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 theconfusing politics of the day. "She has not as yet a seeking mind," saidthe rector, who in the confessional of the evening pipe saw more and moreplainly that this was a divided house. The Squire could not talk politicswith Ann, his wife. She held a changeless belief in regard to slavery, aconviction of its value to owner and owned too positive to be temptedinto discussing it with people who knew so little of it and did notagree with her. James Penhallow, like thousands in that day of grimself-questioning, had been forced to reconsider opinions long held, andwas reaching conclusions which he learned by degrees made argument withthe simplicity of his wife's political creed more and more undesirable.Leila was too young to be interested. The rector was intenselyanti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which werebewildering the largest minds. The increasing interest in his nephew was,therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle. Meanwhile, the financialdifficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs ofthe mills and took him away at times to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Thusthe summer ran on to an end. Buchanan and Breckenridge had been nominatedand the Republicans had accepted Fremont and Dayton.
Birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at Grey Pine, and onSeptember 20th, when John, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as hetook his seat Ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, "You aresixteen 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 behindher back, "Which hand, John?"
"Oh! both--both."
"No."
"Then the one nearest the heart." Some quick reflection passed throughAnn 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-upcourtesies 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 theporch. "That is mine, John." A thorough-bred horse stood at the door,saddled and bridled. Ann thought the gift extravagant, but held hertongue.
"Oh, Uncle Jim," said John. His heart was too full for the words hewanted 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 allmeans, Ann, call him Dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please." Herethey heard Dixy's pedigree at length.
"Above all, Jack, remember that Dixy is of gentle birth; make friendswith him. He may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him. Bewary of use of whip or spur."
There was more of it, until Mrs. Ann said, "Your coffee will be cold. Itis 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 raspberryjam 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. Sheeats as much as she preserves."
"Oh! Aunt Ann."
A few days went by, and as it rained in the afternoon there was noriding, but there was the swimming-pool, and for rain John now cared verylittle. On his way he met a half dozen village lads. They swam, andhatched (it was John's device) a bit of mischief involving Billy, who wasfond of watching their sports when he was tired of doing chores about thestable. John heard of it later. The likelihood of unpleasant results fromtheir mischief was discussed as they walked homeward. There were in allfive boys from the village, with whom by this time John had formeddemocratic intimacies and moderate likings which would have shocked hismother. He had had no quarrels since long ago he had resented TomMcGregor's rudeness to Leila and had suffered the humiliation of defeatin his brief battle with the bigger boy. The easy victor, Tom, had halfforgotten or ignored it, as boys do. Now as they considered an unpleasantsituation, Joe Grace, the son of the Baptist preacher, broke the silence.He announced what was the general conclusion, halting for emphasis as hespoke.
"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, "itwas great fun; didn't think Billy could run like that."
It will be observed that the young gentleman of ten months ago had becomecomfortably democratic in his associations and had shed much of histoo-fine manners as the herding instincts of the boy made the society ofcomrades desirable when Leila's company was not attainable.
"Oh!" he said, "Billy can run, but I had none of the fun." Then he askedanxiously, "Did Billy get as far as the house?"
"You bet," said Baynton, the son of the carpenter, "I saw him, heard himshout 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 childof 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 metoo."
"Thanks," said John, reluctantly acknowledging the confession ofpartnership 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 ofthe matter at the dinner-table, where to John's relief Mr. Rivers was aguest. John observed, however, that Mrs. Ann had less of her usualgaiety, and he was not much surprised when his uncle leaving the tablesaid, "Come into the library, John." The Captain lighted his pipe and satdown.
"Now, sir," he said, "Billy is a poor witness. I desire to hear whathappened."
The stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy. Hestood for a moment silent. The Captain, impatient, exclaimed, "Now, Iwant 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 thevillage boys, sir. We played tag in the water--"
The Squire had at once a divergent interest, "Tag--tag--swimming? Whoinvented that game? Good idea--how do you play it?"
John a little relieved continued, "You see, uncle, you can dive to escapeor come up under a fellow to tag him. It's just splendid!" he concludedwith 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 inquestion; go on."
"We got tired and sat on the bank. Billy was wandering about. He nevercan keep still. I proposed that I should hide in the bushes and the boysshould tell Billy I was drowned."
"Indeed!"
"We went into the water; I hid in the bushes and the boys called out Iwas drowned. When Billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and myshoes, and before I could get out he just yelled, 'John's drowned, I musttake his clothes home to his poor aunt.' Then he ran. The last I heardwas, 'He's drowned, he's drowned!'"
"And then?"
"Well, t
he other fellows put on something and went after him; they caughthim in the cornfield and took away my clothes. Then Billy ran to thehouse. 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. Hemight have told Leila or your aunt. Luckily I received his news, and noone else. You will go to Westways and say there is to be no swimming fora week in my pool."
"Yes, sir."
"You are not to ride Dixy or any other horse for ten days." This wasterrible. "Now, be off with you, and tell Mr. Rivers to come in."
"Yes, sir."
When Rivers sat down, the Squire suppressing his laughter related thestory. "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 forten days."
"I suppose you are right," and they fell to talking politics and of theconfusion of parties with three candidates in the field.
Mrs. Ann who suspected what had been the result of this court-martialwas disposed towards pity, but John retired to a corner and a book andslipped away to bed early. Penalties he had suffered at school, but thiswas a terrible experience, and now he was to let the other boys know thatthe swimming-pool was closed for a week. At breakfast he made believe tobe contented in mind, and asked in his best manner if his uncle had anyerrands for him in Westways or at the mills. When the Captain said no andremarked further that if he wished to walk, he would find the wood-roadscooler than the highway John expressed himself grateful for his advicewith such a complete return of his formal manner as came near tounmasking the inner amusement which the Squire was getting from theevident annoyance he was giving Mrs. Ann, who thought that he wasneedlessly 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 willwrite it."
