve'y words. So de ole 'oman, she lay down 'cross de
baid, en I sot up dar en b'iled de 'lasses. De 'lasses 'u'd blubber en
I'd nod, en I'd nod en de 'lasses 'u'd blubber, en fus news I know de
'lasses 'u'd done be scorched. Well, ma'am, I tuck 'n' burnt up mighty
nigh fo' gallons er 'lasses on de account er my noddin', en bimeby w'en
de ole 'oman wake up, she 'low dey wa'n't no excusion fer it; en sho
nuff dey wa'n't, kaze w'at make I nod dat away?
"But dat candy wuz candy, mon, w'en she did come, en den de ole 'oman
she tuck 'n' pull it twel it git 'mos' right white; en my young marster,
he tuck 'n' writ back, he did, dat ef dey wuz anythin' in dat box w'at
make 'im git puny wid de homesickness, hit uz dat ar 'lasses candy.
Yassum, he cert'n'y did, kaze dey tuck 'n' read it right out'n de letter
whar he writ it.
"'Twa'n't long atter dat 'fo' we-all got de word dat my young marster
done jinded inter de war wid some yuther boys w'at been at de same
school'ouse wid 'im. Den, on top er dat, yer come news dat he gwine git
married. Bless yo' soul, honey, dat sorter rilded me up, en I march
inter de big 'ouse, I did, en I up 'n' tell mistis dat she better lemme
go up dar en fetch dat chile home; en den mistis say she gwine sen' me
on dar fer ter be wid 'im in de war, en take keer un 'im. Dis holp me up
might'ly, kaze I wuz a mighty biggity nigger in dem days. De white folks
done raise me up right 'long wid um, en way down in my min' I des laid
off fer ter go up dar in Ferginny, en take my young marster by he's
collar en fetch 'im home, des like I done w'en he use ter git in de
hin'ouse en bodder 'long wid de chickens.
"Dat wuz way down in my min', des like I tell you, but bless yo' soul,
chile, hit done drap out 'mos' 'fo' I git ter 'Gusty, in de Nunited
State er Georgy. Time I struck de railroad I kin see de troops
a-troopin', en year de drums a-drummin'. De trains wuz des loaded down
wid um. Let 'lone de passenger kyars, dey wuz in de freight-boxes yit,
en dey wuz de sassiest white mens dat yever walk 'pon topside de groun'.
Mon, dey wuz a caution. Dey had niggers wid um, en de niggers wuz sassy,
en ef I hadn't a-frailed one un um out, I dunner w'at would er 'come un
me.