Part 13 (1/2)

Looking closely at Hightower, Chichester could see that his face was colorless. His eyes were sunken, but shone with a peculiar brilliancy, and great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. His whole appearance was that of a man distraught. Here was another tragedy!

Seeking a momentary escape from the confusion and perplexity into which he had been plunged by the horrible events of the night, Chichester pa.s.sed out into the yard, and stood bareheaded in the cool wind that was faintly stirring among the trees. The stars shone remote and tranquil, and the serenity of the mountain, the awful silence that seemed to be, not the absence of sound, but the presence of some spiritual ent.i.ty, gave a.s.surance of peace. Out there, in the cold air, or in the wide skies, or in the vast gulf of night, there was nothing to suggest either pity or compa.s.sion--only the mysterious tranquillity of nature.

This was the end, so far as Chichester knew. He never entered the Hightower house again. Something prompted him to saddle his horse and ride down the mountain. The tragedy and its attendant troubles were never reported in the newspapers. The peace of the mountain remained undisturbed, its silence unbroken.

But should Chichester, who at last accounts was surveying a line of railway in Mexico, ever return to Lost Mountain, he would find Tuck Peevy a gaunt and shrunken creature, working on the Hightower farm, and managing such of its small affairs as call for management. Sometimes, when the day's work is over, and Peevy sits at the fireside saying nothing, Abe Hightower will raise a paralytic hand, and cry out as loud as he can that it's almost time for Babe to quit playing 'possum. At such times we may be sure that, so far as Peevy is concerned, there is still trouble on Lost Mountain.

AZALIA

I

MISS HELEN OSBORNE EUSTIS of Boston was very much astonished one day in the early fall of 1873 to receive a professional visit from Dr. Ephraim Buxton, who for many years had been her father's family physician. The astonishment was mutual; for Dr. Buxton had expected to find Miss Eustis in bed, or at least in the att.i.tude of a patient, whereas she was seated in an easy chair, before a glowing grate--which the peculiarities of the Boston climate sometimes render necessary, even in the early fall--and appeared to be about as comfortable as a human being could well be.

Perhaps the appearance of comfort was heightened by the general air of subdued luxury that pervaded the apartment into which Dr. Buxton had been ushered. The draperies, the arrangement of the little affairs that answer to the name of bric-a-brac, the adjustment of the furniture--everything--conveyed the impression of peace and repose; and the chief element of this perfect harmony was Miss Eustis herself, who rose to greet the doctor as he entered. She regarded the physician with eyes that somehow seemed to be wise and kind, and with a smile that was at once sincere and humorous.

”Why, how is this, Helen?” Dr. Buxton exclaimed, taking off his spectacles, and staring at the young lady. ”I fully expected to find you in bed. I hope you are not imprudent.”

”Why should I be ill, Dr. Buxton? You know what Mr. Tom Appleton says: 'In Boston, those who are sick do injustice to the air they breathe and to their cooks.' I think that is a patriotic sentiment, and I try to live up to it. My health is no worse than usual, and usually it is very good,” said Miss Eustis.

”You certainly seem to be well,” said Dr. Buxton, regarding the young lady with a professional frown; ”but appearances are sometimes deceitful. I met Harriet yesterday--”

”Ah, my aunt!” exclaimed Helen, in a tone calculated to imply that this explained everything.

”I met Harriet yesterday, and she insisted on my coming to see you at once, certainly not later than to-day.”

Miss Eustis shrugged her shoulders, and laughed, but her face showed that she appreciated this manifestation of solicitude.

”Let me see,” she said reflectively; ”what was my complaint yesterday?

We must do justice to Aunt Harriet's discrimination. She would never forgive you if you went away without leaving a prescription. My health is so good that I think you may leave me a mild one.”

Unconsciously the young lady made a charming picture as she sat with her head drooping a little to one side in a half-serious, half-smiling effort to recall to mind some of the symptoms that had excited her aunt's alarm. Dr. Buxton, prescription book in hand, gazed at her quizzically over his old-fas.h.i.+oned spectacles; seeing which, Helen laughed heartily. At that moment her aunt entered the room--a pleasant-faced but rather prim old lady, of whom it had been said by some one competent to judge, that her inquisitiveness was so overwhelming and so important that it took the shape of pity in one direction, patriotism in another, and benevolence in another, giving to her life not the semblance but the very essence of usefulness and activity.

”Do you hear that, Dr. Buxton?” cried the pleasant-faced old lady somewhat sharply. ”Do you hear her wheeze when she laughs? Do you remember that she was threatened with pneumonia last winter? and now she is wheezing before the winter begins!”

”This is the trouble I was trying to think of,” exclaimed Helen, sinking back in her chair with a gesture of mock despair.

”Don't make yourself ridiculous, dear,” said the aunt, giving the little cl.u.s.ters of gray curls that hung about her ears an emphatic shake.

”Serious matters should be taken seriously.” Whereat Helen pressed her cheek gently against the thin white hand that had been laid caressingly on her shoulder.

”Aunt Harriet has probably heard me say that there is still some hope for the country, even though it is governed entirely by men,” said Helen, with an air of apology. ”The men can not deprive us of the winter climate of Boston, and I enjoy that above all things.”

Aunt Harriet smiled reproachfully at her niece, and pulled her ear gently.

”But indeed, Dr. Buxton,” Helen went on more seriously, ”the winter climate of Boston, fine as it is, is beginning to pinch us harder than it used to do. The air is thinner, and the cold is keener. When I was younger--very much younger--than I am now, I remember that I used to run in and out, and fall and roll in the snow with perfect impunity. But now I try to profit by Aunt Harriet's example. When I go out, I go bundled up to the point of suffocation; and if the wind is from the east, as it usually is, I wear wraps and shawls indoors.”

Helen smiled brightly at her aunt and at Dr. Buxton; but her aunt seemed to be distressed, and the physician shook his head dubiously.

”You will have to take great care of yourself,” said Dr. Buxton. ”You must be prudent. The slightest change in the temperature may send you to bed for the rest of the winter.”

”Dr. Buxton is complimenting you, Aunt Harriet,” said Helen. ”You should drop him a courtesy.”