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Westways: A Village Chronicle

by S. Weir Mitchell · English · Gutenberg #14153 · 881,997 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Westways: A Village Chronicle

Author: S. Weir Mitchell


        
Release date: November 26, 2004 [eBook #14153]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESTWAYS: A VILLAGE CHRONICLE ***

WESTWAYS

A Village Chronicle

by

S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D., LL.D.

Author of _Hugh Wynne_, _The Adventures of François_, _Constance
Trescot_, etc., etc.

1913







I DEDICATE THIS BOOK WHICH RECALLS CERTAIN SCENES OF THE CIVIL WAR TO THE
MEMORY OF MY THREE BROTHERS

R.W.M.
N.C.M.
E.K.M.

ALL OF WHOM SERVED IN THE ARMIES OF THEIR COUNTRY




PREFACE


There will be many people in this book; some will be important, others
will come on the scene for a time and return no more. The life-lines of
these persons will cross and recross, to meet once or twice and not
again, like the ruts in a much used road. To-day the stage may be
crowded, to-morrow empty. The corner novels where only a half dozen
people are concerned give no impression of the multitudinous contacts
which affect human lives. Even of the limited life of a village this is
true. It was more true of the time of my story, which lacking plot must
rely for interest on the influential relations of social groups, then
more defined in small communities than they are to-day.

Long before the Civil War there were in the middle states, near to or
remote from great centres, villages where the social division of classes
was tacitly accepted. In or near these towns one or more families were
continuously important on account of wealth or because of historic
position, generations of social training, and constant relation to the
larger world. They came by degrees to constitute what I may describe as
an indistinct caste, for a long time accepted as such by their less
fortune-favoured neighbours. They were, in fact, for many years almost as
much a class by themselves as are the long-seated county families of
England and like these were looked to for helpful aid in sickness and in
other of the calamities of life. The democrat time, increasing ease of
travel and the growth of large industries, gradually altered the relation
between these small communities, and the families who in the smaller
matters of life long remained singularly familiar with their poorer
neighbours and in the way of closer social intimacies far apart.

It seemed to me worth while to use the life of one of these groups of
people as the background of a story which also deals with the influence
of politics and war on all classes.




WESTWAYS




CHAPTER I


The first Penhallow crossed the Alleghanies long before the War for
Independence and on the frontier of civilisation took up land where the
axe was needed for the forest and the rifle for the Indian. He made a
clearing and lived a hard life of peril, wearily waiting for the charred
stumps to rot away.

The younger men of the name in Colonial days and later left the place
early, and for the most part took to the sea or to the army, if there
were activity in the way of war. In later years, others drifted westward
on the tide of border migration, where adventure was always to be had.
This stir of enterprise in a breed tends to extinction in the male lines.
Men are thinned out in their wooing of danger--the _belle dame sans
merci_. Thus there were but few Penhallows alive at any one time, and
yet for many years they bred in old-fashioned numbers.

As time ran on, a Penhallow prospered in the cities, and clinging to
the land added fresh acres as new ambitions developed qualities which
are not infrequently found in descendants of long-seated American
families. It was not then, nor is it now, rare in American life to find
fortune-favoured men returning in later days to the homes of their youth
to become useful in many ways to the communities they loved. One of
these, James Penhallow,--and there was always a James,--after greatly
prospering in the ventures of the China trade, was of the many who about
1800 bought great tracts of land on the farther slope of the Pennsylvania
Alleghanies. His own purchases lay near and around the few hundred acres
his ancestor took up and where an aged cousin was left in charge of the
farm-house. When this tenant died, the house decayed, and the next
Penhallow weary of being taxed for unproductive land spent a summer on
the property, and with the aid of engineers found iron in plenty and soft
coal. He began about 1830 to develop the property, and built a large
house which he never occupied and which was long known in the county as
"Penhallow's Folly." It was considered the more notably foolish because
of being set, in unAmerican fashion, deep in the woods, and remote from
the highway. What was believed to be the oldest pine-tree in the county
gave to the place the popular name of "Grey Pine" and being accepted by
the family when they came there to live, "Penhallow's Folly" ceased to be
considered descriptive.

The able and enterprising discoverer of mines had two sons. One of them,
the youngest, married late in life, and dying soon after left a widow and
a posthumous son John, of whom more hereafter. The elder brother was
graduated from West Point, served some years with distinction, and
marrying found himself obliged to resign his captaincy on his father's
death to take charge of the iron-mills and mines, which had become far
more important to the family than their extensive forest-holdings on the
foot-hills of the western watershed of the Alleghanies.

The country had long been well settled. The farmers thrived as the mills
and mines needed increasing supplies of food and the railway gave access
to market. The small village of Westways was less fortunate than the
county. Strung along the side of the road opposite to Penhallow's woods,
it had lost the bustling prosperity of a day when the Conestoga wagons
stopped over-night at the "General Wayne Inn" and when as yet no one
dreamed that the new railroad would ruin the taverns set at intervals
along the highway to Pittsburgh. Now that Westways Crossing, two miles
away, had been made the nearest station, Westways was left to live on the
mill-wages and such profits as farming furnished.

When Captain James Penhallow repaired the neglected house and kept the
town busy with demands for workmen, the village woke up for a whole
summer. In the autumn he brought to Grey Pine his wife, Ann Grey, of the
well-known Greys of the eastern shore of Maryland. A year or two of
discomfort at Western army-posts and a busy-minded, energetic
personality, made welcome to this little lady a position which provided
unaccustomed luxuries and a limitless range of duties, such as were to
her what mere social enjoyments are to many women. Grey Pine--the house,
the flower and kitchen-gardens, the church to be built--and the schools
at the mills, all were as she liked it, having been bred up amid the
kindly despotism of a great plantation with its many dependent slaves.

When Ann Penhallow put Grey Pine and the Penhallow crest on her
notepaper, her husband said laughing that women had no rights to crests,
and that although the arms were surely his by right of good Cornish
descent, he thought their use in America a folly. This disturbed Ann
Penhallow very little, but when they first came to Grey Pine the headings
of her notepaper were matters of considerable curiosity to the straggling
village of Westways, where she soon became liked, respected, and
moderately feared. A busy-minded woman, few things in the life of the
people about her escaped her notice, and she distributed uninvited
counsel or well-considered charity and did her best to restrain the more
lavish, periodical assistance when harvests were now and then bad--which
made James Penhallow a favourite in the county.

Late in the summer of 1855, John Penhallow's widow, long a wandering
resident in Europe, acquired the first serious illness of a
self-manufactured life of invalidism and promptly died at Vevey. Her only
child, John, was at once ordered home by his uncle and guardian, James
Penhallow, and after some delay crossed the sea in charge of his tutor.
The dependent little fellow hid under a natural reserve what grief he
felt, and accustomed to being sent here and there by an absent mother,
silently submissive, was turned over by the tutor to James Penhallow's
agent in Philadelphia. On the next day, early in November, he was put in
charge of a conductor to be left at Westways Crossing, where he was told
that some one would meet him.

The day was warm when in the morning he took his seat in the train,
but before noon it became clouded, and an early snow-storm with sudden
fall of temperature made the boy sensible that he was ill-clothed to
encounter the change of weather. He had been unfortunate in the fact
that his mother had for years used the vigilant tyranny of feebleness
to enforce upon the boy her own sanitary views. Children are easily
made hypochondriac, and under her system of government he became
self-attentive, careful of what he ate and extremely timid. There
had been many tutors and only twice long residence at schools in Vevey
and for a winter in Budapest. The health she too sedulously watched she
was fast destroying, and her son was at the time of her death a thin,
pallid, undersized boy, who disliked even the mild sports of French lads,
and had been flattered and considered until he had acquired the
conviction that he was an important member of an important family. His
other mother--nature--had given him, happily, better traits. He was an
observer, a born lover of books, intelligent, truthful, and trained
in the gentle, somewhat formal, manners of an older person. Now for the
first time in his guarded life he was alone on a railway journey in
charge of the conductor. A more unhappy, frightened little fellow could
hardly have been found.

The train paused at many stations; men and women got on or got out of the
cars, very common-looking people, surely, he concluded. The day ran by to
afternoon. The train had stopped at a station for lunch, but John,
although hungry, was afraid of being left and kept the seat which he
presumed to be his own property until a stout man took half of it. A
little later, a lean old woman said, "Move up, sonny," and sat down.
When she asked his name and where he lived, he replied in the coldly
civil manner with which he had heard his mother repress the good-natured
advances of her wandering countrymen. When again the seat was free, he
fell to thinking of the unknown home, Grey Pine, which he had heard his
mother talk of to English friends as "our ancestral home," and of the
great forests, the mines and the iron-works. Her son would, of course,
inherit it, as Captain Penhallow had no child. "Really a great estate,
my dear," his mother had said. It loomed large in his young imagination.
Who would meet him? Probably a carriage with the liveried driver and the
groom immaculate in white-topped boots, a fur cover on his arm. It would,
of course, be Captain Penhallow who would make him welcome. Then the
cold, which is hostile to imagination, made him shiver as he drew his
thin cloak about him and watched the snow squadrons wind-driven and the
big flakes blurring his view as they melted on the panes. By and by, two
giggling young women near by made comments on his looks and dress.
Fragments of their talk he overheard. It was not quite pleasant. "Law!
ain't he got curly hair, and ain't he just like a girl doll," and so on
in the lawless freedom of democratic feminine speech. The flat Morocco
cap and large visor of the French schoolboy and the dark blue cloak with
the silver clasp were subjects of comment. One of them offered peanuts or
sugar-plums, which he declined with "Much obliged, but I never take
them." Now and then he consulted his watch or felt in his pocket to be
certain that his baggage-check was secure, or looked to see if the little
bag of toilet articles at his feet was safe. The kindly attentions of
those who noticed his evident discomfort were neither mannerless nor, as
he thought, impertinent. A woman said to him that he seemed cold,
wouldn't he put around him a shawl she laid on his knees. He declined it
civilly with thanks. In fact, he was thinly and quite too lightly clad,
and he not only felt the cold, but was unhappy and utterly unprepared by
any previous experience for the mode of travel, the crowded car and the
rough kindness of the people, who liking his curly hair and refined young
childlike face would have been of service if he had accepted their
advances with any pleasure. Presently, after four in the afternoon, the
brakeman called "All out for Westways Crossing."

John seized his bag and was at the exit-door before the train came to a
stand. The conductor bade him be careful, as the steps were slippery. As
the engine snorted and the train moved away, the conductor cried out,
"Forgot your cane, sonny," and threw the light gold-mounted bamboo from
the car. He had a new sense of loneliness as he stood on the roofless
platform, half a foot deep in gathering snow, which driven by a pitiless
gale from the north blew his cloak about as he looked to see that his
trunk had been delivered. A man shifted a switch and coming back said,
"Gi'me your check." John decided that this was not safe, and to the man's
amusement said that he would wait until the carriage of Captain Penhallow
arrived. The man went away. John remained angrily expectant looking up
the road. Presently he heard the gay jingle of bells and around a turn of
the road came a one-horse sleigh. It stopped beside him. He first saw
only the odd face of the driver in a fur cap and earlets. Then, tossing
off the bear skins, bounded on to the platform a young girl and shook
herself snow-free as she threw back a wild mane of dark red hair.

"Halloa! John Penhallow," she cried, "I'm Leila Grey. I'm sent for you.
I'm late too. Uncle James has gone to the mills and Aunt Ann is busy.
Been here long?"

"Not very," said John, his teeth chattering with cold.

"Gracious! you'll freeze. Sorry I was late." She saw at a glance the low
shoes, the blue cloak, the kid gloves, the boy's look of suffering, and
at once took possession of him.

"Get into the sleigh. Oh! leave your check on the trunk or give it to
me." She was off and away to the trunk as he climbed in, helpless. She
undid the counter check, ran across to the guard's house, was back in a
moment and tumbled in beside him.

"But, is it safe? My trunk, I mean," said John.

"Safe. No one will steal it. Pat will come for it. There he is now. Tuck
in the rugs. Put this shawl around you and over your head." She pinned it
with ready fingers.

"Now, you'll be real comfy." The chilled boy puzzled and amused her.

As he became warm, John felt better in the hands of this easy despot, but
was somewhat indignant. "To send a chit of a girl for him--John
Penhallow!"

"Now," she cried to the driver, "be careful. Why did they send _you_?"

Billy, a middle-aged man, short-legged and long of body, turned a
big-featured head as he replied in an odd boyish voice, "The man was busy
giving a ball in the stable."

"A ball"--said John--"in the stable?"

"Oh! that is funny," said the girl. "A ball's a big pill for Lucy, my
mare. She's sick."

"Oh! I see." And they were off and away through the wind-driven snow.

The girl, instinctively aware of the shyness and discomfort of her
companion, set herself to put him at ease. The lessening snow still fell,
but now a brilliant sun lighted the white radiance of field and forest.
He was warmer, and the disconnected chat of childhood began.

"The snow is early. Don't you love it?" said the small maid bent on
making herself agreeable.

"No, I do not."

"But, oh!--see--the sun is out. Now you will like it. I suppose you don't
know how to walk in snow-shoes, or it would be lovely to go right home
across country."

"I never used them. Once I read about them in a book."

"Oh! you'll learn. I'll teach you."

John, used to being considered and flattered, as he became more
comfortable began to resent the way in which the girl proposed to
instruct him. He was silent for a time.

"Tuck in that robe," she said. "How old are you?"

"This last September, fifteen. How old are you?"

"Guess."

"About ten, I think." Now this was malicious.

"Ten, indeed! I'm thirteen and ten months and--and three days," she
returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age. "Were you at school
in Europe?"

"Yes, in France and Hungary."

"That's queer. In Hungary and France--Oh! then you can speak French."

"Of course," he replied. "Can't you?"

"A little, but Aunt Ann says I have a good accent when I read to her--we
often do."

"You should say 'without accent,'" he felt better after this assertion of
superior knowledge. She thought his manners bad, but, though more amused
than annoyed, felt herself snubbed and was silent for a time. He was
quick to perceive that he had better have held his critical tongue, and
said pleasantly, "But really it don't matter--only I was told that in
France."

She was as quick to reply, "You shouldn't say 'don't matter,' I say that
sometimes, and then Uncle James comes down on me."

"Why? I am really at a loss--"

"Oh! you must say 'doesn't'--not 'don't.'" She shook her great mass of
hair and cried merrily, "I guess we are about even now, John Penhallow."

Then they laughed gaily, as the boy said, "I wasn't very--very
courteous."

"Now that's pretty, John. Good gracious, Billy!" she cried, punching the
broad back of the driver. "Are you asleep? You are all over the road."

"Oh! I was thinkin' how Pole, the butcher, sold the Squire a horse that's
spavined--got it sent back--funny, wasn't it?"

"Look out," said Leila, "you will upset us."

John looked the uneasiness he felt, as he said, "Do you think it is
safe?"

"No, I don't. Drive on, Billy, but do be careful."

They came to the little village of Westways. At intervals Billy
communicated bits of village gossip. "Susan McKnight, she's going to
marry Finney--"

"Bother Susan," cried Leila. "Be careful."

John alarmed held on to his seat as the sleigh rocked about, while Billy
whipped up the mare.

"This is Westways, our village. It is just a row of houses. Uncle James
won't sell land on our side. Look out, Billy! Our rector lives in that
small house by the church. His name is Mark Rivers. You'll like him.
That's Mr. Grace, the Baptist preacher." She bade him good-day. "Stop,
Billy!"

He pulled up at the sidewalk. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Crocker," she said,
as the postmistress came out to the sleigh. "Please mail this. Any
letters for us?"

"No, Leila." She glanced at the curly locks above the thin face and the
wrapped up form in the shawl. "Got a nice little girl with you, Leila."

John indignant said nothing. "This is a boy--my cousin, John Penhallow,"
returned Leila.

"Law! is that so?"

"Get on," cried Leila. "Stop at Josiah's."

Here a tall, strongly built, very black negro came out. "Fine frosty day,
missy."

"Come up to the house to-night. Uncle Jim wants you."

"I'll come--sure."

"Now, get along, Billy."

The black was strange to the boy. He thought the lower orders here
disrespectful.

"Josiah's our barber," said Leila. "He saved me once from a dreadful
accident. You'll like him."

"Will I?" thought John, but merely remarked, "They all seem rather
intimate."

"Why not?" said the young Republican. "Ah! here's the gate. I'll get out
and open it. It's the best gate to swing on in the whole place."

As she tossed the furs aside, John gasped, "To swing on--"

"Oh, yes. Aunt Ann says I am too old to swing on gates, but I do. It
shuts with a bang. I'll show you some day."

"What is swinging on a gate?" said John, as she jumped out and stood in
the snow laughing. Surely this was an amazing kind of boy. "Why, did you
never hear the rhyme about it?"

"No," said John, "I never did."

"Well, you just get on the gate when it's wide open and give a push, and
you sing--

  "If I was the President of these United States,
  I'd suck molasses candy and swing upon the gates.

"There! Then it shuts--bang!" With this bit of child folklore she
scampered away through the snow and stood holding the gate open while
Billy drove through. She reflected mischievously that it must have been
three years since she had swung on a gate.

John feeling warm and for the first time looking about him with interest
began to notice the grandeur of the rigid snow-laden pines of an
untouched forest which stood in what was now brilliant sunshine.

As Leila got into the sleigh, she said, "Now, Billy, go slowly when you
make the short turn at the house. If you upset us, I--I'll kill you."

"Yes, miss. Guess I'll drive all right." But the ways of drivers are
everywhere the same, and to come to the end of a drive swiftly with crack
of whip was an unresisted temptation.

"_Sang de Dieu!_" cried John, "we will be upset."

"We are," shouted Leila. The horse was down, the sleigh on its side, and
the cousins disappeared in a huge drift piled high when the road was
cleared.




CHAPTER II


John was the first to return to the outer world. He stood still, seeing
the horse on its legs, Billy unharnessing, Leila for an instant lost to
sight. The boy was scared. In his ordered life it was an unequalled
experience. Then he saw a merry face above the drift and lying around it
a wide-spread glory of red hair on the white snow. In after years he
would recall the beauty of the laughing young face in its setting of dark
gold and sunlit silver snow.

"Oh, my!" she cried. "That Billy! Don't stand there, John; pull me out,
I'm stuck."

He gave her a hand and she bounded forth out of the drift, shaking off
the dry snow as a wet dog shakes off water. "What's the matter, John?"

He was trying to empty neck, pocket and shoes of snow, and was past
the limits of what small endurance he had been taught. "I shall catch
my death of cold. It's down my back--it's everywhere, and I--shall
get--laryngitis."

The brave blue eyes of the girl stared at his dejected figure. She was at
heart a gentle, little woman-child, endowed by nature with so much of
tom-boy barbarism as was good for her. Just now a feeling of contemptuous
surprise overcame her kindliness and her aunt's training. "There's your
bag on the snow, and Billy will find your cap. What does a boy want with
a bag? A boy--and afraid of snow!" she cried. "Help him with that
harness."

He made no reply, but looked about for his lost cane. Then the young
despot turned upon the driver. "Wait till Uncle James hears; he'll come
down on you."

"My lands!" said Billy, unbuckling a trace, "I'll just say, I'm sorry;
and the Squire he'll say, don't let it happen again; and I'll say, yes,
sir."

"Yes, until Aunt Ann hears," said Leila, and turned to John. His attitude
of utter helplessness touched her.

"Come into the house; you must be cold." She was of a sudden all
tenderness.

Through an outside winter doorway-shelter they entered a hall unusually
large for an American's house and warmed by two great blazing hickory
wood-fires. "Come in," she cried, "you'll be all right. Sit down by the
fire; I'll be down in a minute, I want to see where Aunt Ann has put
you."

"I am much obliged," said John shivering. He was alone, but wet as he was
the place captured an ever active imagination. He looked about him as he
stood before the roaring fire. To the right was an open library, to the
left a drawing-room rarely used, the hall being by choice the favoured
sitting-room. The dining-room was built out from the back of the hall,
whence up a broad stairway Leila had gone. The walls were hung with
Indian painted robes, Sioux and Arapahoe weapons, old colonial rifles,
and among them portraits of three generations of Penhallows. Many older
people had found interesting the strange adornment of the walls, where
amid antlered trophies of game, buffalo heads and war-worn Indian relics,
could be read something of the owner's tastes and history. John stood by
the fire fascinated. Like many timid boys, he liked books of adventure
and to imagine himself heroic in situations of peril.

