Part 19 (1/2)

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.