"It's all right. Come up," cried Leila from the stair. "Your trunk's
there now. There's a fine fire."

Forgetful of the cold ride and of the snow down his back, he was
standing before the feathered head-dress of a Sioux Chief and
touching the tomahawk below it. He turned as she spoke. "Those must
be scalp-locks--three." He saw the prairie, the wild pursuit--saw them
as she could not. He went after her upstairs, the girl talking, the
boy rapt, lost in far-away battles on the plains.

"This is your room. See what a nice fire. You can dry yourself. Your
trunk is here already." She lighted two candles. "We dine at half-past
six."

"Thank you; I am very much obliged," he said, thinking what a mannerless
girl.

Leila closed the door and stood still a moment. Then she exclaimed,
"Well, I never! What will Uncle Jim say?" She listened a moment. No
one was in the hall. Then she laughed, and getting astride of the
banister-rail made a wild, swift and perilous descent, alighting at the
foot in the hall, and readjusting her short skirts as she heard her aunt
and uncle on the porch. "I was just in time," she exclaimed. "Wouldn't I
have caught it!"

The Squire, as the village called him, would have applauded this form of
coasting, but Aunt Ann had other views. "Well!" he said as they came in,
"what have you done with your young man?"

Now he was for Leila anything but a man or manly, but she was a loyal
little lady and unwilling to expose the guest to Uncle Jim's laughter.
"He's all right," she said, "but Billy upset the sleigh." She was longing
to tell about that ball in the stable, but refrained.

"So Billy upset you; and John, where is he?"

"He's upstairs getting dried."

"It is rather a rough welcome," remarked her aunt.

"He lost his cap and his cane," said Leila.

"His cane!" exclaimed her uncle, "his cane!"

"I must see him," said his wife.

"Better let him alone, Ann." But as usual she took her own way and went
upstairs. She came down in a few minutes, finding her husband standing
before the fire--an erect, soldierly figure close to forty years of age.

"Well, Ann?" he queried.

"A very nice lad, with such good manners, James."

"Billy found his cap," said Leila, "but he couldn't get the sleigh set up
until the stable men came."

"And that cane," laughed Penhallow. "Was the boy amused or--or scared?"

"I don't know," which was hardly true, but the chivalry of childhood
forbade tale-telling and he learned very little. "He was rather tired and
cold, so I made him go to his room and rest."

"Poor child!" said Aunt Ann.

James Penhallow looked at Leila. Some manner of signals were
interchanged. "I saw Billy digging in the big drift," he said. "I trust
he found the young gentleman's cane." Some pitying, dim comprehension of
the delicately nurtured lad had brought to the social surface the
kindliness of the girl and she said no more.

"It is time to dress for dinner," said Ann. Away from the usages of the
city she had wisely insisted on keeping up the social forms which the
Squire would at times have been glad to disregard. For a moment Ann
Penhallow lingered. "We must try to make him feel at home, James."

"Of course, my dear. I can imagine how Susan Penhallow would have
educated a boy, and now I know quite too well what we shall have to
undo--and--do."

"You won't, oh! you will not be too hard on him."

"I--no, my dear--but--I suspect his American education has begun
already."

"What do you mean?"

"Ask Leila--and Billy. But that can wait." They separated.

While his elders were thus briefly discussing this new addition to the
responsibilities of their busy lives, the subject of their talk had been
warmed into comfortable repossession of his self-esteem. He set in order
his elaborate silver toilet things marked with the Penhallow crest, saw
in the glass that his dress and unboylike length of curly hair were as he
had been taught they should be; then he looked at his watch and went
slowly downstairs.

"Halloa! John," he heard as he reached the last turn of the stairs. "Most
glad to see you. You are very welcome to your new home." The man who
hailed him was six feet two inches, deep-chested, erect--the West Point
figure; the face clean-shaven, ruddy, hazel-eyed, was radiant with the
honest feeling of desire to put this childlike boy at ease.

The little gentleman needed no aid and replied, "My dear uncle, I cannot
sufficiently thank you." A little bow went with his words, and he
placidly accepted his aunt's embrace, while the hearty Miss Leila looked
on in silence. The boy's black suit, the short jacket, the neat black
tie, made the paleness of his thin large-featured face too obvious. Then
Leila took note of the court shoes and silk socks, and looked at Uncle
Jim to see what he thought. The Squire reserved what criticism he may
have had and asked cheerfully about the journey, Aunt Ann aiding him with
eager will to make the boy feel at home. He was quite enough at home. It
was all agreeable, these handsome relations and the other Penhallows on
the walls. He had been taught that which is good or ill as men use it,
pride of race, and in his capacity to be impressed by his surroundings
was years older than Leila. He felt sure that he would like it here at
Grey Pine, but was surprised to see no butler and to be waited on at
dinner by two neat little maids.

When Ann Penhallow asked him about his schools and his life in Europe, he
became critical, and conversed about picture-galleries and foreign life
with no lack of accuracy, while the Squire listened smiling and Leila sat
dumb with astonishment as the dinner went on. He ate little and kept in
mind the endless lessons in regard to what he should or should not eat.
Meanwhile, he silently approved of the old silver and these well-bred
kinsfolk, with a reserve of doubt concerning his silent cousin.

His uncle had at last his one glass of Madeira, and as they rose his aunt
said, "You may be tired, John; you ought to go to bed early."

"It is not yet time," he said. "I always retire at ten o'clock."

"He 'retires,'" murmured his uncle. "Come, Ann, we will leave Leila to
make friends with the new cousin. Try John at checkers, Leila. She
defeats me easily."

"I--never saw any one could beat me at _jeu des dames_," said John. It
was a fine chance to get even with Leila for the humiliating adventures
of a not very flattering day.

"Well, take care," said the Squire, not altogether amused. "Come, Ann."
Entering the large library room he closed the door, drew over it a
curtain, filled his pipe but did not light it, and sat down at the fire
beside his wife.

"Well, James," she said, "did you ever see a better mannered lad, and so
intelligent?"

"Never--nor any lad who has as good an opinion of his small self. He is
too young for his years, and in some ways too old. I looked him over a
bit. He is a mere scaffolding, a sickly-looking chap. He eats too little.
I heard him remark to you that potatoes disagreed with him and that he
never ate apples."

"But, James, what shall we do with him? It is a new and a difficult
responsibility."

"Do with him? Oh! make a man of him. Give him and Leila a week's holiday.
Turn him loose with that fine tom-boy. Then he must go to school to Mark
Rivers with Leila and those two young village imps, the doctor's boy and
Grace's, that precious young Baptist. They will do him good. When Mark
reports, we shall see further. That is all my present wisdom, Ann. Has
the _Tribune_ come? Oh! I see--it is on the table."

Ann was still in some doubt and returned to the boy. "And where do I come
in?"

"Feed the young animal and get the tailor in the village to make him some
warm rough clothes, and get him boots for the snow--and thick gloves--and
a warm ready-made overcoat."

"I will. But, James, Leila will half kill him. He is so thin and pale. He
looks hardly older than she does." Then Ann rose, saying, "Well, we shall
see, I suppose you are right," and after some talk about the iron-works
left him to his pipe.

When she returned to the hall, the two children were talking of
Europe--or rather Leila was listening. "Well," said the little lady, Ann
Penhallow, "how did the game go, John?"

"I am rather out of practice," said John. Leila said nothing. He had been
shamefully worsted. "I think I shall go to bed," he remarked, looking at
his watch.

"I would," she said. "There are the candles. There is a bathroom next to
you."

He was tired and disgusted, but slept soundly. When at breakfast he said
that he was not allowed tea or coffee, he was fed with milk, to which
with hot bread and new acquaintance with griddle cakes he took kindly.
After breakfast he was driven to the village with his aunt and equipped
with a rough ready-made overcoat and high boots. He found the dress
comfortable, but not to his taste.

When he came back, the Squire and Leila had disappeared and he was left
to his own devices. He was advised by his aunt to walk about and see the
stables and the horses. That any boy should not want to see the horses
was inconceivable in this household. He did go out and walk on the porch,
but soon went in chilled and sat down to lose himself in a book of polar
travel. He liked history, travel and biographies of soldiers, fearfully
desiring to have his own courage tested--a more common boy-wish than
might be supposed. He thought of it as he laid down the book and began to
inspect again the painted buffalo skins on the wall, letting his
imagination wander when once more he touched a Sioux tomahawk with its
grim adornment of scalp-locks. He was far away when he heard his aunt
say, "You were not out long, John. Did they show you the horses?"

Shy and reserved in novel surroundings, he was rather too much at his
ease amid socially familiar things, and now said lightly that he had not
seen the stables. "Really, Aunt Ann, I prefer to read or to look at these
interesting Indian relics."

"Ask your uncle about them," she said, "but you will find out that horses
are important in this household." She left him with the conviction that
James Penhallow was, on the whole, right as to the educational needs of
this lad.

After lunch his uncle said, "Leila will show you about the place. You
will want to see the horses, of course, and the dogs."

"And my guinea pigs," added Leila.

He took no interest in either, and the dogs somewhat alarmed him. His
cousin, a little discouraged, led him away into the woods where the
ancient pines stood snow laden far apart with no intrusion between them
of low shrubbery. Leila was silent, half aware that he was hard to
entertain, and then mischievously wilful to give this indifferent cousin
a lesson. Presently he stood still, looking up at the towering cones of
the motionless pines.

"How stately they are--how like old Vikings!" he said. His imagination
was the oldest mental characteristic of this over-guarded, repressed
boyhood.

Leila turned, surprised. This was beyond her appreciative capacity. "Once
I heard Uncle Jim say something like that. He's queer about trees. He
talks to them sometimes just like that. There's the biggest pine over
there--I'll show it to you. Why! he will stop and pat it and say, 'How
are you?'--Isn't it funny?"

"No, it isn't funny at all. It's--it's beautiful!"

"You must be like him, John."

"I--like him! Do you think so?" He was pleased. The Indian horseman of
the plains who could talk to the big tree began to be felt by the boy as
somehow nearer.

"Let's play Indian," said Leila. "I'll show you." She was merry, intent
on mischief.

"Oh! whatever you like." He was uninterested.

Leila said, "You stand behind this tree, I will stand behind that one."
She took for herself the larger shelter. "Then you, each of us, get ready
this way a pile of snowballs. I say, Make ready! Fire! and we snowball
one another like everything. The first Indian that's hit, he falls down
dead. Then the other rushes at him and scalps him."

"But," said John, "how can he?"

"Oh! he just gives your hair a pull and makes believe."

"I see."

"Then we play it five times, and each scalp counts one. Now, isn't that
real jolly?"

John had his doubts as to this, but he took his place and made some
snowballs clumsily.

"Make ready! Fire!" cried Leila. The snowballs flew. At last, the girl
seeing how wildly he threw exposed herself. A better shot took her full
in the face. Laughing gaily, she dropped, "I'm dead."

The game pleased him with its unlooked-for good luck. "Now don't stand
there like a ninny--scalp me," she cried.

He ran to her side and knelt down. The widespread hair affected him
curiously. He touched it daintily, let it fall, and rose. "To pull at a
girl's hair! I couldn't do it."

Leila laughed. "A good pull, that's how to scalp."

"I couldn't," said John.

"Well, you are a queer sort of Indian!" She was less merciful, but in the
end, to her surprise, he had three scalps. "Uncle Jim will laugh when I
tell him," she said. "Shall we go home?"

"No, I want to see Uncle Jim's big tree."

"Oh! he's only Uncle Jim to me. Aunt don't like it. He will tell you some
day to call him Uncle Jim. He says I got that as brevet rank the day my
mare refused the barnyard fence and pitched me off. I just got on again
and made her take it! That's why he's Uncle Jim."

John became thoughtful about that brevet privilege of a remote future. He
had, however, persistent ways. "I want to see the big pine, Leila."

"Oh! come on then. It's a long way. We must cut across." He followed her
remorselessly swift feet through the leafless bushes and drifts until
they came upon a giant pine in a wide space cleared to give the veteran
royal solitude. "That's him," cried Leila, and carelessly cast herself
down on the snow.

The boy stood still in wonder. Something about the tree disturbed him
emotionally. With hands clasped behind his back, he stared up at its
towering heights. He was silent.

"What's the matter? What do you see?" She was never long silent. He was
searching for a word.

"It's solemn. I like it." He moved forward and patted the huge hole with
a feeling of reverence and affection. "I wish he could speak to us. How
are you, old fellow?"

Leila watched him. As yet she had no least comprehension of this sense of
being kindred to nature. It is rare in youth. As he spoke, a little
breeze stirred the old fellow's topmost crest and a light downfall of
snow fell on the pair. Leila laughed, but the boy cried, "There! he has
answered. We are friends."

"Now, if that isn't Uncle Jim all over. He just does make me laugh."

John shook off the snow. "Let's go home," he said. He Was warm and red
with the exercise, and in high good-humour over his success. "Did you
never read a poem called 'The Talking Oak'? I had a tutor used to read it
to me."

"Now, the idea of a tree talking!" she said. "No, I never heard of it.
Come along, we'll be late. That's funny about a tree talking. Can you
run?"

They ran, but not far, because deep snow makes running hard. It was after
dark when they tramped on to the back porch. John's experience taught him
to expect blame for being out late. No one asked a question or made a
remark. He was ignored, to his amazement. Whether, as he soon learned, he
was in or out, wet or dry, seemed to be of no moment to any one, provided
he was punctual at meal-times. It was at first hard to realize the
reasonable freedom suddenly in his possession. The appearance of complete
want of interest in his health and what he did was as useful a moral
tonic as was for the body the educational out-of-doors' society of the
fearless girl, his aunt's niece whom he was told to consider as his
cousin. To his surprise, he was free to come and go, and what he or Leila
did in the woods or in the stables no one inquired. Aunt Ann uneasy would
have known all about them, but the Squire urged, that for a time, "let
alone" was the better policy. This freedom was so unusual, so
unreservedly complete, as to rejoice Leila, who was very ready to use the
liberty it gave. In a week the rector's school would shut them up for
half of the day of sunlit snow. Meanwhile, John wondered with interest
every morning where next those thin active young legs would lead him.

The dogs he soon took to, when Leila's whistle called them,--a wild
troop, never allowed beyond the porch or in the house. For some occult
reason Mrs. Ann disliked dogs and liked cats, which roamed the house at
will and were at deadly feud with the stable canines. No rough weather
ever disturbed Leila's out-of-door habits, but when for two days a lazy
rain fell and froze on the snow, John declared that he could not venture
to get wet with his tendency to tonsilitis. As Leila refused indoor
society and he did not like to be left alone, he missed the gay and
gallant little lady, and still no one questioned him. On the third day at
breakfast Leila was wildly excited. The smooth ice-mailed snow shone
brilliant in the sunshine.

"Coasting weather, Uncle Jim," Leila said.

"First class," said her uncle. "Get off before the sun melts the crust."

"Do be careful, dear," said Ann Penhallow, "and do not try the farm
hill."

"Yes, aunt." The Squire exchanged signal glances with Leila over the
teacup he was lifting. "Come, John," she said. "No dogs to-day. It's just
perfect. Here's your sled."

John had seen coasting in Germany and had been strictly forbidden so
perilous an amusement. As they walked over the crackling ice-cover of the
snow, he said, "Why do you want to sled, Leila? I consider it extremely
dangerous. I saw two persons hurt when we were in Switzerland." His
imagination was predicting all manner of disaster, but he had the moral
courage which makes hypocrisy impossible. From the hill crest John looked
down the long silvery slope and did not like it. "It's just a foolish
risk. Do you mean to slide down to that brook?"

"Slide! We coast, we don't slide. I think you had better go back and tell
Uncle Jim you were afraid."

He was furious. "I tell you this, Miss Grey--I am afraid--I have been
told--well, never mind--that--well---I won't say I'm not afraid--but I'm
more afraid of Uncle James than--than--of death."

She stood still a moment as she faced him, the two pair of blue eyes
meeting. He was very youthful for his years and was near the possibility
of the tears of anger, and, too, the virile qualities of his race were
protesting forces in the background of undeveloped character. The sweet
girl face grew red and kinder. "I was mean, John Penhallow. I am sorry I
was rude."

"No--no," he exclaimed, "it was I who was--was--ill-mannered. I--mean to
coast if I die."

"Die," she laughed gaily. "Let me go first."

"Go ahead then." She was astride of the sled and away down the long
descent, while he watched her swift flight. He set his teeth and was off
after her. A thrill of pleasure possessed him, the joy of swift movement.
Near the foot was an abrupt fall to a frozen brook and then a sharp
ascent. He rolled over at Leila's feet seeing a firmament of stars and
rose bewildered.

"Busted?" cried Leila, who picked up the slang of the village boys to her
aunt's disgust.

"I am not what you call busted," said John, "but I consider it most
disagreeable." Without a word more he left her, set out up the hill and
coasted again. He upset half-way down, rolled over, and got on again
laughing. This time somehow he got over the brook and turned crossly on
Leila with, "I hope now you are satisfied, Miss Grey."

"You'll do, I guess," said she. "I just wondered if you would back out,
John. Let's try the other hills." He went after her vexed at her way of
ordering him about, and not displeased with John Penhallow and his new
experience in snatching from danger a fearful joy.




CHAPTER III


The difficult lessons on the use of snow-shoes took up day after day,
until weary but at last eager he followed her tireless little figure far
into the more remote woods. "What's that?" he said.

"I wanted you to see it, John." It was an old log cabin. "That's where
the first James Penhallow lived. Uncle Jim keeps it from tumbling to
pieces, but it's no use to anybody."

"The first Penhallow," said John. "It must be very old."

"Oh! I suppose so--I don't know--ask Uncle Jim. They say the Indians
attacked it once--that first James Penhallow and his wife fought them
till help came. I thought you would like to see it."

He went in, kicking off his snow-shoes. She was getting used to his
silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed
him. He walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions.

"They must have had loop-holes to shoot. Did they kill any Indians?"

"Yes, five. They are buried behind the cabin. Uncle Jim set a stone to
mark the place."

He made no reply. His thoughts were far away in time, realizing the
beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his
ancestors. The fear--would he have been afraid?

"When I was little, I was afraid to come here alone," said the girl.

"I should like to come here at night," he returned.

"Why? I wouldn't. Oh! not at night. I don't see what fun there would be
in that."

"Then I would know--"

"Know what, John? What would you know?"

"Oh! no matter." He had a deep desire to learn if he would be afraid.
"Some day," he added, "I will tell you. Let's go home."

"Are you tired?"

"I'm half dead," he laughed as he slipped on his snow-shoes.

A long and heavy rain cleared away the snow, and the more usual softness
of the end of November set in. Their holiday sports were over for a time,
to John's relief. On a Monday he went through the woods with Leila to the
rectory. Mark Rivers, who had only seen John twice, made him welcome. The
tall, thin, pale man, with the quiet smile and attentive grey eyes, made
a ready capture of the boy. There were only two other scholars, the sons
of the doctor and the Baptist preacher, lads of sixteen, not very
mannerly, rather rough country boys, who nudged one another and regarded
John with amused interest. In two or three days John knew that he was in
the care of an unusually scholarly man, who became at once his friend
and treated the lazy village boys and him with considerate kindliness.
John liked it. To his surprise, no questions were asked at home about the
school, and the afternoons were often free for lonely walks, when Leila
went away on her mare and John was at liberty to read or to do as best
pleased him. At times Leila bored him, and although with his well-taught
courteous ways he was careful not to show impatience, he had the
imaginative boy's capacity to enjoy being alone and a long repressed
curiosity which now found indulgence among people who liked to answer
questions and were pleased when he asked them. Very often, as he came
into easier relations with his aunt, he was told to take some query she
could not answer to Uncle James or the rector. A rather sensitive lad, he
soon became aware that his uncle appeared to take no great interest in
him, and, too, the boy's long cultivated though lessening reserve kept
them apart. Meanwhile, Ann watched with pleasure his gain in
independence, in looks and in appetite. While James Penhallow after his
game of whist at night growled in his den over the bitter politics of the
day, North and South, his wife read aloud to the children by the fireside
in her own small sitting-room or answered as best she could John's
questions, confessing ignorance at times or turning to books of
reference. It was not always easy to satisfy this restless young mind in
a fast developing body. "Were guinea pigs really pigs? What was the
hematite iron-ore his uncle used at the works?" Once he was surprised. He
asked one evening, "What was the Missouri Compromise?" He had read so
much about it in the papers. "Hasn't it something to do with slavery?
Aunt Ann, it must seem strange to own a man." His eager young ears had
heard rather ignorant talk of it from his mother's English friends.

His aunt said quietly, "My people in Maryland own slaves, John. It is not
a matter for a child to discuss. The abolitionists at the North are
making trouble. It is a subject--we--I do not care to talk about."

"But what is an abolitionist, aunt?" he urged.

She laughed and said gaily, "I will answer no more conundrums; ask your
uncle."

Leila who took no interest in politics fidgeted until she got her chance
when Mrs. Ann would not answer John. "I want to hear about that talking
oak, John."

She was quicker than he to observe her aunt's annoyance, and Ann, glad to
be let off easily, found the needed book, and for a time they fell under
the charm of Tennyson, and then earlier than usual were sent to bed.

The days ran on into weeks of school, and now there were snow-shoe tramps
or sleigh rides to see some big piece of casting at the forge, where
persistently-curious John did learn from some one what hematite was. The
life became to him steadily more and more pleasant as he shed with ease
the habits of an over regulated life, and living wholesome days prospered
in body and mind.

Christmas was a disappointment to Leila and to him. There was an outbreak
of measles at Westways and there would be no carols, nor children
gathered at Grey Pine. Ann's usual bounty of toys was sent to the
village. John's present from his uncle was a pair of skates, and then
Leila saw a delightful chance to add another branch of education. Next
morning, for this was holiday-week, she asked if he would like to learn
to skate. They had gone early to the cabin and were lazily enjoying a
rest after a snow-shoe tramp. He replied, in an absent way, "I suppose I
may as well learn. How many Indians were there?"

"I don't know. Who cares now?"

"I do."

"I never saw such a boy. You can't ride and you can't skate. You are just
good for nothing. You're just fit to be sold at a rummage-sale."

He was less easily vexed than made curious. "What's a rummage-sale?"

"Oh! we had one two years ago. Once in a while Aunt Ann says there must
be one, so she gathers up all the trash and Uncle Jim's old clothes (he
hates that), and the village people they buy things. And Mr. Rivers sells
the things at auction, you know--and oh, my! he was funny."

"So they sell what no one wants. Then why does any one buy?"

"I'm sure, I don't know."

"I wonder what I would fetch, Leila?"

"Not much," she said.

"Maybe you're right." He had one of the brief boy-moods of
self-abasement.

Leila changed quickly. "I'll bid for you," she said coyly.

He laughed and looked up, surprised at this earliest indication of the
feminine. "What would you give?" he asked.

"Well, about twenty-five cents."

He laughed. "I may improve, Leila, and the price go up. Let us go and
learn to skate--you must teach me."

"Of course," said Leila, "but you will soon learn. It's hard at first."

At lunch, on Christmas day, John had thanked his uncle for the skates in
the formal way which Ann liked and James Penhallow did not. He said, "I
am very greatly obliged for the skates. They appear to me excellent."

"What a confoundedly civil young gentleman," thought Penhallow. "I have
been thinking you must learn to skate. The pond has been swept clear of
snow."

"Thank you," returned the boy, with a grin which his uncle thought odd.

"Leila will teach you."

John was silent, regarding his uncle with never dying interest, the
soldier of Indian battles, the perfect rider and good shot, adored in the
stables and loved, as John was learning, in all the country side. John
was in the grip of a boy's admiration for a realized ideal--the worship,
by the timid, of courage. Of the few things he did well, he thought
little; and an invalid's fears had discouraged rough games until he had
become like a timorous girl. He had much dread of horses, and was
alarmingly sure that he would some day be made to ride. Once in Paris he
had tried, had had a harmless accident and, willingly yielding to his
mother's fears, had tried no more.

Late in the afternoon, Leila, with her long wake of flying hair, burst
into the Squire's den. "What the deuce is the matter?" asked
Penhallow.

"Oh! Uncle Jim, he can skate like--like a witch. I couldn't keep near
him. He skated an 'L' for my name. Uncle Jim, he's a fraud."

Penhallow knew now why the boy had grinned at him. "I think, Leila, he
will do. Where did he learn to skate?"

"At Vevey, he says, on the Lake."

"Yes, of Geneva."

"Tom McGregor was there and Bob Grace. We played tag. John knows a way to
play tag on skates. You must chalk your right hand and you must mark with
it the other fellow's right shoulder. It must be jolly. We had no chalk,
but we are to play it to-morrow. Isn't it interesting, Uncle John?"

Penhallow laughed. "Interesting, my dear? Oh! your aunt will be after you
with a stick."

"Aunt Ann's--stick!" laughed Leila.

"My dear Leila," he said gravely, "this boy has had all the manliness
coddled out of him, but he looks like his father. I have my own ideas of
how to deal with him. I suppose he will brag a bit at dinner."

"He will not, Uncle Jim."

"Bet you a pound of bonbons, Leila."

"From town?"

"Yes."

"All right."

"Can he coast? I did not ask you."

"Well! pretty well," said Leila. For some unknown reason she was
unwilling to say more.

"Doesn't the rector dine here, to-day, Leila?"

"Yes, but--oh! Uncle Jim, we found a big hornets' nest yesterday on the
log cabin. They seemed all asleep. I told John we would fight them in the
spring."

"And what did he say?"

"He said: 'Did they sting?'--I said: 'That was the fun of it!'"

"Better not tell your aunt."

"No, sir. I'm an obedient little girl."

"You little scamp! You were meant to be a boy. Is there anything you are
afraid of?"

"Yes, algebra."

"Oh! get out," and she fled.

At dinner John said no word of the skating, to the satisfaction of Leila
who conveyed to her uncle a gratified sense of victory by some of the
signs which were their private property.

Leaving the cousins to their game of chess, Penhallow followed his wife
and Mark Rivers into his library. "Well, Mark," he said, "you have had
this boy long enough to judge; it is time I heard what you think of him.
You asked me to wait. The youngster is rather reticent, and Leila is
about the only person in the house who really knows much about him. He
talks like a man of thirty."

"I do not find him reticent," remarked Mrs. Ann, "and his manners are
charming--I wish Leila's were half as good."

"Well, let's hear about him."

"May I smoke?" asked the rector.

"Anywhere but in my drawing-room. I believe James would like to smoke in
church."

"It might have its consolations," returned Penhallow.

"Thanks," said Rivers smiling. Neither man took advantage of her unusual
permission. "But you, Squire, have been closer than I to this interesting
boy. What do you make of him?"

"He can't ride--he hardly knows a horse from a mule."

"That's not his fault," said Mrs. Penhallow, "he's afraid of horses."

"Afraid!" said her husband. "By George! afraid of horses."

"He speaks French perfectly," said Mark Rivers.

"He can't swim. I got that out of Leila. I understand he tried it once
and gave it up."

"But his mother made him, James. You know Susan. She was as timid as a
house-fly for herself, and I suppose for him."

"I asked him," said Rivers, "if he knew any Latin. He answered me in
Latin and told me that at Budapest where he was long at school the boys
had to speak Latin."

"And the rest, Rivers. Is he well up in mathematics?"

"No, he finds that difficult. But, upon my word, Squire, he is the most
doggedly persistent fellow I have ever had to teach and I handled many
boys when I was younger. I can take care of my side of the boy."

"He can skate, James," said Mrs. Ann.

"Yes, so I hear. I suppose that under Leila's care and a good out-of-door
life he will drop his girl-ways--but--"

"But what, James?"

"Oh! he has been taught that there is no shame in failure, no disgrace in
being afraid."

"How do you know he is afraid, my dear James?"

"Oh! I know." Leila's unwillingness to talk had given him some suspicion
of the truth. "Well, we shall see. He needs some rough boy-company. I
don't like to have the village boys alone with Leila, but when she has
John with her it may be as well to ask Dr. McGregor's son Tom to coast
and play with them."

"He has no manners," said Mrs. Penhallow.

"Then he may get some from John. He never will from Leila. I will take
care of the rest, Rivers. He has got to learn to ride."

"You won't be too hard on him, James?" said his wife.

"Not unless he needs it. Let us drop him."

"Have you seen yesterday's papers?" asked Rivers. "Our politics, North
and South, look to me stormy."

Penhallow shook his head at the tall rector. The angry strife of sections
and parties was the one matter he never discussed with Ann Penhallow. The
rector recalled it as he saw Mrs. Ann sit up and drop on her lap the
garment upon which her ever industrious hands were busy. Accepting
Penhallow's hint, Rivers said quickly, "But really there is nothing new,"
and then, "Tom McGregor will certainly be the better for our little
gentleman's good manners, and he too has something to learn of Tom."

"I should say he has," said Penhallow.

"A little dose of West Point, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Ann. "It is my
husband's one ideal of education."

"It must once, I fancy, have satisfied Ann Grey," retorted the Squire
smiling.

"I reserve any later opinion of James Penhallow," she said laughing, and
gathering up her sewing bag left them, declaring that now they might
smoke. The two men rose, and when alone began at once to talk of the
coming election in the fall of 1856 and the endless troubles arising out
of the Fugitive Slave Act.

The boy who had been the subject of their conversation was slowly
becoming used to novel surroundings and the influence they exerted. Ann
talked to him at times of his mother, but he had the disinclination to
speak of the dead which most children have, and had in some ways been
kept so much of a child as to astonish his aunt. Neither Leila nor any
one could have failed to like him and his gentle ways, and as between
him and the village boys she knew Leila preferred this clever, if too
timid, cousin. So far they had had no serious quarrels. When she rode
with the Squire, John wandered in the woods, enjoying solitude, and
having some appreciative relation to nature, the great pine woods, the
strange noises of the breaking ice in the river, the sunset skies.

Among the village boys with whom at the rector's small school and in
the village John was thrown, he liked least the lad McGregor, who had
now been invited to coast or skate with the Grey Pine cousins. Tom had
the democratic boy-belief that very refined manners imply lack of some
other far more practical qualities, and thus to him and the Westways
boys John Penhallow was simply an absurd Miss Nancy kind of lad, and it
was long after the elders of the little town admired and liked him that
the boys learned to respect him. It was easy to see why the generous,
good-tempered and pleasant lad failed to satisfy the town boys. John had
been sedulously educated into the belief that he was of a class to which
these fellows did not belong, and of this the Squire had soon some
suspicion when, obedient as always, John accepted his uncle's choice of
his friend the doctor's son as a playmate.

He was having his hair cut when Tom McGregor came into the shop of
Josiah, the barber. "Wait a minute," said John. "Are you through, Mr.
Josiah?"

Tom grinned, "Got a handle to your name?"

"Yes, because Master John is a gentleman."

"Then I'll call you Mister too."

"It won't ever make you Mister," said the barber, "that kind's born so."

John disliked this outspoken expression of an opinion he shared.
"Nonsense," he said. "Come up, Tom, this afternoon. Don't forget the
muskrat traps, Mr. Josiah."

"No, sir. Too early yet."

"All right," returned Tom. "I'll come."

March had come and the last snow still lay on the land when thus invited
Tom joined John and Leila in the stable-yard. "Let's play tag," cried
Leila. Tom was ready.

"Here's a stick." They took hold of it in turn. Tom's hand came out on
top. "I'm tagger. Look out!" he cried.

They played the game. At last he caught Leila, and crying out, "You're
tagged," seized her boy-cap and threw it up on to the steep slope of the
stable roof.

"Oh! that's not fair," cried the girl. "You are a rude boy. Now you've
got to get it."

"No, indeed. Get the stable-man to get it."

She turned to John, "Please to get it."

"How can I?" he said.

"Go up inside--there's a trap door. You can slide down the snow and get
it."

"But I might fall."

"There's your chance," said Tom grinning. John stood, still irresolute.
Leila walked away into the stable.

"She'll get a man," said Tom a little regretful of his rudeness, as she
disappeared.

In a moment Leila was up in the hayloft and out on the roof. Spreading
out arms and thin legs she carefully let herself slide down the soft snow
until, seizing her cap, she set her feet on the roof gutter, crying out,
"Get a ladder quick." Alarmed at her perilous position, they ran and
called out a groom, a ladder was brought, and in a moment she was on the
ground.

Leila turned on the two lads. "You are a coward, Tom McGregor, and you
too, John Penhallow. I never--never will play with you again."

"It was just fun," said Tom; "any of the men could have poked it down."

"Cowards," said the girl, tossing back her dark mass of hair and moving
away without a look at the discomfited pair.

"I suppose now you will go and tell the Squire," said Tom. He was
alarmed.

She turned, "I--a tell-tale!" Her child-code of conduct was imperative.
"I am neither a tell-tale nor a coward. 'Tell-tale pick a nail and hang
him to a cow's tail!'" and with this well-known declaration of her creed
of playground honour, she walked away.

"She'll tell," said Tom.

"She won't," said John.

"Guess I'll go home," said Tom, and left John to his reflections.
They were most disagreeable.

John went into the woods and sat down on a log. "So," he said aloud, "she
called me a coward--and I am--I was--I can't bear it. What would my uncle
say?" His eyes filled. He brushed away the tears with his sleeve. A
sudden remembrance of how good she had been to him, how loyally silent,
added to his distress. He longed for a chance to prove that he was not
that--that--Eager and yet distrustful, he got up and walked through the
melting snow to the cabin, where he lay on the floor thinking, a prey to
that fiend imagination, of which he had a larger share than is always
pleasant when excuses are needed.

Leila was coldly civil and held her tongue, but for a few days would not
go into the woods with him and rode alone or with her uncle. Tom came no
more for a week, until self-assured that the Squire had not heard of his
behaviour, as he met him on the road with his usual hearty greeting. Ann
Penhallow saw that the boy was less happy than usual and suspected some
mild difficulty with Leila, but in her wise way said nothing and began to
use him for some of her many errands of helpfulness in the village and on
the farms, where always he made friends. Seeing at last that the boy was
too silent and to her eye unhappy, she talked of it to Mark Rivers. The
next day, after school, he said to John, "I want to see that old cabin in
the woods. Long as I have lived here I have never been that far. Come and
show me the way. I tried once to find it and got lost. We can have a
jolly good talk, you and I."

The word of kindly approach was timely. John felt the invitation as a
compliment, and was singularly open to the approval his lessons won from
this gentle dark-eyed man. "Oh!" he said, "I should like that."

After lunch, Leila, a little penitent, said with unwonted shyness, "The
woods are very nice to-day, and I found the first arbutus under the
snow."

When John did not respond, she made a further propitiatory advance, "It
will soon be time for that hornets' nest, we must go and see."

"What are you about?" said Mrs. Ann; "you will get stung."

"Pursuit of natural history," said Penhallow smiling.

"You are as bad as Leila, James."

"Won't you come?" asked the girl at last.

"Thank you. I regret that I have an engagement with Mr. Rivers," said
John, with the prim manner he was fast losing.

"By George!" murmured Penhallow as he rose.

John looked up puzzled, and his uncle, much amused, went to get his boots
and riding-dress. "Wait till I get you on a horse, my Lord Chesterfield,"
he muttered. "He and Leila must have had a row. What about, I wonder." He
asked no questions.

With a renewal of contentment and well-pleased, John called for the
rector. They went away into the forest to the cabin.

"And so," said Rivers, "this is where the first Penhallow had his Indian
fight. I must ask the Squire."

"I know about it," said John. "Leila told me, and"--he paused, "I saw
it."

"Oh! did you? Let's hear." They lay down, and the rector lazily smoked.
"Well, go ahead, Jack, I like stories." He had early rechristened him
Jack, and the boy liked it.

"Well, sir, they saw them coming near to dusk and ran. You see, it was a
clearing then; the trees have grown here since. That was at dusk. They
barred the door and cut loop-holes between the logs. Next morning the
Indians came on. She fired first, and she cried out, 'Oh! James, I've
killed a man.'"

"She said that?" asked Rivers.

"Yes, and she wouldn't shoot again until her man was wounded, then she
was like a raging lioness."

"A lioness!" echoed Rivers.

"By evening, help came."

"How did you know all this?"

"Oh! Leila told me some--and the rest--well, sir, I saw it. I've been
here often."

The rector studied the excited young face. "Would you like to have been
there, Jack?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I should have been afraid, and--" Then quickly, "I suppose he was; she
was; any one would have been."

"Like as not. He for her, most of all. But there are many kinds of fear,
Jack."

John was silent, and the rector waited. Then the boy broke out, "Leila
told me last week I was a coward."

"Indeed! Leila told you that! That wasn't like her, Jack. Why did she say
it?"

This was a friendly hearer, whose question John had invited. To-day the
human relief of confession was great to the boy. He told the story, in
bits, carefully, as if to have it exact were essential. Mark Rivers
watched him through his pipe smoke, trying to think of what he could or
should say to this small soul in trouble. The boy was lying on the floor
looking up, his hands clasped behind his head. "That's all, sir. It's
dreadful."

The young rector's directness of character set him on the right path. "I
don't know just what to say to you, Jack. You see, you have been taught
to be afraid of horses and dogs, of exposure to rain, and generally of
being hurt, until--Well, Jack, if your mother had not been an invalid,
she would not have educated you to fear, to have no joy in risks. Now you
are in more wholesome surroundings--and--in a little while you will
forget this small trouble."

The young clergyman felt that in his puzzle he had been rather vague, and
added pleasantly, "You have the courage of truth. That's moral courage.
Tom would have explained or denied, or done anything to get out of the
scrape, if the Squire had come down on him. You would not."

"Oh! thank you," said John. "I'm sorry I troubled you."

"You did in a way; but you did not when you trusted a man who is your
friend. Let us drop it. Where are those Indian graves?"

They went out and wandered in the woods, until John said, "Oh! this must
be that arbutus Leila talks about, just peeping out from under the snow."
They gathered a large bunch.

"It is the first breath of the fragrance of spring," said Rivers.

"Oh! yes, sir. How sweet it is! It does not grow in Europe."

"No, we own it with many other good and pleasant things."

When they came to the house, Leila was dismounting after her ride. John
said, "Here Leila, I gathered these for you."

When she said, "Thank you, John," he knew by her smiling face that he was
forgiven, and without a word followed her into the hall, still pursued by
the thought; but I was afraid. He put aside this trouble for a time, and
the wood sports with Leila were once more resumed. What thought of his
failure the girl still kept in mind, if she thought of it at all, he
never knew, or not for many days. He had no wish to talk of it, but
fearfully desired to set himself right with her and with John Penhallow.

One day in early April she asked him to go to the stable and order her
horse. He did so, and alone with an unpleasant memory, in the stable-yard
he stood still a moment, and then with a sudden impulse threw his cap up
on to the roof. He took a moment to regret it, and then saying, "I've got
to do it!" he went into the stable and out of the hay-loft on to the
sloping roof. He did not dare to wait, but let himself slide down the
frozen snow, seized his cap, and knew of a sudden that the smooth
ice-coating was an unsuspected peril. He rolled over on his face,
straightened himself, and slid to the edge. He clutched the gutter, hung
a moment, and dropped some fifteen feet upon the hard pavement. For a
moment the shock stunned him. Then, as he lay, he was aware of Billy,
who cried, "He's dead! he's dead!" and ran to the house, where he met
Mrs. Ann and Leila on the porch. "He's killed--he's dead!"

"Who? Who?" they cried.

"Mr. John, he's dead!"

As Billy ran, the dead got his wits about him, sat up, and, hearing Billy
howling, got on his feet. His hands were torn and bleeding, but he was
not otherwise damaged. He ran after Billy, and was but a moment behind
him.

Mrs. Ann was shaking the simple fellow, vainly trying to learn what had
happened. Leila white to the lips was leaning against a pillar. John
called out, "I'm all right, aunt. I had a fall--and Billy, do hold your
tongue."

Billy cried, "He's not dead!" and fled as he had come.

"My poor boy," said Mrs. Ann, "sit down." He gladly obeyed.

At this moment James Penhallow came downstairs. "What's all this row
about, Ann? I heard Billy--Oh, so you're the dead man, John. How did you
happen to die?"

"I fell off the stable roof, sir."

"Well, you got off easily." He asked no other questions, to John's
relief, but said, "Your hands look as if you had fought our big tom-cat."

John had risen on his uncle's approach. Now Penhallow said, "Sit
down. Put some court-plaster on those scratches, Ann, or a postage
stamp--or--so--Come, Leila, the horses are here. Run upstairs and get
my riding-whip. That fool brought me down in a hurry. When the chimney
took fire last year he ran through the village yelling that the house
was burned down. Don't let your aunt coddle you, John."

"Do let the boy alone, James."

"Come, Leila," he said.

"I think I won't ride to-day, Uncle Jim."

A faint signal from his wife sent him on his way alone with, "All right,
Leila. Any errands, my dear?"

"No--but please call at the grocer's and ask him why he has sent no
sugar--and tell Mrs. Saul I want her. If Pole is in, you might mention
that when I order beef I do not want veal."

While John was being plastered and in dread of the further questions
which were not asked, Leila went upstairs, and the Squire rode away to
the iron-works smiling and pleased. "He'll do," he murmured, "but what
the deuce was my young dandy doing on the roof?" The Captain had learned
in the army the wisdom of asking no needless questions. "Leila must have
been a pretty lively instructor in mischief. By and by, Ann will have it
out of the boy, and--I must stop that. Now she will be too full of
surgery. She is sure to think Leila had something to do with it." He saw
of late that Ann was resolute as to what to him would be a sad loss.
Leila was to be sent to school before long--accomplishments! "Damn
accomplishments! I have tried to make a boy out of her--now the
inevitable feminine appears--she was scared white--and the boy was pretty
shaky. I am sure Leila will know all about it." That school business had
already been discussed with his wife, and then, he thought, "There is to
come a winter in the city, society, and--some nice young man, and so
good-bye, my dear comrade. Get up, Brutus." He dismissed his cares as the
big bay stretched out in a gallop.

After some surgical care, John was told to go to his room and lie down.
He protested that he was in no need of rest, but Ann Penhallow, positive
in small ways with every one, including her husband, sent John away with
an imperative order, nor on the whole was he sorry to be alone. No one
had been too curious. He recognized this as a reasonable habit of the
family. And Leila? He was of no mind to be frank with her; and this he
had done was a debt paid to John Penhallow! He may not have so put it,
but he would not admit to himself that Leila's contemptuous epithet had
had any influence on his action. The outcome was a keen sense of happy
self-approval. When he had dressed for dinner, feeling pretty sore all
over, he found Leila waiting at the head of the stairs.

"John Penhallow, you threw your cap on the roof and went up to get it,
you did."

"I did, Leila, but how did you know?"

She smiled and replied, "I--I don't know, John. I am sorry for what I
said, and oh! John, Uncle Jim, he was pleased!"

"Do you think so?"

"Yes." She caught his hand and at the last landing let it fall. At
dinner, the Squire asked kindly: "Are you all right, my boy?"

"Yes, sir," and that was all.

Mark Rivers, who had heard of this incident from Mrs. Penhallow, and at
last from Leila, was alone in a position to comprehend the motives which
combined to bring about an act of rashness. The rector had some sympathy
with the boy and liked him for choosing a time when no one was present
to witness his trial of himself. He too had the good sense like the
Squire to ask no questions.

Meanwhile, Tom McGregor came no more, feeling the wound to his pride, but
without the urgent need felt by John to set himself in a better position
with himself. He would have thought nothing of accepting Leila's
challenge, but very much wanted to see the polite girl-boy brought to
shame. In fact, even the straightforward Squire, with all his ready
cordiality, at times found John's extreme politeness ridiculous at his
age, but knew it to be the result of absurd training and the absence
of natural association with other and manly boys. To Tom it was
unexplained and caused that very common feeling of vague suspicion of
some claim to superiority which refined manners imply to those who lack
manners altogether.




CHAPTER IV


April passed, the arbutus fragrance was gone, while the maples were
putting forth ruddy buds which looked like a prophecy of the distant
autumn and made gay with colour the young greenery of spring. Meanwhile,
school went on, and John grew stronger and broader in this altogether
wholesome atmosphere of outdoor activity and indoor life of kindness and
apparently inattentive indifference on the part of his busy uncle.

On an evening late in May, 1856 (John long remembered it), the Squire as
usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he
busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell to
reading in the _Tribune_ the bitter politics of Fremont's contest with
Buchanan and the still angry talk over Brooks's assault on Senator
Sumner. He foresaw defeat and was with cool judgment aware of what the
formation of the Republican Party indicated in the way of trouble to
come. The repeal of the Missouri Compromise had years before disturbed
his party allegiance, and now no longer had he been able to see the grave
question of slavery as Ann his wife saw it. He threw aside the papers,
set his table in order, and opening the door called John to come in and
pay him a visit. The boy rose surprised. Never once had this
over-occupied man talked to him at length and he had never been set free
to wander in the tempting wilderness of books, which now and then when
James Penhallow was absent were remorselessly dusted by Mrs. Ann and the
maid, with dislocating consequences over which James Penhallow growled in
belated protest.

John went in, glanced up at the Captain's sword over the mantelpiece, and
sat down as desired by the still-needed fire.

"John," said his uncle in his usual direct way, "have you ever been on
the back of a horse?"

"Yes, sir, once--in Paris at a riding-school."

"Once! You said 'once'--well?"

"I fell off--mother was with me."

"And you got on again?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

John flushed and hesitated, watched by the dark-eyed Squire. "I was
afraid!" He would not say that his mother forbade it.

"What is your name?"

"John, sir," he returned astonished.

"And the rest--the rest, sir," added his uncle abruptly.

John troubled by the soldier's impatient tones said: "Penhallow, sir." He
was near to a too emotional display.

"And you, John Penhallow, my brother's son, were afraid?"

"I was." It was only in part true. His mother had forbidden the master to
remount him.

"By George!" said Penhallow angrily, "I don't believe you, I can't!"

John rose, "I may be a coward, Uncle James, but I never lie."

Penhallow stood up, "I beg your pardon, John."

"Oh! no, Uncle James. I--please not." He felt as if the tall soldier was
humiliating himself, but could not have put it in words.

"I was hasty, my boy. You must, of course, learn to ride. By the way, do
you ever read the papers?"

"Not often, sir--hardly ever. They are kept in your library or Aunt
Ann's."

"Well, it is time you did read them. Come in here when you want to be
alone--or any time. You won't bother me. Take what books you want, and
ask me about the politics of the day. The country is going to the devil,
but don't discuss this election with your aunt."

"No, sir." He had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand
the warning.

John went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was
somewhere in the future. He was a little disturbed when the next day
after breakfast his uncle said, "Come, John, the horses are in the
training-ring."

Mrs. Ann said, "James, if you are going to apply West Point riding-school
methods to John, I protest."

"Then protest, my dear," he said.

"You will kill him," she returned.

"My dear Ann, I am not going to kill him, I am going to teach him to
live. Come, John. I am going to teach him to ride." Raising horses was
one of the Squire's amusements, and the training-course where young
horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day.

"May I come?" asked Leila.

"Please, not," said John, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused
spectators.

"In a week or so, yes, Leila," said Penhallow, "not now."

There were two stable-boys waiting and a pony long retired on grassy
pension. "Now," said Penhallow, "put a foot on my knee and up you go."

"But, there's no saddle."

"There are two. The Lord of horses put one on the back of a horse and
another under a man. Up! sir." John got on. "Grip him with your legs,
hold on to the mane if you like, but not by the reins." The pony feeling
no urgency to move stood still and nibbled the young grass. A smart tap
of the Squire's whip started him, and John rolled off.

"Come, sir, get on." The boys from the stable grinned. John set his
teeth. "Don't stiffen yourself. That's better."

He fell once again, and at the close of an hour his uncle said, "There
that will do for to-day, and not so bad either."

"I'd like to try it again, sir," gasped John.

"You young humbug," laughed Penhallow. "Go and console your distracted
aunt. I am off to the mills."

The ex-captain was merciless enough, and day after day John was so stiff
that, as he confessed to Leila, a jointed doll was a trifle to his
condition. She laughed, "I went through it once, but one day it came."

"What came, Leila?"

"Oh! the joy of the horse!"

"I shall never get to that." But he did, for the hard riding-master
scolded, smiled, praised, and when at last John sat in the saddle the
bareback lessons gave him a certain confidence. The training went on day
after day, under the rule of patient but relentless efficiency. It was
far into June when, having backed without serious misadventures two or
three well-broken horses, Penhallow mounted him on Leila's mare, Lucy,
and set out to ride with him.

"Let us ride to the mills, John." The mare was perfectly gaited and easy.
They rode on, talking horses.

"You will have to manage the mills some day," said Penhallow. "You own
quite a fifth of them. Now I have three partners, but some day you and I
will run them." The boy had been there before with Rivers, but now the
Squire presented him to the foreman and as they moved about explained the
machinery. It was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered
uncle. On the way home the Squire talked of the momentous November
elections and of his dread of the future with Buchanan in power, while he
led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm.

"We will cross the fields," he said, and dismounting took down the upper
bars of a fence. Then he rode back a little, and returning took the low
fence, crying, "Now, John, sit like a sack--loosely. The mare jumps like
a frog; go back a bit. Now, then, give her her head!" For a moment he was
in the air as his uncle cried, "You lost a stirrup. Try it again. Oh!
that was better. Now, once more, come," and he was over at Penhallow's
side. He had found the joy of the horse! "A bit more confidence and
practice and you will do. I want you to ride Venus. She shies at a
shadow--at anything black. Don't forget that."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle James!"

"It is Uncle Jim now, my boy. I knew from the first you would come out
all right. I believe in blood--horses and men. I believe in blood." This
was James Penhallow all over. A reticent man, almost as tenderly trustful
as a woman, of those who came up to his standards of honour, truth and
the courage which rightly seemed to him the backbone of all the virtues.

What John thought may be readily imagined. Accustomed to be considered
and flattered, his uncle's quiet reserve had seemed to him disappointing,
and now of late this abrupt praise and accepting comradeship left the
sensitive lad too grateful for words. The man at his side was wise enough
to say no more, and they rode home and dismounted without further speech.

After dinner John sought a corner with Leila, where he could share with
her his new-born enthusiasm about horses. The Squire called to the rector
and Mrs. Ann to come into his library. "Sit down, Mark," he said, "I am
rash to invite you; both you and Ann bore me to death with your Sunday
schools and the mill men who won't come to church. I don't hear our
Baptist friend complain."

"But he does," said Rivers.

"I do not wonder," said Ann, "that they will not attend the chapel."

"If," said Penhallow, "you were to swap pulpits, Mark, it would draw.
There are many ways--oh, I am quite in earnest, Ann. Don't put on one of
your excommunicating looks. I remember once in Idaho at dusk, I had two
guides. They were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead
to the top. I tossed up which to go with. It was pretty serious--Indians
and so on--I'll tell you about it some time, rector. Well, we met at dawn
on the summit. How about the moral, Ann?"

Ann Penhallow laughed. In politics, morals and religion, she held
unchanging sentiments. "My dear James, people who make fables supply the
morals. I decline."

"Very good, but you see mine."

"I never see what I do not want to see," which was pretty close to the
truth.

"The fact is," said Rivers, "I have preaccepted the Squire's hint. Grace
is sick again. I tell him it is that last immersion business. I have
promised to preach for him next Sunday, as your young curate at the mills
wants to air his eloquence here."

"Not really!" said Mrs. Ann, "at his chapel?"

"Yes, and I mean to use a part of our service."

"If the Bishop knew it."

"If! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad I did it."

Mrs. Ann totally disapproved. She took up her knitting and said no more,
while Rivers and Penhallow talked of a disturbance at the works of no
great moment. The rector noticed Mrs. Penhallow's sudden loss of interest
in their talk and her failure to comment on his statement, an unusual
thing with this woman, who, busy-minded as the bee, gathered honey of
interest from most of the affairs of life. In a pause of the talk he
turned to her, "I am sorry to have annoyed you," he said--"I mean about
preaching for Grace."

"But why do you do it?"

"Because," he returned, "my Master bids me. Over and over one finds in
His Word that he foreknew how men would differ and come to worship Him
and use His revelations in ways which would depend on diversity of
temperaments, or under the leadership of individual minds of great force.
It may be that it was meant that we should disagree, and yet--I--yet
as to essentials we are one. That I never can forget."

"Then," she said quickly, "you are of many creeds."

"No and yes," he returned smiling. "In essentials yes, in ceremonial
usage no; in some other morsels of belief held by others charitably
dubious--I dislike argument about religion in the brief inadequateness of
talk--especially with you from whom I am apt to differ and to whom I owe
so much--so very much."

She took up her knitting again as she said, "I am afraid the balance of
debt is on our side."

"Then," said Penhallow, who, too, disliked argument on religion, "if you
have got through with additions to the useless squabbles of centuries,
which hurt and never help, I--"

"But," broke in his wife, "I have had no answer."

"Oh, but you have, Ann; for me, Rivers is right."

"Then I am in a minority of one," she returned, "but I have not had my
say."

"Well, dear, keep it for next time. Now I want, as I said, a little
counsel about John."

"And about Leila, James. Something has got to be done."

The Squire said ruefully, "Yes, I suppose so. I do not know that anything
needs to be done. You saw John's condition before dinner. He had a
swollen nose and fair promise of a black eye. I asked you to take no
notice of it. I wanted first to hear what had happened. I got Leila on
the porch and extracted it by bits. It seems that Tom was rude to Leila."

"I never liked your allowing him to play with the children, James."

"But the boy needs boy-company."

"And what of Leila? She needs girl-company."

"I fear," said Rivers, "that may be the case."

"It is so," said Mrs. Ann decisively, pleased with his support. "What
happened, James?"

"I did not push Leila about what Tom did. John slapped his face and got
knocked down. He got up and went at Tom like a wildcat. Tom knocked him
down again and held him. He said that John must say he had had enough."

"He didn't," said Rivers, "I am sure he didn't."

"No, Mark, he said he would die first, which was what he should have
said. Then Billy had the sense to pull the big boy off, and as Leila was
near tears I asked no more questions. It was really most satisfactory."

"How can you say that?" said his wife. "It was brutal."

"You do not often misunderstand me, Ann. I mean, of course, that our boy
did the right thing. How does it strike you, Mark?"

He had a distinct intention to get the rector into trouble. "Not this
time, Squire," and he laughed. "The boy did what his nature bade him. Of
course, being a nice little boy, he should have remonstrated. There are
several ways--"

"Thanks," said Penhallow. "Of course, Ann, the playing with Tom will end.
I fancy there is no need to interfere."

"He should be punished for rudeness to Leila," said Mrs. Penhallow.

"Oh, well, he's a rough lad and like enough sorry. How can I punish him
without making too much of a row."

"You are quite right, as I see it," said Rivers. "Let it drop; but,
indeed, it is true that Leila should have other than rough lads as
school-companions."

"Oh, Lord! Rivers."

"I am glad to agree with you at least about one thing," said Mrs.
Penhallow. "In September John will be sixteen, and Leila a year or so
younger. She is now simply a big, daring, strong boy."

"If you think that, Ann, you are oddly mistaken."

"I am," she said; "I was. It was only one end of my reasons why she must
go to school. Before John came and when we had cousins here--girls, she
simply despised them or led them into dreadful scrapes."

"Well, Ann, we will talk it over another time."

Rivers smiled and Ann Penhallow went out, longing to attend to the
swollen face now bent low over a book. The two men she left smoked in
such silence as is one of the privileges of friendship. At last Penhallow
said, "Of course, Mark, my wife is right, but I shall miss the girl. My
wife cannot ride with me, and now I am to lose Leila. After school come
young men. Confound it, rector, I wish the girl had less promise of
beauty--of--well, all the Greys have it--attractiveness for our sex. Some
of them are fools, but they have it all the same, and they keep it to the
end. What is most queer about it is that they are not easily won. The men
who trouble hearts for a game do not win these women."

"Some one will suffer," said Rivers reflectively. He wondered if the
wooing of Ann Grey by this masterful man had been a long one. A moment he
gave to remembrance of his own long and tender care of the very young
wife he had won easily and seen fade with terrible slowness as her life
let fall its joys as it were leaf by leaf, with bitter sense of losing
the fair heritage of youth. Now he said, "Were all these women, Squire,
who had the gift of bewitchment, good?"

"No, now and then hurtful, or honest gentlewomen, or like Ann Grey too
entirely good for this wicked world--"

"As Westways knows," said Rivers, thinking how the serene beauty of a
life of noble ways had contributed spiritual charm to whatever Ann
Penhallow had of attractiveness. "But," he went on, "Leila cannot go
until the fall, and you will still have the boy. I had my doubts of your
method of education, but it has worked well. He has a good mind and is so
far ahead of his years in education that he will be ready for college too
early."

"Well, I hate to think of these changes. He must learn to box."

"Another physical virtue to be added," laughed Rivers.

"Yes, he must learn to face these young country fellows." After a brief
pause he added, "I am looking forward to Buchanan's nomination and
election, Mark, with anxiety. Both North and South are losing temper."

"Yes, but shall you vote for him? I presume you have always been a
Democrat, more or less--less of late."

"I shall vote for Fremont if he is nominated; not wholly a wise choice. I
am tired of what seems like an endless effort North and South, to add
more exasperations. It will go on and on. Each section seems to want to
make the other angry."

"It is not Mrs. Penhallow's opinion, I fear. The wrongdoing is all on our
side."

Said the Squire gravely, "That is a matter, Mark, we never now
discuss--the one matter. Her brothers in Maryland, are at odds. One at
least is bitter, as I gather from their letters."

"Well, after the election things will quiet down, as usual."

"They will not, Mark. I know the South. Unhappily they think we live by
the creed of day-book and ledger. We as surely misunderstand them, and
God alone knows what the future holds for us."

This was unusual talk for Penhallow. He thought much, but talked little,
and his wife's resolute attitude of opinions held from youth was the one
trouble of an unusually happy life.

"We can only hope for the best," said Rivers. "Time is a great
peacemaker."

"Or not," returned his host as Rivers rose. "Just a word, Mark, before
you go. I am desirous that you should not misunderstand me in regard to
my politics. I see that slavery is to be more and more in question. My
own creed is, 'let it alone, obey the laws, return the runaways,--oh!
whether you like it or not,--but no more slave territory.' And for me, my
friend, the States are one country and above all else, above slave
questions, is that of an unbroken union. I shall vote for Fremont. I
cannot go to party meetings and speak for him because, Mark, I am in
doubt about the man, and because--oh! you know."

Yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve. The Squire
of Grey Pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some
further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was
not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of
defence.

"The humorous side of it," he said, "is that my very good wife has been
doing some pretty ardent electioneering while I am sitting still, because
to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out
and declare my whole political religion of which I am not quite secure
enough to talk freely."

The young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his
uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the
mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes.

"I may, Mark, I may do no more than let it be known how I shall vote.
That is all. It will be of use. I could wish to do more. I think that
here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for Buchanan, but why
I cannot see."

Mrs. Ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills
and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force
among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not
been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the South.

"Of course, Mark, my change of opinion will excite remark. Whoever wins,
I shall be uneasy about the future. Must you go? Good-night."

He went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe,
dismissing the subject for the time. On his return, he found John in the
library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece. "Well, Jack,"
he said, "a penny for your thoughts."

"Oh; I was thinking what the sword had seen."

"I hope it will see no more, but it may--it may. Now I want to say a word
to you. You had a fight with Tom McGregor and got the worst of it."

"I did."

"I do not ask why. You seem to have shown some pluck."

"I don't know, uncle. I was angry, and I just slapped his face. He
deserved it."

"Very well, but never slap. I suppose that is the French schoolboy way of
fighting. Hit hard--get in the first blow."

"Yes, sir. I hadn't a chance."

"You must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword. I have
spoken to Sam, the groom. I saw him last year in a bout with the
butcher's boy. After he has knocked you about for a month, you will be
better able to take care of the Penhallow nose."

"I shall like that."

"You won't, but it will help to fill out your chest." Then he laughed,
"Did you ever get that cane?"

"No, sir. Billy found it. Leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and
now she won't give it to me."

"Well, well, is that so? The ways of women are strange."

"I don't see why she keeps it, uncle."

"Nor I. Now go to bed, it is late. She is a bit of a tease, John. Mark
Rivers says she is now just one half of the riddle called woman."

John understood well enough that he was some day expected by his uncle to
have it out with Tom. He got two other bits of advice on this matter. The
rector detained him after school, a few days later. "How goes the
swimming, John?" he asked.

The Squire early in the summer had taken this matter in hand, and as Ann
Penhallow said, with the West Point methods of kill or cure. John replied
to the rector that he was now given leave to swim with the Westways boys.
The pool was an old river-channel, now closed above, and making a quiet
deep pool such as in England is called a "backwater" and in Canada
a "bogan." The only access was through the Penhallow grounds, but this
was never denied.

"Does Tom McGregor swim there?" asked Rivers.

"Yes, and the other boys. It is great fun now; it was not at first."

"About Tom, John. I hope you have made friends with him."

Said John, with something of his former grown-up manner, "It appears to
me that we never were friends. I regret, sir, that it seems to you
desirable."

"But, John, it is. For two Christian lads like you to keep up a
quarrel--"

"He's a heathen, sir. I told him yesterday that he ought to apologize to
Leila."

"And what did he say?"

"He said, he guessed I wanted another licking. That's the kind of
Christian he is."

"I must speak to him."

"Oh, please not to do that! He will think I am afraid." Here were the
Squire and Rivers on two sides of this question.

"Are you afraid, John? You were once frank with me about it."

"I do not think, Mr. Rivers, you ought to ask me that." He drew up his
figure as he spoke.

The rector would have liked to have whistled--a rare habit with him when
alone and not in one of his moods of depression. He said, "I beg your
pardon, John," and felt that he had not only done no good, but had made a
mistake.

John said, "I am greatly obliged, sir." When half-way home he went back
and met Rivers at his gate.

"Well," said the rector, "left anything?"

"No, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up.
"I wasn't honest, sir." And again with his old half-lost formal way,
"I--I--you might have thought--I wasn't--quite honourable. I mean--I'll
never be able to forgive that blackguard until I can--can get even with
him. You see, sir?"

"Yes, I see," said Rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what
to say. "Well, think it over, John. He is more a rough cub than a
blackguard. Think it over."

"Yes, sir," and John walked away.

The rector looked after the boy thinking--he's the Squire all over, with
more imagination, a gentleman to the core. But how wonderfully changed,
and in only eight months.

John was now, this July, allowed to ride with Leila when his uncle was
otherwise occupied. He had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not
spared advice from Leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress
of equestrianism. She was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly
resentful state of mind.

"Don't pull on him so hard, John. The great thing is to get intimate with
a horse's mouth. He's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff,
you wouldn't feel it."

John began to be a little impatient. "Let us talk of something else than
horses. I got a good dose of advice yesterday from Uncle Jim. I am afraid
that you will be sent to school in the fall. I hate schools. You'll have
no riding and snowballing, and I shall miss you. You see, I was never
friends with a girl before."

"Uncle Jim would never let me go."

"But Aunt Ann?" he queried. "I heard her tell Mr. Rivers that you must
go. She said that you were too old, or would be, for snowballing and
rough games and needed the society of young ladies."

"Young ladies!" said Leila scornfully. "We had two from Baltimore year
before last. I happened to hit one of them in the eye with a snowball,
and she howled worse than Billy when he plays bear."

"Oh, you'll like it after a while," he said, with anticipative wisdom,
"but I shall be left to play with Tom. I want you to miss me. It is too
horrid."

"I shall miss you; indeed, I shall. I suppose I am only a girl, but I
won't forget what you did when that boy was rude. I used to think once
you were like a girl and just afraid. I never yet thanked you," and she
leaned over and laid a hand for a moment on his. "I believe you wouldn't
be afraid now to do what I dared you to do."

He laughed. There had been many such dares. "Which dare was it, Leila?"

"Oh, to go at night--at night to the Indian graves. I tried it once and
got half way--"

"And was scalped all the way back, I suppose."

"I was, John. Try it yourself."

"I did, a month after I came."

"Oh! and you never told me."

"No, why should I?"

It had not had for him the quality of bodily peril. It was somehow far
less alarming. He had started with fear, but was of no mind to confess.
They rode on in silence, until at last she said. "I hope you won't fight
that boy again."

"Oh," he said, "I didn't mind it so very much."

She was hinting that he would again be beaten. "But I minded, John. I
hated it."

He would say no more. He had now had, as concerned Tom, three advisers.
He kept his own counsel, with the not unusual reticence of a boy. He did
not wish to be pitied on account of what he did not consider defeat, and
wanted no one to discuss it. He was better pleased when a week later the
English groom talked to him after the boxing-lesson. "That fellow, Tom,
told me about your slapping him. He said that he didn't want to lick you
if you hadn't hit him."

"It's not a thing I want to talk about, Sam. I had to hit him and I
didn't know how; that's all. Put on the gloves again."

"There, that'll do, sir. You're light on your pins, and he's sort of
slow. If you ever have to fight him, just remember that and keep cool and
keep moving."

The young boxing-tutor was silently of opinion that John Penhallow would
not be satisfied until he had faced Tom again. John made believe, as we
say, that he had no such desire. He had, however, long been caressed and
flattered into the belief that he was important, and was, in his uncle's
army phrase, to be obeyed and respected accordingly by inferiors. His
whole life now for many months had, however, contributed experiences
contradictory to his tacitly accepted boy-views. Sometimes in youth the
mental development and conceptions of what seem desirable in life appear
to make abrupt advances without apparent bodily changes. More wholesomely
and more rarely at the plastic age characteristics strengthen and mind
and body both gather virile capacity. When John Penhallow met his cousin
on his first arrival, he was in enterprise, vigour, general good sense
and normal relation to life, really far younger than Leila. In knowledge,
mind and imagination, he was far in advance. In these months he had
passed her in the race of life. He felt it, but in many ways was also
dimly aware that Leila was less expressively free in word and action,
sometimes to his surprise liking to be alone at the age when rare moods
of mild melancholy trouble the time of rapid female florescence. There
was still between them acceptance of equality, with on his part a certain
growth of respectful consideration, on hers a gentle perception of his
gain in manliness and of deference to his experience of a world of which
she knew as yet nothing, but with some occasional resentment when the
dominating man in the boy came to the surface. When his aunt praised his
manners, Leila said, "He isn't always so very gentle." When his uncle
laughed at his awkward horsemanship, she defended him, reminding her
uncle, to his amusement, of her own early mishaps.




CHAPTER V


John's intimacy with the Squire prospered. Leila had been a gay comrade,
but not as yet so interested as to tempt him to discussion of the
confusing politics of the day. "She has not as yet a seeking mind," said
the rector, who in the confessional of the evening pipe saw more and more
plainly that this was a divided house. The Squire could not talk politics
with Ann, his wife. She held a changeless belief in regard to slavery, a
conviction of its value to owner and owned too positive to be tempted
into discussing it with people who knew so little of it and did not
agree with her. James Penhallow, like thousands in that day of grim
self-questioning, had been forced to reconsider opinions long held, and
was reaching conclusions which he learned by degrees made argument with
the simplicity of his wife's political creed more and more undesirable.
Leila was too young to be interested. The rector was intensely
anti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which were
bewildering the largest minds. The increasing interest in his nephew was,
therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle. Meanwhile, the financial
difficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs of
the mills and took him away at times to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Thus
the summer ran on to an end. Buchanan and Breckenridge had been nominated
and the Republicans had accepted Fremont and Dayton.

Birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at Grey Pine, and on
September 20th, when John, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as he
took his seat Ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, "You are
sixteen to-day; here is my present."

The boy flushed with pleasure as he received a pair of silver spurs. "Oh!
thank you, Aunt Ann," he cried as he rose.

"And here is mine," said Leila, and laughing asked with both hands behind
her back, "Which hand, John?"

"Oh! both--both."

"No."

"Then the one nearest the heart." Some quick reflection passed through
Ann Penhallow's mind of this being like an older man's humour.

Leila gave him a riding-whip. He had a moment's return of the grown-up
courtesies he had been taught, and bowed as he thanked her, saying, "Now,
I suppose, I am your knight, Aunt Ann."

"And mine," said Leila.

"I do not divide with any one," said Mrs. Ann. "Where is your present,
James?"

He had kept his secret. "Come and see," he cried. He led them to the
porch. "That is mine, John." A thorough-bred horse stood at the door,
saddled and bridled. Ann thought the gift extravagant, but held her
tongue.

"Oh, Uncle Jim," said John. His heart was too full for the words he
wanted to say. "For me--for me." He knew what the gift meant.

"You must name him," said Leila. "I rode him once, John. He has no name.
Uncle Jim said he should have no name until he had an owner. Now I know."

John stood patting the horse's neck. "Wasn't his mother a Virginia mare,
James?" said Ann.

"Yes."

"Oh, then call him Dixy."

For a moment the Squire was of a mind to object, but said gaily, "By all
means, Ann, call him Dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please." Here
they heard Dixy's pedigree at length.

"Above all, Jack, remember that Dixy is of gentle birth; make friends
with him. He may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him. Be
wary of use of whip or spur."

There was more of it, until Mrs. Ann said, "Your coffee will be cold. It
is one of your uncle's horse-sermons."

John laughed. How delightful it all was! "May I ride today with you,
uncle?"

"Yes, I want to introduce you to--Dixy--yes--"

"And may I ride with you?" asked Leila.

"No, my dear," said the aunt, "I want you at home. There is the raspberry
jam and currant jelly and tomato figs."

"Gracious, Leila, we shall not have a ride for a week."

"Oh, not that bad, John," said Mrs. Ann, "only two days and--and Sunday.
After that you may have her, and I shall be glad to be rid of her. She
eats as much as she preserves."

"Oh! Aunt Ann."

A few days went by, and as it rained in the afternoon there was no
riding, but there was the swimming-pool, and for rain John now cared very
little. On his way he met a half dozen village lads. They swam, and
hatched (it was John's device) a bit of mischief involving Billy, who was
fond of watching their sports when he was tired of doing chores about the
stable. John heard of it later. The likelihood of unpleasant results from
their mischief was discussed as they walked homeward. There were in all
five boys from the village, with whom by this time John had formed
democratic intimacies and moderate likings which would have shocked his
mother. He had had no quarrels since long ago he had resented Tom
McGregor's rudeness to Leila and had suffered the humiliation of defeat
in his brief battle with the bigger boy. The easy victor, Tom, had half
forgotten or ignored it, as boys do. Now as they considered an unpleasant
situation, Joe Grace, the son of the Baptist preacher, broke the silence.
He announced what was the general conclusion, halting for emphasis as he
spoke.

"I say, fellows, there will be an awful row."

"That's so," said William, the butcher's son.

"Anyhow," remarked Ashton, whose father was a foreman at the mills, "it
was great fun; didn't think Billy could run like that."

It will be observed that the young gentleman of ten months ago had become
comfortably democratic in his associations and had shed much of his
too-fine manners as the herding instincts of the boy made the society of
comrades desirable when Leila's company was not attainable.

"Oh!" he said, "Billy can run, but I had none of the fun." Then he asked
anxiously, "Did Billy get as far as the house?"

"You bet," said Baynton, the son of the carpenter, "I saw him, heard him
shout to the Squire. Guess it's all over town by this time."

"Anyhow it was you, John, set it up," said a timid little boy, the child
of the blacksmith.

"That's so," said Grace, "guess you'll catch it hot."

John considered the last spokesman with scorn as Tom, his former foe,
said, "Shut up, Joe Grace, you were quick enough to go into it--and me
too."

"Thanks," said John, reluctantly acknowledging the confession of
partnership in the mischief, "I am glad one of you has a little--well,
honour."

They went on their way in silence and left him alone. Nothing was said of
the matter at the dinner-table, where to John's relief Mr. Rivers was a
guest. John observed, however, that Mrs. Ann had less of her usual
gaiety, and he was not much surprised when his uncle leaving the table
said, "Come into the library, John." The Captain lighted his pipe and sat
down.

"Now, sir," he said, "Billy is a poor witness. I desire to hear what
happened."

The stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy. He
stood for a moment silent. The Captain, impatient, exclaimed, "Now, I
want the simple truth and nothing else."

The boy felt himself flush. "I do not lie, sir. I always tell the truth."

"Of course--of course," returned Penhallow. "This thing has annoyed me.
Sit down and tell me all about it."

Rather more at his ease John said, "I went to swim with some of the
village boys, sir. We played tag in the water--"

The Squire had at once a divergent interest, "Tag--tag--swimming? Who
invented that game? Good idea--how do you play it?"

John a little relieved continued, "You see, uncle, you can dive to escape
or come up under a fellow to tag him. It's just splendid!" he concluded
with enthusiasm.

Then the Captain remembered that this was a domestic court-martial,
and self-reminded said, "The tag has nothing to do with the matter in
question; go on."

"We got tired and sat on the bank. Billy was wandering about. He never
can keep still. I proposed that I should hide in the bushes and the boys
should tell Billy I was drowned."

"Indeed!"

"We went into the water; I hid in the bushes and the boys called out I
was drowned. When Billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and my
shoes, and before I could get out he just yelled, 'John's drowned, I must
take his clothes home to his poor aunt.' Then he ran. The last I heard
was, 'He's drowned, he's drowned!'"

"And then?"

"Well, the other fellows put on something and went after him; they caught
him in the cornfield and took away my clothes. Then Billy ran to the
house. That is all I know."

The Squire was suppressing his mirth. "Aren't you ashamed?"

"No, sir, but I am sorry."

"I don't like practical jokes. Billy kept on lamenting your fate. He
might have told Leila or your aunt. Luckily I received his news, and no
one else. You will go to Westways and say there is to be no swimming for
a week in my pool."

"Yes, sir."

"You are not to ride Dixy or any other horse for ten days." This was
terrible. "Now, be off with you, and tell Mr. Rivers to come in."

"Yes, sir."

When Rivers sat down, the Squire suppressing his laughter related the
story. "The boy's coming on, Mark. He's Penhallow all over."

"But, Squire, by the boy's looks I infer you did not tell him that."

"Oh, hardly. I hate practical jokes, and I have stopped his riding for
ten days."

"I suppose you are right," and they fell to talking politics and of the
confusion of parties with three candidates in the field.

Mrs. Ann who suspected what had been the result of this court-martial
was disposed towards pity, but John retired to a corner and a book and
slipped away to bed early. Penalties he had suffered at school, but this
was a terrible experience, and now he was to let the other boys know that
the swimming-pool was closed for a week. At breakfast he made believe to
be contented in mind, and asked in his best manner if his uncle had any
errands for him in Westways or at the mills. When the Captain said no and
remarked further that if he wished to walk, he would find the wood-roads
cooler than the highway John expressed himself grateful for his advice
with such a complete return of his formal manner as came near to
unmasking the inner amusement which the Squire was getting from the
evident annoyance he was giving Mrs. Ann, who thought that he was
needlessly irritating a boy who to her mind was hurt and sore.

"Come, Leila," she said rising. "We may meet you in the village, John;
and do get your hair cut, and see Mr. Spooner and tell him--no, I will
write it."

John was pleased to feel that he had other reasons for visiting Westways
than his uncle's order. He went down the avenue whistling, and in no
hurry.

Leila had some dim comprehension of John's state of mind. Of Billy and of
the Squire's court-martial she had heard from Mrs. Ann, and although that
lady said little, the girl very well knew that her aunt thought her
husband had been too severe. She stood on the porch, vaguely troubled for
this comrade, and watched him as he passed from view, taking a short cut
through the trees. The girl checked something like a sob as she went
into the house.

It was the opinion of the county that Mrs. Penhallow was a right good
woman and masterful; but of Leila the judgment of the village was that
she was just sweet through and through. The rector said she radiated the
good-nature of perfect health. What more there was time would show.
Westways knew well these two young people, and Leila was simply Leila to
nearly every one. "Quite time," reflected Mrs. Ann, "that she was Miss
Leila." As she went with her through the town there were pleasant
greetings, until at last they came to the butcher's. Mr. Pole, large
after the way of his craft, appeared in a white apron. "Well, now, how
you do grow, Leila."

"Not enough yet," said Leila.

"Fine day, Mrs. Penhallow." He was a little uneasy, divining her errand.

"Now, Pole, before I make a permanent change to the butcher at the mills,
I wish to say that it is because a pound of beef weighs less at Grey Pine
than in your shop."

At this time John was added to the hearers, being in search of William
Pole with the Squire's order about the swimming. He waited until his aunt
should be through. He was a little amused, which on the whole was, just
then, good for him.

"Now ma'am, after all these years you won't drop me like that."

"Short weights are reason enough."

Leila listened, sorry for Pole, who reddened and replied, "Fact is,
ma'am, I don't always do the weighing myself, and the boys they are real
careless. What with Hannah's asthma keeping me awake and a lot of fools
loafing around and talking politics, I do wonder I ever get things right.
It's Fremont and it's Buchanan--a man can't tell what to do."

Mrs. Penhallow was not usually to be turned aside, and meant now to deal
out even justice. But if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered what
she liked and at home could not have. "I hope, Pole, you are not going to
vote for Fremont."

"Well, ma'am, it ain't easy to decide. I've always followed the Squire."
Ann Penhallow knew, alas! what this would mean.

"I've been thinking I'll stand to vote for Buchanan. Was you wanting a
saddle of lamb to-day? I have one here, and a finer I never saw."

"Well, Pole, keep your politics and your weights in order. Send me the
lamb."

The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away. Whether the lady of Grey Pine
was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her
nephew that Peter Pole's weights would not be further questioned as long
as his politics were Democratic.

When his aunt had gone, John called Bill Pole out of the shop and said,
"There's to be no swimming for a week, for any of us. Where are the other
fellows?"

"Guessed we would catch it. They're playing ball back of the church. I'll
go along with you."

He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a
swim in the September heat. They came on the other culprit's, who called
to John to come and play. He was not so minded, and was in haste to get
through with a disagreeable errand. As he hesitated, Pole eager to
distribute the unpleasant news cried out, "The Squire says that we can't
swim in the pool for a week--none of us. How do you fellows like that?"

"It's mighty mean of him."

"What's that?" said John. "He was right and you know it. I don't like it
any better than you do--but--"

Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "Who told the Squire what
fellows was in it?"

"It wasn't Billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you was
dead."

"Look here," said Tom McGregor turning to John, "did you tell the Squire
we fellows set it up?"

John was insulted. He knew well the playground code of honour, but
remembered in time his boxing-master's advice, the more mad you are the
cooler you keep yourself. He replied in his old formal way, "The question
is one you have no right to ask; it is an insult."

To the boys the failure to say "no" meant evasion. "Then, of course, you
told," returned the older lad. "If I wasn't afraid you'd run home and
complain, I'd spank you."

It had been impossible for John to be angry with his uncle, although the
punishment and the shame of carrying the news to the other boys he felt
to be a too severe penalty. But here was cause for letting loose
righteous anger. He had meant to wait, having been wisely counselled by
his boxing-master to be in no haste to challenge his enemy, until further
practice had made success possible; but now his rising wrath overcame his
prudence, "Well, try it," he said. "You beat me once. If you think I'll
tell if I am licked, I assure you, you are safe. I took the whole blame
about Billy and I was asked no names."

Tom hesitated and said, "I never heard that."

"I will accept an apology," said John in his most dignified way. The boys
laughed. John flushed a little, and as Tom remained silent added, "If you
won't, then lick me if you can."

As he spoke, he slipped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The long
lessons in self-defence had given him some confidence and, what was as
useful, had developed chest and arms.

"Hit him, Tom," said the small boy. In a moment the fight was on, the
non-combatants delighted.

To Tom's surprise his wild blows somehow failed to get home. It was
characteristic of John then as in later days that he became cool as he
realized his danger, while Tom quite lost his head as the success of the
defence disappointed his attack. To hit hard, to rush in and throw his
enemy, was all he had of the tactics of offence. The younger lad,
untouched, light on his feet, was continually shifting his ground; then
at last he struck right and left. He had not weight enough to knock down
his foe, but as Tom staggered, John leaped aside and felt the joy of
battle as he got in a blow under the ear and Tom fell.

"Get on him--hit him," cried the boys. "By George, if he ain't licked!"

John stood still. Tom rose, and as he made a furious rush at the victor,
a loud voice called out, "Halloa! quit that."

Both boys stood still as Mark Rivers climbed over the fence and stood
between them. John was not sorry for the interruption. He was well aware
that in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough to
encounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. He stood
still panting, smiling, and happy.

"Hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. Tom, furious, was
collecting blood from his nose on his handkerchief. Neither boy spoke.
"Well, John," said Rivers waiting.

"I'll shake hands, sir, when Tom apologizes."

The rector smiled. Apologies were hardly understood as endings to village
fights. "He won't do it," said John with a glance at the swollen face;
"another time I'll make him."

"Will you!" exclaimed Tom.

The rector felt that on the whole it might have been better had they
fought it out. Now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "You
are a nice pair of young Christians," he said. "At all events, you shall
not fight any more to-day. Come, John."

The boy put on his jacket and went away with Rivers, who asked presently
what was this about. "Mr. Rivers, soon after I came that fellow was rough
to Leila; I hit him, and he beat me like--like a dog."

"And you let all these suns go down upon your wrath?"

"There wasn't any wrath, sir. He wouldn't apologize to Leila; he wouldn't
do it."

"Oh! indeed."

"Then he said something to-day about Uncle Jim."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, he made it pretty clear that he thought me a liar."

"Well, but you knew you were not."

"Yes, sir, but he didn't appear to know."

"Do you think you convinced him?"

"No, sir, but I feel better."

"Ah! is that so? Morally better, John?" and he laughed as he bade him
good-bye.

The lad who left him was tired, but entirely satisfied with John
Penhallow. He went to the stable and had a technical talk with the
English groom, who deeply regretted not to have seen the fight.

There being no riding or swimming to fill the time, he took a net, some
tackle and a bucket, and went down to the river and netted a
"hellbender." He put him in a bucket of water and carried him to the
stable, where he was visited by Leila and Rivers, and later departed this
life, much lamented. In the afternoon, being in a happy mood, John easily
persuaded Leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him.

When they sat down beside the Indian graves, to his surprise she suddenly
shifted the talk and said, "John, who would you vote for? I asked Aunt
Ann, and she said, 'Buchanan, of course'; and when I asked Uncle Jim, he
said, 'Fremont'; but I want to understand. I saw in the paper that it was
wicked to keep slaves, but my cousins in Maryland have slaves; it can't
be wicked."

"Would you like to be bought and sold?" he said.

"But, I am not black, John."

"I believe old Josiah was a slave."

"Every one knows that. Why did he run away, John?"

"Because he wanted to be free, I suppose, and not have to work without
pay."

"And don't they pay slaves?" asked Leila.

"No, they don't." John felt unable to make clear to her why the two
people they respected and loved never discussed what the village talked
about so freely. These intelligent children were in the toils of a
question which was disturbing the consciences and the interests of a
continent. The simpler side was clear to both of them. The idea of
selling the industrious old barber was as yet enough to settle their
politics.

"Aunt Ann must have good reasons," said John. "Mr. Rivers says she is the
most just woman he ever knew." It puzzled him. "I suppose we are too
young to understand."

"Aunt Ann will never talk about slaves. I asked her last week."

"But Uncle Jim will talk, and he likes to be asked when we are alone. I
don't believe in slavery."

"It seems so queer, John, to own a man."

John grinned, "Or a girl, Leila."

"Well, no one owns me, I tell you; they'd have a hard time."

She shook what Rivers called her free-flowing cascade of hair in the
pride of conscious freedom. The talk ran on. At last she said, "I'll tell
you a queer thing. I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle--I heard him say, we
were all slaves. He said that no one owns himself. I think that's silly,"
said the young philosopher, "don't you, John?"

"I don't know," returned John; "I think it's a big puzzle. Let's go."

No word reached the Squire of the battle behind the church until four
days later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in his
library deep in thought.

"Worried, Squire?" he asked.

"Yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over. It
always disturbs commerce. The town will go Democratic, I suppose."

"Yes, as I told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest and
outspoken."

"I could be, but it has not yet the force of imperative duty, and it
would hurt Ann more than I feel willing to do. Talk of something else.
She would cease her mild canvass if she thought it annoyed me."

"I see--sir. I think I ought to tell you that John has had another battle
with Tom McGregor."

"Indeed?" The Squire sat up, all attention. "He does not show any marks
of it."

"No, but Tom does."

"Indeed! What happened?"

"Well, I believe, Tom thought John told you what boys were in that joke
on Billy. I fancy something was said about you--something personal, which
John resented."

"That is of no moment. What else? I ought to be clear about it."

"Well, Squire, Tom was badly mauled and John was tired when I arrived as
peacemaker. I stopped the battle, but he was not at all disposed to talk
about it. I am sure of one thing--he has had a grudge against Tom--since
he was rude to Leila."

The Squire rose and walked about the room. "H'm! very strange that--what
a mere child he was when he got licked--boys don't remember injuries that
way." Then seeming to become conscious of Rivers' presence, he stopped
beside him and added, "What with my education and Leila's, he has grown
amazingly. He was as timid as a foal."

"He is not now, Squire, and John has been as useful mentally to Leila.
She is learning to think."

"Sorry for it, Mark, women ought not to think. Now if my good Ann
wouldn't think, I should be the happier."

"My dear Squire," said Rivers, setting an affectionate hand on his arm,
"my dear Mrs. Penhallow doesn't think, except about the every-day things
of life. Her politics and religion are sacred beliefs not to be rudely
jostled by the disturbance of thinking. If there is illness, debt or
trouble, at the mills or in Westways, she becomes seraphic and
intelligent enough."

"Yes, Rivers, and if I put before her, as I sometimes do, a perplexing
business matter, I am surprised at her competence. Of course, she is as
able as you or I to reason, but on one subject she does not reason or
believe that it admits of discussion; and by Heaven! my friend, I am
sometimes ashamed to keep out of this business. So far as this State is
concerned, it is hopeless. You know, dear friend, what you have been to
us, and that to no other man on earth could I speak as I have done to
you; but Mark, if things get worse--and they will--what then? John
asked me what we should do if the Southern States did really secede.
Things seem to stick in his mind like burrs--he was at it again next
day."

Rivers smiled. "Like me, I suppose."

"Yes, Mark. He is persistent about everything--lessons, sports, oh!
everything; an uncomfortably curious lad, too. These Southern opinions
about reclaiming a man's slaves bother the boy. He reads my papers, and
how can I stop him? I don't want to. There! we are at it again."

"Yes, there is no escape from these questions."

"And he has even got Leila excited and she wants to know--I told her to
ask Ann Penhallow--I have not heard of the result. Well, you are going.
Good-night."

The Squire sat still in the not very agreeable company of his thoughts.
Leila was to go to school this September, Buchanan's election in November
was sure, and John--He had come to love the lad, and perhaps he had been
too severe. Then he thought of the boy's fight and smiled. The rector and
he had disagreed. Was it better for boys to abuse one another or to
settle things by a fight? The rector had urged that his argument for the
ordeal of battle would apply with equal force to the duel of men. He had
said, "No, boys do not kill; and after all even the duel has its values."
Then the rector said he was past praying for and had better read the
Decalogue.

When next day Mark Rivers was being shaved by the skilled hand of Josiah,
he heard the voice of his friend and fishing-companion, the Rev. Isaac
Grace, "What about the trout-brook this afternoon?"

"Of course," said Mark, moveless under the razor. "Call for me at five."

"Seen yesterday's _Press_?"

"No. I can't talk, Grace."

"This town's all for Buchanan and Breckenridge. How will the Squire
vote?"

"Ask him. Take care, Josiah."

"If the Squire isn't taking any active part, Mrs. Penhallow is. She is
taking a good deal of interest in the roof of my chapel and--and--other
things."

The rector did not like it. "I can't talk, Grace."

"But I can."--"Well," thought the rector, "for an intelligent man you are
slow at taking hints." The good-natured rotund preacher went on, amazing
his helpless friend, "I wonder if the Squire would like her canvassing--"

"Ask him."

"Guess not. She's a good woman, but not just after the fashion of St.
Paul's women."

"She hasn't done no talking to me," said Josiah, chuckling. "There, sir,
I'm through."

Then the released rector said, "If you talk politics again to me for the
next two months, Grace, I will never tie for you another trout-fly. Your
turn," and he left the chair to Grace, who sat down saying with the
persistency of the good-humoured and tactless, "If I want a roof to my
chapel, I've got to keep out of talking Republican polities, that's
clear--"

"And several other things," returned Mark sharply.

"Such as," said Grace, but the rector had gone and Josiah was lathering
the big red face.

"Got to make believe sometimes, sir," said Josiah. "She's an uncommon
kind lady, and the pumpkins she gives me are fine. A fellow's got time to
think between this and November. Pumpkins and leaky roofs do make a man
kind of thoughtful." He grinned approval of his own wisdom. "Now don't
talk, sir. Might chance to cut you."

This sly unmasking of motives, his own and those of others, was
disagreeable to the good little man who was eager to get his chapel
roofed and no more willing than Mrs. Penhallow to admit that how he would
vote had anything to do with the much needed repairs. His people were
poor and the leaks were becoming worse and worse. He kept his peace, and
the barber smiling plied the razor.

Now the Squire paused at the open door, where he met his nephew. "Come to
get those scalp-locks trimmed, John? They are perilously long. If you
were to get into a fight and a fellow got hold of them, you would have a
bad time." Then as his uncle went away laughing, John knew that the
Squire must have heard of his battle from Mark Rivers. He did not like
it. Why he did not know or ask himself, being as yet too immature for
such self-analysis.

Mr. Grace got up clean-shaven, adjusted a soiled paper-collar, and said,
"Good-morning, John. I am sorry to hear that a Christian lad like you
should be fighting. I am sure that neither Mr. Rivers nor your aunt would
approve of it. My son told me about it, and I think it my duty--"

John broke in, "Then your son is a tell-tale, Mr. Grace, and allow me to
say that this is none of his business. When I am insulted, I resent it."
To be chaffed by his own uncle when under sentence of a court-martial had
not been agreeable, but this admonition was unendurable. He entered the
shop.

"Well, I never," exclaimed the preacher, as John went by him.

The barber was laughing. "Set down, Mr. John."

"I suppose the whole of Westways knows it, Mr. Josiah?"

"They do, sir. Wish I'd seen it."

"Damn!" exclaimed John, swearing for the first time in his life. "Cut my
hair short, please, and don't talk."

"No, sir. You ain't even got a scratch."

"Oh, do shut up," said John. There was a long silence while the curly
locks fell.

"You gave it to the Baptist man hot. I don't like him. He calls me Joe.
It isn't respectable. My name's Josiah."

"Haven't you any other name?" said John, having recovered his
good-humour.

"Yes, sir, but I keeps that to myself."

"But why?" urged John.

Josiah hesitated. "Well, Mr. John, I ran away, and--so it was best to get
a new name."

"Indeed! Of course, every one knows you must have run away--but no one
cares."

"Might say I was run away with--can't always hold a horse," he laughed
aloud in a leisurely way. "When he took me over the State-line, I didn't
go back."

"I see," said John laughing, as he rose and paid the barber. The cracked
mirror satisfied him that he was well shorn.

"You looks a heap older now you're shorn. Makes old fellows look
younger--ever notice that?"

"No."

Then Josiah, of a sudden wisely cautious, said, "You won't tell Mrs.
Penhallow, nor no one, about me, what I said?"

"Of course not; but why my aunt, Mr. Josiah? She, like my uncle, must
know you ran away."

When John first arrived the black barber's appearance so impressed the
lad that he spoke to him as Mr. Josiah, and seeing later how much this
pleased him continued in his quite courteous way to address him now and
then as Mr. Josiah. The barber liked it. He hesitated a moment before
answering.

"You needn't talk about it if you don't want to," said John.

"Guess whole truth's better than half truth--nothin' makes folk curious
like knowin' half. When I first came here, I guessed I'd best change my
name, so I said I was Josiah. Fact is, Mr. John, I didn't know Mrs.
Penhallow came from Maryland till I had been here quite a while and got
to like the folks and the Captain."

John's experience was enlarging. He could hardly have realized the
strange comfort the black felt in his confession. What it all summed up
for Josiah in the way of possible peril of loss of liberty John presently
had made plain to him. He was increasingly urgent in his demand for
answers to the many questions life was bringing. The papers he read had
been sharp schoolmasters, and of slave life he knew nothing except from
his aunt's pleasant memories of plantation life when a girl on a great
Maryland manor. That she could betray to servitude the years of
grey-haired freedom seemed to John incredible of the angel of kindly
helpfulness. He stood still in thought, troubled by his boy-share of
puzzle over a too mighty problem.

Josiah, a little uneasy, said, "What was you thinkin', Mr. John?"

The young fellow replied smiling, "Do you think Aunt Ann would hurt
anybody? Do you think she would send word to some one--to take you back?
Anyhow she can't know who was your master."

The old black nodded slowly, "Mr. John, she born mistress and I born
slave; she can't help it--and they was good people too--all the people
that owned me. They liked me too. I didn't have to work except holdin'
horses and trainin' colts--and housework. They was always kind to me."

"But why did you run away?"

"Well, Mr. John, it was sort of sudden. You see ever since I could
remember there was some one to say, Caesar you do this, or you go there.
One day when I was breakin' a colt, Mr. Woodburn says to me--I was
leanin' against a stump--how will that colt turn out? I said, I don't
know, but I did. It wasn't any good. My mind was took up watchin' a hawk
goin' here and there over head like he was enjoyin' hisself. Then--then
it come over me--that he'd got no boss but God. It got a grip on me
like--" The lad listened intently.

"You wanted to be free like the hawk."

"I don't quite know--never thought of it before--might have seen lots of
hawks. I ain't never told any one."

"Are you glad to be free?"

"Ah, kind of half glad, sir. I ain't altogether broke in to it. You see
I'm old for change."

As he ended, James Penhallow reappeared. "Got through, John? You look
years older. Your aunt will miss those curly locks." He went into the
shop as John walked away, leaving Josiah who would have liked to add a
word more of caution and who nevertheless felt somehow a sense of relief
in having made a confession the motive force of which he would have found
it impossible to explain.

John asked himself no such question as he wandered deep in boy-thought
along the broken line of the village houses. Josiah's confidence troubled
and yet flattered him. His imagination was captured by the suggested idea
of the wild freedom of the hawk. He resolved to be careful, and felt more
and more that he had been trusted with a secret involving danger.

While John wandered away, the barber cut the Squire's hair, and to his
surprise Josiah did not as usual pour out his supply of village gossip.




CHAPTER VI


It was now four days since John's sentence had been pronounced, and not
to be allowed to swim in the heat of a hot September added to the
severity of the penalty. The heat as usual made tempers hot and
circumstances variously disturbed the household of Grey Pine. Politics
vexed and business troubled the master. Of the one he could not talk to
his wife--of the other he would not at present, hoping for better
business conditions, and feeling that politics and business were now
too nearly related to keep them apart. Ann, his wife, thought him
depressed--a rare mood for him. Perhaps it was the unusual moist heat. He
said, "Yes, yes, dear, one does feel it." She did not guess that the
obvious unhappiness of the lad who had won the soldier's heart was being
felt by Penhallow without his seeing how he could end it and yet not
lessen the value of a just verdict.

Of all those concerned Leila was the one most troubled. On this hot
afternoon she saw John disappear into the forest. When Mrs. Ann came out
on the porch where she had for a minute left the girl, she saw her
sewing-bag on a chair and caught sight of the flowing hair and agile
young figure as she set a hand on the low stone wall of the garden and
was over and lost among the trees. "Leila, Leila," cried Mrs. Ann, "I
told you to finish--" It was useless. "Everything goes wrong to-day,"
she murmured. "Well, school will civilize that young barbarian, and she
must have longer skirts." This was a sore subject and Leila had been
vainly rebellious.

Meanwhile the flying girl overtook John, who had things to think about
and wished to be alone. "Well," he said, with some impatience, "what is
it?"

"Oh, I just wanted a walk, and don't be cross, John."

He looked at her, and perhaps for the first time had the male perception
of the beauty of the disordered hair, the pleading look of the blue eyes,
and the brilliant colour of the eager flushed face. It was the hair--the
wonderful hair. She threw it back as she stood. No one could long be
cross to Leila. Even her resolute aunt was sometimes defeated by her
unconquerable sweetness.

"I am so sorry for you, John," she said.

"Well, I am not, Leila, if you mean that Uncle Jim was hard on me."

"Yes, he was, and I mean to tell him--I do."

"Please not." She said nothing in the way of reply, but only, "Let us go
and see the spring."

"Well, come along."

They wandered far into the untouched forest. "Ah! here it is," she cried.
A spring of water ran out from among the anchoring roots of a huge black
spruce. He stood gazing down at it.

"Oh, Leila, isn't it wonderful?"

"Were you never here before, John?"

"No, never. It seems as if it was born out of the tree. No wonder this
spruce grew so tall and strong. How cold it must keep the old fellow's
toes."

"What queer ideas you have, John." She had not yet the gift of fancy,
long denied to some in the emergent years of approaching womanhood. "I am
tired, John," she said, as she dropped with hands clasped behind her head
and hidden in the glorious abundance of darkening red hair, which lay
around her on the brown pine-needles like the disordered aureole of some
careless-minded saint.

John said, "It is this terrible heat. I never before heard you complain
of being tired."

"Oh, it's just nice tired." She lay still, comfortable, with open eyes
staring up at the intense blue of the September sky seen through the
wide-east limbs of pine and spruce. The little rill, scarce a finger
thickness of water, crawled out lazily between the roots and trickled
away. The girl was in empty-minded enjoyment of the luxury of complete
relaxation of every muscle of her strong young body. The spring was
noiseless, no leaf was astir in all the forest around them. The girl lay
still, a part of the vast quietness.

John Penhallow stood a moment, and then said, "Good gracious! Leila, your
eyes are blue." It was true. When big eyes are wide open staring up at
the comrade blue of the deep blue sky, they win a certain beauty of added
colour like little quiet lakelets under the azure sky when no wind
disturbs their power of reflecting capture.

"Oh, John, and didn't you know my eyes were blue?" She spoke with languid
interest in the fact he announced.

"But," he said, looking down at her as he stood, "they're so--so
very blue."

"Oh, all the Greys have blue eyes."

He laughed gentle laughter and dropped on the pine-needles of the forest
floor. The spring lay between them. He felt, as she did not, the charm of
the stillness. He wanted to find words in which to put his desire for
expression. She broke into his mood of imaginative seekings.

"How cold it is," she said, gathering the water in the cup of her hand,
and then with both hands did better and got a refreshing drink.

"That makes a better cup," he said. "Let us follow the water to the
river."

"It never gets there. It runs into Lonesome Man's swamp, and that's the
end of him."

"Who, Lonesome Man or the spring? And who was Lonesome Man?"

"Nobody knows. What does it matter?"

He watched her toy with the new-born rill, a mere thread of water, build
a Lilliputian dam, and muddle the clear outflow as it broke, and then
build again. He had the thought that she had suddenly become younger,
more like a child, and he himself older.

"Why don't you talk, John?" she said.

"I can't. I am wondering about that Lonesome Man and what the trees are
thinking. Don't you feel how still it is? It's disrespectful to gabble
before your betters." He felt it and said it without affectation, but as
usual his mood of wandering thought failed to interest Leila.

"I hate it when it's quiet! I like to hear the wind howl in the pines--"

He expressed his annoyance. "You never want to talk anything but horses
and swimming. Wait till you come back next spring with long skirts--such
a nice well-behaved Miss Grey." He was, in familiar phrase, out of sorts,
with a bit of will to annoy a disappointing companion. His mild effort
had no success.

"Oh, John, it's awful! You ought to be sorry for me. The more you grow up
the more your skirts grow down. Bother their manners! Who cares! Let's go
home. It feels just as if it was Sunday."

"It is, in the woods. Well, come along." He walked on in the silence, she
thinking of that alarming prospect of school, and he of the escaped
slave's secret and, what struck the boy most--the hawk. Never before had
he been told anything which was to be sacredly guarded from others. It
gave him now a pleasant feeling of having been trusted. Suppose Leila had
been told such a thing, how would she feel, and Aunt Ann? He was like a
man who has too large a deposit in a doubtful bank. He was vaguely uneasy
lest he might tell or in some way betray his sense of possessing a
person's confidence.

As they came near the house, Leila said, "Catch me, I'll run you home."

"Tag," he cried.

As they came to the side porch, Ann Penhallow said, "Finish that
handkerchief--now, at once. It is time you were taught other than tom-boy
ways."

John went by into the house. After dinner the Squire had his usual game
of whist, always to the dissatisfaction of Leila, whose thoughts wandered
like birds on the wing, from twig to twig. John usually played far
better, but just now worse than his cousin, and forgot or revoked, to his
uncle's disgust. A man of rather settled habits, now as usual Penhallow
went to his library for the company of the pipe, which Ann disliked, and
the _Tribune_, which she regarded as the organ of Satanic politics.
Seeing both John and her aunt absorbed in their books, Leila passed
quickly back of them, opened the library door, and said softly, "May I
come in, Uncle Jim?"

During the last few days he had missed, and he well knew why, John's
visits and intelligent questions. Leila was welcome. "Why, of course,
pussy cat. Come in. Shut the door; your aunt dislikes the pipe smoke. Sit
down." For some reason she desired to stand. "Don't stand," he said, "sit
down on my knee." She obeyed. "There," he said, "that's comfy. How heavy
you are. Good gracious, child! what am I to do without you?"

"Isn't it awful, Uncle Jim."

"It is--it is. What do you want, my dear? Anything wrong with the
horses?"

"No, sir. It's--John--"

"Oh! it's John. Well, what is it?"

"It isn't John--it's John and the horses--I mean John and Dixy. Patrick
rides Dixy for exercise every day."

"Well, what's the matter? First it's John, then Dixy, then John and Dixy,
and then John and Dixy and Pat."

The girl saw through the amusement he had in teasing her and said with
gravity, "I wish you would be serious, Uncle Jim. I want five minutes of
uninterrupted attention."

The Squire exploded, "Good gracious! that is Ann Grey all over. You must
have heard her say it."

"I did, and you listen, too. Sometimes you don't, Uncle Jim. I guess you
weren't well broke when you were young."

"Great Scott! you minx! Some day a girl I know will have to stand at
attention. Go ahead."

"Pat's ruining Dixy's mouth. You ought to see him sawing at the curb. You
always rode him on the snaffle."

"That boy Pat needs a good licking, Leila."

"But Dixy don't. The fact is, Uncle Jim, you're neglecting the stables
for politics."

"Is that your own wisdom, Miss Grey? What with the weight of wisdom and
years, you're getting heavy. Try a chair."

"No, I'm quite comfy. It was Josiah who told me. He often comes up to
look over the colts, of a Sunday--"

"Nice work for Sunday, Miss Grey."

She made no direct reply. "He told me that horse ought to be ridden
by--by John or you, and no one else. He says the way to ruin a horse is
to have a lot of people ride him like Pat--they're just spoiling Dixy--"

"What! in four days? Nonsense."

"But," said the counsel in the case, "it's to be ten. It isn't about
John, it's Dixy's mouth, uncle."

"Oh, you darling little liar!" Here she kissed him and was silent. "It
won't do," he said. "There's no logic in a kiss, Miss Grey. First comes
Ann Grey and says, too much army discipline; and then you tell me what
that gossiping old darkey says, and then you try the final argument--a
kiss. Can't do it. There will be an end of all discipline. I hate
practical jokes. There!"

If he thought to finish the matter thus, he much undervalued the
ingenuity and persistency of the young Portia who was now conducting the
case.

"Suppose you take a chair, Miss Grey. It is rather warm to provide
permanent human seats for stout young women--"

"I'm not stout," said Leila with emphasis, accepting the hint by dropping
with coiled legs upon a cushion at his feet. "I'm not stout. I weigh one
hundred and thirty and a half pounds. And oh! isn't it hot. I haven't had
a swim for--oh, at least five days counting Sunday." The pool was kept
free until noon for Leila and her aunt.

"Why didn't you swim?" he asked lightly, being too intellectually busy
clearing his pipe to see where the leading counsel was conducting him.

"Why, Uncle Jim, I wouldn't swim if John wasn't allowed too; I just
couldn't. I'm going to bed--but, please, don't let Pat ride Dixy."

"I can attend to my stables, Miss Grey. John won't die of heat for want
of a swim. You don't seem to concern yourself with those equally
overbaked young scamps in Westways."

"Uncle Jim, you're just real mean to-night. Josiah told me yesterday that
my cousin beat Tom McGregor because he said it was mean of you to stop
the swimming. John said it was just, and Tom said he was a liar, and--oh,
my! John licked him--wish I'd seen it."

This was news quite to his liking. He made no reply, lost in wonder over
the ways of the mind male and female.

"You ought to be ashamed, you a girl, to want to see a fight. It's time
you went to school. Isn't the rector on the porch? I thought I heard
him."

Now, of late Leila had got to that stage of the game of
thought-interchange when the young proudly use newly acquired
word-counters. "I think, Uncle Jim, you're--you're irreverent."

The Squire shut the door on all outward show of mirth, and said gravely,
"Isn't it pronounced irrelevant, my dear Miss Malaprop?"

"Yes--yes," said Leila. "That's a word John uses. It's just short for
'flying the track'!"

"Any other stable slang, Leila?"

He was by habit averse to changing his decisions, and outside of Ann
Penhallow's range of authority the Squire's discipline was undisputed and
his decrees obeyed. He had been pleased and gaily amused for this half
hour, but was of a mind to leave unchanged the penalties he had
inflicted.

"Are you through, with this nonsense, Leila?" he said as he rose. "Is
this an ingenious little game set up between you and John?" To his utter
amazement she began to cry.

"By George!" he said, "don't cry," which is what a kind man always says
when presented with the riddle of tears.

She drew a brown fist across her wet cheeks and said indignantly, "My
cousin is a gentleman."

She turned to go by him. "No, dear, wait a moment." He held her arm.

"Please, let me go. When John first came, you said he was a prig--and
if he would just do some boy-mischief and kick up his heels like a
two-year-old with some fun in him--you said he was a sort of
girl-boy--" There were for punctuation sobs and silences.

"And where did you get all this about a prig?" he broke in, amazed.

"Oh, I heard you tell Aunt Ann. And now," said Portia, "the first time he
does a real nice jolly piece of mischief you come down on him like--like
a thousand of bricks." Her slang was reserved for the Squire, as he well
knew.

The blue eyes shining with tears looked up from under the glorious
disorder of the mass of hair. It was too much for the man.

"How darned logical you are!" He acknowledged some consciousness of
having been inconsistent. He had said one thing and done another. "You
are worse than your aunt." Then Leila knew that Ann Penhallow had talked
to the Squire. "Well," he said, "what's your opinion, Miss Grey?"

"I think you're distanced."

"What--what! Wait a little. You may tell that young man to ride when he
pleases and to swim, and to tell those scamps it's too hot to deprive
them of the use of the pool. There, now get out!"

"But--Uncle Jim--I--can't. Oh, I really can't. You've got to do it
yourself." This he much disliked to do.

"I hear your aunt calling. Mr. Rivers is going."

She kissed him. "Now, don't wait, Uncle Jim, and don't scold John. He's
been no use for these four days. Goodnight," and she left him.

"Well, well," he said, "I suppose I've got to do it."

He found Ann alone.

"About John! I can't stand up against you two. He is to be let off about
the riding and swimming. I think you may find it pleasant to tell him, my
dear."

She said gravely, "It will come with more propriety from you; but I do
think you are right." Then he knew that he had to do it himself.

"Very well, dear," he said. "How that girl is developing. It is time she
had other company than John, but Lord! how I shall miss her--"

"And I, James."

He went out for the walk he generally took before bed-time. She lingered,
putting things in order on her work-table, wondering what Leila could
have said to thus influence a man the village described as "set in his
ways." She was curious to know, but not of a mind to question Leila.
Before going to bed, she went to her own sitting-room on the left of the
hall. It was sacred to domestic and church business. It held a few books
and was secured by long custom from men's tobacco smoke. She sat down and
wrote to her cousin, George Grey.

"DEAR GEORGE: If politics do not keep you, we shall look for you this
month. There are colts to criticize and talk over, Leila is eager to see
her unknown cousin before she goes to school near Baltimore this
September.

"I believe this town will go for Buchanan, but I am not sure. James and
I, as you know, never talk politics. I am distressed to believe as I do
that he will vote for Fremont; that 'the great, the appalling issue,' as
Mr. Buchanan says, 'is union or disunion' does not seem to affect him. I
read Forney's paper, and James reads that wild abolition _Tribune_. It is
very dreadful, and I am without any one I can talk to. My much loved
rector is an extreme antislavery man.

"Yours always,
ANN PENHALLOW.

"I am not at all sure of you. Be certain to let us know when to expect
you. You know you are--well, I leave your social conscience to say what.

"Yours sincerely,
ANN PENHALLOW."

At breakfast Ann Penhallow sat down to the coffee-urn distributing
cheerful good-mornings. The Squire murmured absently over his napkin,
"May the Lord make us thankful for this and all the blessings of life."
He occasionally varied his grace, and sometimes to Ann's amazement. Why
should he ask to be made thankful, she reflected. These occasional slips
and variations on the simple phrase of gratitude she had come to
recognize as signs of preoccupation, and now glanced at her husband,
anxious always when he was concerned. Then, as he turned to John, she
understood that between his trained belief in the usefulness of
inexorable discipline and an almost womanly tenderness of affection the
heart had somehow won. She knew him well and at times read with ease the
signs of distress and annoyance or resolute decision. Usually he was gay
and merry at breakfast, chaffing the children and eating with the
appetite of a man who was using and renewing his tissues in a wholesome
way. Now he was silent, absent, and ate little. He was the victim of a
combination of annoyances. Had he been wise to commit himself to a
reversal of his sentence? Other and more important matters troubled him,
but as usual where bothers come in battalions it is the lesser
skirmishers who are felt for the moment.

"I see in the hall, Ann," he said, "a letter for George Grey--I will mail
it. When does he come?"

"I do not know."

"John," he said, "you will oblige me by riding to the mill and asking Dr.
McGregor to come to Westways and see old Josiah. Of course, he will
charge it to me." The Squire was a little ashamed of this indirect
confession of retreat.

John looked up, hesitated a moment, and said, "What horse, sir?"

"Dixy, of course."

"Another cup, James," said Mrs. Ann tranquilly amused.

John rose, went around the table to his uncle, and said in his finest
manner, "I am greatly obliged, sir."

"Oh, nonsense! He's rather fresh, take care."

Then Leila said, "It's very hot, Uncle Jim."

"You small fiend," said Penhallow. "Hot! On your way, John, tell those
rascals at Westways they may use the pond." The faint smile on Ann
Penhallow's face somehow set the whole business in an agreeably humorous
light. The Squire broke into the relief of laughter and rose saying, "Get
out of this, all of you, if you want to keep your scalps."

John went to the stable not quite pleased. He had felt that his
punishment for a boy-frolic and the unexpected results of Billy's alarm
had been pretty large. His aunt had not said so to him, but had made it
clear to her husband that the penalty was quite disproportioned to the
size of the offence; a remark which had made him the more resolute not to
disturb the course of justice; and now this chit of a girl had made him
seem like an irresolute fool, and he would have to explain to Rivers, who
would laugh. As he went out of the hall-door, he felt a pretty rough
little paw in his hand and heard a whisper. "You're just the dearest
thing ever was."

Concerning John Penhallow, it is to be said that he did not understand
why he was let off so easily. He had a suspicion that Leila was
somehow concerned, and also the feeling that he would rather have
suffered to the end. However, it would be rather good fun to announce
this swimming-permit to the boys.

Seeing from his shop door John riding down the avenue, Josiah came
limping across the road. He leaned on the gate facing the boy and looking
over the horse and rider with the pleasure of one who, as the Squire
liked to say, knew when horse-flesh and man-flesh were suitably matched.

"Girth's a bit slack, Master John. Always look it over, sir, before you
mount."

"Thanks, Josiah. Open the gate, please. How lame you are. I am to send
the doctor to look after you and Peter Lamb."

The big black man opened the gate and adjusted the girth. "That's right
now. I've got the worst rheumatics I ever did have. Peter Lamb's sick
too. That's apple-whisky. The Squire's mighty patient with that man,
because his mother nursed the Squire when he was a baby. They're near of
an age, but you wouldn't think it to look at Peter and the Captain;
whisky does hurry up Old Time a lot." And so John got the town gossip.
"I ain't no faith in doctorin' rheumatics; wouldn't have him now if I
hadn't lost my old buck-eye. My rabbit-foot's turned grey this week.
That's a sign of trouble."

John laughed and rode from the gate on which Leila had invited him to
indulge in the luxury of swinging. It seemed years ago since she had sung
to his astonishment the lyric of the gate. She appeared to him now not
much older. And how completely he felt at home. He rode along the old
pike through Westways, nodding to Mrs. Lamb, the mother of the scamp whom
the Squire was every now and then saving from the consequences of the
combination of a revengeful nature and bad whisky. Then Billy hailed John
with malicious simplicity.

"Halloa!--John--can't swim--can't swim--ho, ho!"

The butcher's small boy was loading meat on a cart. John stayed to say a
word to him, pleased to have the chance, as the boy grinned at Billy's
mocking malice. "Halloa! Pole," he called. "My uncle says we fellows may
swim. Tell the other fellows."

"Gosh! but that's good--John. I'll tell 'em."

John rode on and fell to thinking of Leila, with some humiliating
suspicion in regard to her share in the Squire's change of mind; or was
it Aunt Ann's influence? And why did he himself not altogether like it?
Why should his aunt and Leila interfere? He wished they had let the
matter alone. What had a girl to do with it? He was again conscious that
he felt of a sudden older than Leila, and did not fully realize that in
the race of life he had gone swiftly past her during these few months,
and that in the next year she in turn would sweep past him in the
developmental changes of life. Now she seemed to him more timid, more
childlike than usual; but long thinkings are not of the psychic habits of
normal youth, and Dixy recovered his attention.

He satisfied the well-bred horse, who of late had been losing his temper
in the society of a rough groom, ignorant of the necessity for good
manners with horses. Neither strange noises nor machines disturbed Dixy
as John rode through the busy iron-mills to the door of a small brick
house, so well known that no sign announced it as the home of the only
medical man available at the mills or in Westways. John tied Dixy to the
hitching-post, gnawed by the doctor's horse during long hours of waiting
on an unpunctual man.

The doors were open, and as John entered he was aware of an odour of
drugs and saw Dr. McGregor sound asleep in an armchair, a red silk
handkerchief over his bald head, and a swarm of disappointed flies
hovering above him. In the back room the clink and rattle of a pestle and
mortar ceased as Tom appeared.

John, in high good-humour, said, "Good afternoon, Tom. My uncle has let
up on the swimming. He asked me to let you fellows know."

"It's about time," said Tom crossly. "After all it was your fault and we
had to pay for it."

"Now, Tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day,
and if you want to get me into another row, I won't object; but I was not
asked for any names, and I did not put the blame on any one. Can't you
believe a fellow?"

"No, I can't. If that parson hadn't come, I'd have licked you."

"Perhaps," said John.

"Isn't any perhaps about it. You look out, that's all."

John laughed. He was just now what the Squire described as horse-happy
and indisposed to quarrel. "Suppose you wake up the old gentleman. He
_can_ snore."

Tom shook the doctor's shoulder, "Wake up, Dad. Here's John Penhallow."

The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. The flies fell upon
his bald pate. "Darn the flies," he said. "What is it, John?"

"My uncle wants you to come to Westways to-morrow and doctor old Josiah's
rheumatism."

"I'll come."

"He wants you to look after Peter Lamb. He's been drinking again."

"What! that whisky-rotted scamp. It's pure waste of time. How the same
milk came to feed the Squire and that beast the Lord knows. He has no
more morals than a tom-cat. I'll come, but it's waste of good doctoring."
Here he turned his rising temper on Tom. "You and my boy have been having
a fight. You licked him and saved me the trouble. I heard from Mr.
Rivers what Tom said."

"It was no one's business but Tom's and mine," returned John much amused
to know that the peaceful rector must have watched the fight and
overheard what caused it. Tom scowled, and the peacemaking old doctor got
up, adding, "Be more gentle with Tom next time."

Tom knew better than to reply and went back to pill-making furious and
humiliated.

"Good-bye, John," said the Doctor. "I'll see the Squire after I have
doctored that whisky sponge." Then John rode home on Dixy.




CHAPTER VII


Before the period of which I write, the county and town had unfailingly
voted the Democratic ticket. But for half a decade the unrest of the
cities reflected in the journals had been disturbing the minds of country
communities in the Middle States. In the rural districts of Pennsylvania
there had been very little actively hostile sentiment about slavery, but
the never ending disputes over Kansas had at last begun to weaken party
ties, and more and more to direct opinion on to the originating cause of
trouble.

The small voting population of Westways had begun to suspect of late that
James Penhallow's unwillingness to discuss politics meant some change in
his fidelity to the party of which Buchanan was the candidate. What Mrs.
Ann felt she had rather freely allowed to be known. The little groups
which were apt to gather about the grocer's barrels at evening discussed
the grave question of the day with an interest no previous presidential
canvass had caused, and this side eddy of quiet village life was now
agreeably disturbed by the great currents of national politics. Westways
began to take itself seriously, as little towns will at times, and to ask
how this man or that would vote at the coming election in November. The
old farmers who from his youth still called the Squire "James" were
Democrats. Swallow, the only lawyer the town possessed, was silent, which
was felt as remarkable in a man who usually talked much more than
occasion demanded and wore a habit-mask of good-fellowship, which had
served to deceive many a blunt old farmer, but not James Penhallow.

At Grey Pine there was a sense of tension. Penhallow was a man slow in
thinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive.
He had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party and
follow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted.
Whether he should take an active share in the politics of the county
troubled him, as he had told Rivers. He must, of course, tell his wife
how he had resolved to vote. To speak here and there at meetings, to
throw himself into the contest, was quite another matter. His wife would
feel deeply grieved. Between the two influential feelings the resolution
of forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to hold
his tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for the
principles unfortunately represented by Fremont, but to have one frank
talk with Ann Penhallow. There was no need to do this as yet, and he
smiled again at the thought that Mrs. Ann was, as he pretty well knew,
playing the game of politics at Westways. He might stop her. He could ask
her to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openly
make war against her, that he could not do. It did not matter much as the
State in any case would go for Buchanan. He hesitated, and had better
have been plain with her. She knew that he had been long in doubt, but
did not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions she
held to as she did to her religious creed. He found relief in his
decision, and too in freedom of talk with Rivers, who looked upon slavery
as simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsible
for an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism to
consider a blessing for all concerned.

John too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder more
and more that what Westways discussed should never be mentioned at Grey
Pine. He rode Dixy early in the mornings with Leila at his side, fished
or swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on. On September 30th, Ann
was to take Leila to the school in Maryland. Three days before this
terrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of the
stable-yard, Leila said, "I have only three days. I want to go and see
the Indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places I feel as if I
shall never see again."

"What nonsense, Leila. What do you mean?"

"Oh, Aunt Ann says I will be so changed in a year, I won't know myself."

"You mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now."

"Yes, that's what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find the
right words."

"Perhaps," he said. "Things never look just the same tomorrow, but they
may look--well, nicer--or--I can't always find the right word. Suppose we
walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." It was so agreed.

They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and
as Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and
were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions
to the comfort of a sick woman in the village. They crossed the garden
and were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke. "We just did it.
Billy will have to go." They laughed merrily at their escape.

"Just think, John, how long it is since you came. It seems years. Oh, you
_were_ a queer boy! I just hated you."

"I do suppose, Leila, I must have looked odd with that funny cap and the
cane--"

"And the way you looked when I told you about swinging on the gate. I
hadn't done that for--oh, two years. What did you think of me?"

"I thought you were very rude, and then--oh, Leila! when you came up out
of the drift--" He hesitated.

"Oh, go on; I don't mind--not now."

"I thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow."

"Oh, John! How silly!" Whether or not she was unusually good to look at
had hardly ever before occurred to her. She flushed slightly, pleased and
wondering, with a new seed of gentle vanity planted in her simple nature,
a child on the threshold of the womanly inheritance of maidenhood.

Then he said gravely, "It is wonderful to me how we have changed. I shall
miss you. To think you are the only girl I ever played with, and now when
you come back at Christmas--"

"I am not to come back then, John. I am to stay with my uncles in
Baltimore and not come home until next June."

"You will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. It's
dreadful."

"Can't be helped, John. You will look after Lucy, and write to me."

"And you will write to me, Leila?"

"If I may. Aunt says they are very strict. But I shall write to Aunt Ann,
of course."

"That won't be the same."

"No."

They walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly at
the tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, as
they moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling on
the abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a careless
hand. Presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on the
moss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago.
She was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure as
she thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desires
that her serious-minded cousin should miss her.

The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, Miss
Grey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her
feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge
of mirth was wanting.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and--and--Lucy, and who will ride
her--"

"You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy."

"I suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tears
she had been sternly taught to suppress.

"Isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? I was
just going to speak of Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim often talks to
me and to Mr. Rivers about the election, but if I say a word or ask a
question at table, Aunt Ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'"

"But once, John, I heard Mr. Rivers say that slavery was a curse and
wicked. Uncle Jim, he said Aunt Ann's people held slaves, and he didn't
want to talk about it. I couldn't hear the rest. I told you once about
this."

"How you hear things, Leila. Prince Fine Ear was a trifle to you."

"Who was Prince Fine Ear?" she asked.

"Oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the roses
talk. It's a pretty French fairy tale."

"What a gabble there must be in the garden, John."

"It doesn't need Prince Fine Ear to hear. Don't these big pines talk to
you sometimes, and the wind in the pines--the winds--?"

"No, they don't, but Lucy does."

Something like a feeling of disappointment faintly disturbed the play of
his fancies. "Let us go to the graves."

"Yes, all right, come."

They got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, Leila
carelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaning
against the cabin logs.

"This is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes. "There is
a white golden-rod; find me another, John."

He went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap a
half dozen. "Old Josiah says the blacks in the South think it is good
luck to find the first white golden-rod. Then, he says, you must have a
luck-wish. What shall it be? Come--quick now."

"Oh, I--don't know. Yes, I wish to have Lucy at that terrible
boarding-school."

John laughed. "Oh, Leila, is that the best you can do?"

"Yes, wish a wish for me, if mine doesn't suit."

Then he said, "I wish the school had small-pox and you had to stay at
Grey Pine."

"I didn't think you'd care as much as that. Aren't these flowers
beautiful? Wish me a real wish."

"Then, I wish that when we grow up you would marry me."

"Well, John, you are a silly." She took on an air of authoritative
reprimand. "Why, John, you are only a boy, but you ought to know better
than to talk such nonsense."

"And you," he said, "are just a little girl."

"Oh, I'm not so very little," returned Miss Grey.

"When I'm older, I shall ask you again; and if you say no, I'll ask
again--and--until--"

"What nonsense, John. Let's go home."

He rose flushed and troubled, and said, "Are you vexed, Leila?"

"No, of course not; but it was foolish of you."

He made no reply, in fact hardly heard her. He was for the moment older
in some ways than his years. What had strangely moved him disturbed Leila
not at all. She talked on lightly, laughing at times, and was answered
briefly; for although he had no desire to speak, the unfailing courteous
ways of his foreign education forced him to disregard his desire to say.
"Oh, do let me alone; you don't understand." He hardly understood himself
or the impulsive stir of emotion--a signal of coming manhood. Annoyed by
his unwillingness to talk, she too fell to silence, and they walked
homeward.

During the time left to them there was much to do in the way of visits to
the older village people and some of the farmer families who had been
here on the soil nearly as long as the Penhallows. There were no other
neighbours near enough for country intercourse, and the life at Grey Pine
offered few attractions to friends or relatives from the cities unless
they liked to tramp with the Squire in search of game. The life was,
therefore, lonely and would for some women have been unendurable; but as
the Baptist preacher said to Rivers, "Duties are enough to satisfy Mrs.
Penhallow, and I do guess she enjoys her own goodness like the angels
must do."

Mark Rivers answered, "That is pretty nearly true, but I wish she would
not invent duties which don't belong to women."

"About the election, you mean?"

"Yes. It troubles me, and I am sure it troubles the Squire. What about
yourself, Grace?" and a singularly sad smile went with the query and a
side glance at his friend's face. He had been uneasy about him since
Grace had bent a little in the House of Rimmon.

"Oh, Rivers, the roof has got to leak. I have kept away from Mrs.
Penhallow. I can't accept her help and then preach against her party,
and--I mean to do it. I've wrestled with this little sin and--I don't say
I wasn't tempted--I was. Now I am clear. We Baptists can stand what water
leaks down on us from Heaven."

"You mean to preach politics, Grace?"

"Yes, that's what I mean to do. Oh! here comes Mrs. Penhallow."

They had met in front of Josiah's shop. As Mrs. Penhallow approached, Mr.
Grace discovering a suddenly remembered engagement hurried away, and
Rivers went with her along the rough sidewalk of Westways.

"I go away to-morrow with Leila," she said, "and Mr. Penhallow goes to
Pittsburgh. We shall leave John to you for at least a week. He will give
you no trouble. He has quite lost his foreign boyish ways, and don't you
think he is like my husband?"

"He is in some ways very like the Squire."

"Yes, in some things--I so rarely leave home that this journey to
Baltimore with Leila seems to me like foreign travel."

"Does Leila like it?"

"No, but it is time she was thrown among girls. She is less than she was
a mere wild boy. It is strange, Mark, that ever since John came she has
been less of a hoyden--and more of a simple girl."

"It is," he said, "a fine young nature in a strong body. She has the
promise of beauty--whatever that may be worth."

"Worth! It is worth a great deal," said Mrs. Ann. "It helps. The moral
value of beauty! Ah, Mark Rivers, I should like to discuss that with you.
She is at the ugly duck age. Now I must go home. I want you to look after
some things while I am away, and Mr. Penhallow is troubled about his pet
scamp, Lamb."

She went on with her details of what he was to do, until he said
laughing, "Please to put it on paper."

"I will. Not to leave John quite alone, I have arranged for you to dine
with him, and I suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessons
as usual."

"Oh, yes, of course. I enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are John
and Tom McGregor. Tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out all
right. I shall lose him in a year. He is over seventeen and is to study
medicine. But what about Lamb?"

"I am wicked enough to wish he were really ill. It is only the usual
drunken bout, but he is a sort of Frankenstein to the Squire because of
that absurd foster-brother feeling. He is still in bed, I presume."

"As you ask it," said Rivers, "I will see him, but if he belongs to any
flock, he is a black sheep of Grace's fold. Anything else, Mrs.
Penhallow?" he asked smiling--"but don't trust my memory."

"If I think of anything more, I shall make a note of it and, of course,
you will see us at the station--the ten o'clock train--and give me a list
of the books you wanted. I may find them in Philadelphia."

"Thank you."

"Oh," she said, turning back, "I forgot. My cousin, George Grey, is
coming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in ten
days, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all."

"Very good. If he comes, we will try to make Grey Pine agreeable."

"That is really all, Mark, I think," and the little lady went away, with
a pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by.

In the afternoon Leila saw the Squire ride to the mills with John, and
went herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with Lucy. It
was as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy until
dinner-time. The girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe of
unrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflicts
which at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to trouble
the more sensitive sex. A good hard gallop would have cured her
anticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed that
keeps its seat behind the rider.

The next morning the rector and John were at the station of Westways
Crossroads when the Grey Pine carriage drove up. Mrs. Ann and Leila were
a half hour too early, as was Mrs. Penhallow's habit. Billy was on the
cart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance.

"Well, Billy," said Leila, talking to every one to conceal her
child-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energetic
young life. "Well, Billy, it's good-bye for a year."

"Won't have no more fun, Miss Leila--and nobody to snowball Billy, this
winter."

"No, not this winter."

"Found another ground-hog yesterday. I'll let her alone till you come
back."

John laughed. "Miss Leila will have long skirts and--hoops, Billy.
There will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging up
ground-hogs."

"Hoops--what for?" said Billy. John laughed.

"Please don't, John," she said, "it's too dreadful. Oh! I hear the
whistle."

"Mark," said Mrs. Ann, "if George Grey comes--James, did you leave the
wine-closet key?"

"Yes, my dear."

He turned to Leila, and kissing her said, "A year is soon over. Be a good
girl, my child. It is about as bad for me as for you. God bless you.
There, get on, Ann. Yes, the trunks are all right. Good-bye."

He stood a moment with John looking after the vanishing train. Then, he
said, "No need to stay here with me, Mark," and the rector understanding
him left him waiting for the westbound train and walked home across the
fields with John Penhallow.

John was long silent, but at last said, "It will be pretty lonesome
without Leila."

"Nice word, lonesome, John. Old English, I believe--has had its
adventures like some other words. Lonely doesn't express as well the idea
of being alone and sorrowful. We must do our best for your uncle and
aunt. Your turn to leave us will come, and then Leila will be lonesome."

"I don't think she will care as much."

Rivers glanced at the strong young face. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know, Mr. Rivers. I--she is more of a child than I am."

"That hardly answers my question. But I must leave you. I am going
to see that scamp misnamed Lamb. See you at dinner. Don't cultivate
lonesomeness, John. No one is ever really alone."

Leaving his pupil to consider what John thought rather too much of an
enigma, the young clergyman took to the dusty highway which led to
Westways. John watched the tall figure awkwardly climbing a snake fence,
and keeping in mind for explanation the clergyman's last remark he went
away through the woods.




CHAPTER VIII


Penhallow had gravely told John that in his absence he must look after
the stables and the farm, so that now he had for the first time in his
life responsibilities. The horses and the stables were to be looked over
every day. Of course, too, he must ride to the Squire's farm, which was
two miles away, and which was considered a model of all that a farm
should be. The crop yield to the acre was most satisfactory, but when
some one of the old Quaker farmers, whose apple-orchards the Squire had
plundered when young, walked over it and asked, "Well, James, how much
did thee clear this last year?" the owner would honestly confess that
Mrs. Ann's kitchen-garden paid better; but then she gave away what the
house did not use.

Very many years before slavery had become by tacit consent avoided as a
subject for discussion, Mrs. Ann critical of what his farm cost, being
herself country-bred, had said that if it were worked with Maryland
blacks it would pay and pay well.

"You mean, dear, that if I owned the labour, it would pay."

"Yes," she returned gaily, "and with me for your farmeress."

"You are, you are!" he laughed, "and you have cultivated me. I am well
broken to your satisfaction, I trust; but to me, Ann, the unpaid labour
of the slave seems impossible."

"Oh, James, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what for
all concerned is best."

"Well, well," he laughed, "the vegetable garden seems to be run at a
profit without them--ah! Ann, how about that?"

The talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemed
to any one who might have chanced to be present. The tact born of perfect
love has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even to
tenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of another
does much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love. Here with
these two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what was
to be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment North
and South became sharply defined. Westways and the mills understood her,
and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guarded
silence of the much loved and usually outspoken Squire, who now and then
relieved his mind by talking political history to John or Rivers.

The stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressed
concerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms. He presided
in Penhallow's place at table with some sense of newly acquired
importance, and on the fourth day of his uncle's absence, at Mark
Rivers's request, asked Mr. Grace to join them. The good Baptist was
the more pleased to come in the absence of Mrs. Penhallow, who liking
neither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life of
self-denial, which, as his friend Rivers knew, really left him with
hardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive.

"Grace is late, as usual," said Rivers to John. "He has, I believe, no
acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels.
Ah! I see him. His table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners
are--well, we will leave that to another time. Good evening, Grace."

"Glad to see you, sir," said John.

On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed
John by its elaborate repetitions.

The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper
shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of
his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the
obvious animal satisfaction of the man. John with more amusement saw the
silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife.
Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted a
tumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, "I never take spirits, Rivers,
but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage."

Rivers smiled. "It will do you no harm."

"It occurs to me, Rivers," said Grace, "that although wine is mentioned
in the Bible, cider is not. There is no warning against its use."

It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack. "Quite
right," he said. "You make me think of that scamp, Lamb. McGregor tells
me that he is very ill."

"A pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly
taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed his
unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.

"You should not desire the death of any man, John," said Grace, "least of
all the death of a sinner like Lamb."

"Really," said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "my
phrase did not admit of your construction."

"No," laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it is
a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable
interpretation."

"He is quite unprepared to die," insisted Grace, with the clerical
intonation which Rivers disliked.

"How do you know that?" asked Rivers.

"I know," said John confidently. "He told me he was a born thief and
loved to lie. He was pretty drunk at the time."

"That is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked Rivers, "'_in vino
veritas_.' The man is a very strange nature. I think he never forgives a
benefit. I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between
right and wrong--an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace,
even if he ever gave us a chance."

"I think he is a cruel beast," said John. "I saw him once--"

Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "Suppose we smoke."

With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, John
said, "We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine."

Rivers said, "Certainly, Squire," not altogether amused as John, a little
embarrassed, said quickly, "I should have said cider."

"Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarked
Grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable
comment.

"You will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and I
will join you in a moment." So saying he detained John by a hand on his
arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.

"You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. You had better go to bed. I
should have warned you."

"Yes, sir--I--did not--I mean--I--"

"_C'est une diablesse_--a little devil. There are others, and worse ones,
John. Good-night."

On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation
and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.

Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry
for the lad's evident distress. "What, not smoking, Grace?"

"No, I have given it up."

"But, why?"

"Well, I can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can't afford better
stuff."

"Then, be at ease, my friend. The Squire has sent me a large supply. I am
to divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman
ever got in his blameless life.

"I shall thank him," returned Grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but I
do sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit."

"Hardly worth while to thank Penhallow; he will have forgotten all about
it."

"But I shall not."

They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at
last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not to
have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did not
partake."

"No, it disagrees with me."

"I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and--I--a man who
preaches temperance, total abstinence--"

"My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance in
the way a man puts his opinions before others--a man may hurt his own
cause--"

Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night--I saw
you. You think I was intemperate?"

"Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed to
understand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart as
you felt, without the charity of the head."

"Perhaps--perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle
retort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, Brother
Rivers?"

"Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I lack your
power of direct appeal--your personal application of the truth. I ought
to preach the first half of the sermon--the appeal to the reason, the
head part--and ask you to conclude with the heart share--the personal
application of my cold logic."

"Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! your
cold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; we
have had a good talk."

As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing about
Lamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"

"Just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience in
the shape of a congested stomach. I talked to him a little. He is
penitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, I have
set Billy to care for him; some one must. I have found that to keep Billy
on a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; that
answers."

"Bad company, Brother Rivers."

"Oh, there is no guile in Billy."

They parted at the Grey Pine gate. Rivers had innocently prepared remote
mischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated.
When, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on a
dead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmitted
agitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. The man
stops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of the
unexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. We do some
innocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remote
mischief.

Meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man Lamb, who was
the prey of slowly lessening delusions. Guardian Billy chewed his daily
supply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey room
feeding Lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street.

"Oh! there go Squire's horses for exercise; Joe's on Lucy."

"Damn Lucy! Do you go to mother's room--"

"What for?"

"Oh, she keeps her money in it, and Mrs. Penhallow paid her in advance
the day she left."

"Can't do it," said Billy, who had strict orders not to leave Lamb alone.

"Oh, just look in the top drawer. She keeps a bit of money rolled up in
one of her stockings. That will get me a little whisky and you lots of
tobacco."

"Can't do it," said Billy. "Want me to steal? Won't do it."

"Then I'll get even with you some day."

Billy laughed. "Why I could lick you--like Mr. John licked the doctor's
son. Gosh! there goes Pole's wagon."

Lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. The ingenuity of the man
who craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the most
experienced doctor. The immorality of the means of attainment is never
considered. If, as with Lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is a
certain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor.

On the day after the two clergymen had heard John's final opinion of
Lamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritual
physician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of the
body. "I suppose," said McGregor, "that you and I as concerns this
infernal rascal are under orders from Penhallow and his wife. I at least
have the satisfaction of being paid--"

"Oh, I am paid, Doctor," the clergyman smiled.

"Of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient and
positive saint, Mrs. Penhallow, is paid. She's too terrifyingly good. It
must be--well, inconvenient at times. Now she wants this animal looked
after because of Mrs. Lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd belief
that because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he must
befriend the fellow--and he does. Truth is, Rivers, that man's father was
a sodden drunkard but, I am told, not otherwise bad. It's a pretty sure
doom for the child. This man's body has damned his soul, and now the soul
is paying it back in kind."

"The damnation will be settled elsewhere," said Rivers gravely. "You are
pleading for him when you say he had a father who drank."

"Well, yes, yes. That is true, but I do confoundedly mistrust him. He
never remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. But
when Mrs. Penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you just
go and do what she wants done. Oh, me too! Let's get out of this
unreasonable sun and see this fellow."

Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient
in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recovering
from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.

"Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"

"Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on,
I'd be all right."

"Not a drop, Peter."

"I'll die if I don't get it."

"Then die sober."

Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful
examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll
be well."

"For God's sake, give me whisky--a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."

"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr.
Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I
suppose?"

"Yes, there is no one else."

"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He
will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."

"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get
well, Doctor, I suppose?"

"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance,
up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."

"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired
of no one.

The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much
mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some
ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways
interesting."

"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.

"Oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst."

"What did he see?"

"Oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.'
Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in
the moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"

"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk
of the town."

"Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.'
A 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but I must go."

Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and wait
downstairs; don't go away."

The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'm
bad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"

Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in
his hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose to
his feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don't
always know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor
does help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside.
I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"

This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy,
obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; what
should he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one
constant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? He
stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that the
man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and
he said, "Now you will, I know."

Rivers made no direct answer. Was it hopeless? He tried to read the
face--the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, the
projecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, and
eagerly attentive. This was not the time for reason. He said, "I should
be your worst enemy, Peter. Every one has been good to you; over and over
the Squire has saved you from jail. Mrs. Penhallow asked me to help you.
Try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. Pray God for
help to bear it patiently."

"I'm in hell. What's the use of praying in hell? Get me whisky and I'll
pray."

Rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that the
enfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appeal to head or heart.
"I will come again," he said. "Good-bye."

"Oh, damn everybody," muttered Peter.

Rivers went out and sent Billy up to take charge. Lamb was still sitting
up in bed when Billy returned. The simple fellow poured out in brief
sentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door.

"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "The doctor says I'll feel better if I'm
shaved--ain't been shaved these three weeks. Doctor wants you to go and
get Josiah to come and fix me up to-night. You tell him it's the doctor's
orders. Don't you be gone long. I'm kind of lonely."

"All right," said Billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favourite
despite his disinclination for steady work.

"Now, don't be gone long. I need a good shave, Billy."

"Guess you do--way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of them
rummage-sales. Ain't had but one in four years."

"Oh, get out, Billy." Once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand up
and fell back cursing.

The order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "Guess he's too shaky to
shave himself," said Josiah. "I'll come about half-past eight."

As Josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simple
way of his last three years. After much wandering and fear of being
traced, he had been used at the stables by Penhallow. That he had been a
slave was suspected, but that troubled no one in Westways. He had long
felt at ease and safe. He lived alone, a man of some forty years, cooked
for himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully saved
earnings. He had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guarded
tongue of servitude. Long before John Penhallow had understood better the
tall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, he
saw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called Mr.
Josiah. It sounded queer, as Pole remarked, to call a runaway darkey
Mister, but this in no way disturbed John. The friendly feeling for the
black grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trapped
muskrats, or dug up hellbenders. The barber had one half-concealed
dislike. The man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "Couldn't
tell you why, Master John. It's like the way Crocker's wife's 'feared of
cats. They ain't never hurt her none."

"Well," he said, "here I am," and in unusual silence set about his work
by dim candlelight. The patient was as silent. When Josiah had finished,
he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.

"Guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was about
to leave. "I'll send up Billy." The uneasy guardian had seized on the
chance to get a little relief.

"No, don't go," said Lamb. "I'm in a hell of thirst. I want you to get me
some whisky. I'll pay you when I get work."

Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief
in future repayment. "Couldn't do that--doctor wouldn't like it."

"What, you won't do it?"

"No, I can't do it."

"If you don't, I'll tell what I know about you."

"What do you know?" The long lost terror returned--but what could he
know?

"Oh, you ran away--I know all about it. You help me now and I'll keep
quiet--you'd better."

A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the r

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