John was pleased to feel that he had other reasons for visiting Westwaysthan his uncle's order. He went down the avenue whistling, and in nohurry.
Leila had some dim comprehension of John's state of mind. Of Billy and ofthe Squire's court-martial she had heard from Mrs. Ann, and although thatlady said little, the girl very well knew that her aunt thought herhusband had been too severe. She stood on the porch, vaguely troubled forthis comrade, and watched him as he passed from view, taking a short cutthrough the trees. The girl checked something like a sob as she wentinto the house.
It was the opinion of the county that Mrs. Penhallow was a right goodwoman and masterful; but of Leila the judgment of the village was thatshe was just sweet through and through. The rector said she radiated thegood-nature of perfect health. What more there was time would show.Westways knew well these two young people, and Leila was simply Leila tonearly every one. "Quite time," reflected Mrs. Ann, "that she was MissLeila." As she went with her through the town there were pleasantgreetings, until at last they came to the butcher's. Mr. Pole, largeafter the way of his craft, appeared in a white apron. "Well, now, howyou 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 Pinethan in your shop."
At this time John was added to the hearers, being in search of WilliamPole with the Squire's order about the swimming. He waited until his auntshould be through. He was a little amused, which on the whole was, justthen, 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 realcareless. What with Hannah's asthma keeping me awake and a lot of foolsloafing 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 dealout even justice. But if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered whatshe liked and at home could not have. "I hope, Pole, you are not going tovote 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 asaddle 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 thelamb."
The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away. Whether the lady of Grey Pinewas conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to hernephew that Peter Pole's weights would not be further questioned as longas 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 otherfellows?"
"Guessed we would catch it. They're playing ball back of the church. I'llgo along with you."
He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of aswim in the September heat. They came on the other culprit's, who calledto John to come and play. He was not so minded, and was in haste to getthrough with a disagreeable errand. As he hesitated, Pole eager todistribute the unpleasant news cried out, "The Squire says that we can'tswim 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 itany better than you do--but--"
Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "Who told the Squire whatfellows was in it?"
"It wasn't Billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you wasdead."
"Look here," said Tom McGregor turning to John, "did you tell the Squirewe fellows set it up?"
John was insulted. He knew well the playground code of honour, butremembered in time his boxing-master's advice, the more mad you are thecooler you keep yourself. He replied in his old formal way, "The questionis one you have no right to ask; it is an insult."
To the boys the failure to say "no" meant evasion. "Then, of course, youtold," returned the older lad. "If I wasn't afraid you'd run home andcomplain, I'd spank you."
It had been impossible for John to be angry with his uncle, although thepunishment and the shame of carrying the news to the other boys he feltto be a too severe penalty. But here was cause for letting looserighteous anger. He had meant to wait, having been wisely counselled byhis boxing-master to be in no haste to challenge his enemy, until furtherpractice had made success possible; but now his rising wrath overcame hisprudence, "Well, try it," he said. "You beat me once. If you think I'lltell if I am licked, I assure you, you are safe. I took the whole blameabout 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 boyslaughed. John flushed a little, and as Tom remained silent added, "If youwon't, then lick me if you can."
As he spoke, he slipped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The longlessons in self-defence had given him some confidence and, what was asuseful, had developed chest and arms.
"Hit him, Tom," said the small boy. In a moment the fight was on, thenon-combatants delighted.
To Tom's surprise his wild blows somehow failed to get home. It wascharacteristic of John then as in later days that he became cool as herealized his danger, while Tom quite lost his head as the success of thedefence disappointed his attack. To hit hard, to rush in and throw hisenemy, was all he had of the tactics of offence. The younger lad,untouched, light on his feet, was continually shifting his ground; thenat last he struck right and left. He had not weight enough to knock downhis foe,
but as Tom staggered, John leaped aside and felt the joy ofbattle 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 stoodbetween them. John was not sorry for the interruption. He was well awarethat in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough toencounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. He stoodstill panting, smiling, and happy.
"Hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. Tom, furious, wascollecting 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 villagefights. "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 theyfought it out. Now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "Youare a nice pair of young Christians," he said. "At all events, you shallnot fight any more to-day. Come, John."
The boy put on his jacket and went away with Rivers, who asked presentlywhat was this about. "Mr. Rivers, soon after I came that fellow was roughto 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'tdo 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 himgood-bye.
The lad who left him was tired, but entirely satisfied with JohnPenhallow. He went to the stable and had a technical talk with theEnglish groom, who deeply regretted not to have seen the fight.
There being no riding or swimming to fill the time, he took a net, sometackle 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 thestable, where he was visited by Leila and Rivers, and later departed thislife, much lamented. In the afternoon, being in a happy mood, John easilypersuaded Leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him.
When they sat down beside the Indian graves, to his surprise she suddenlyshifted the talk and said, "John, who would you vote for? I asked AuntAnn, and she said, 'Buchanan, of course'; and when I asked Uncle Jim, hesaid, 'Fremont'; but I want to understand. I saw in the paper that it waswicked to keep slaves, but my cousins in Maryland have slaves; it can'tbe 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 withoutpay."
"And don't they pay slaves?" asked Leila.
"No, they don't." John felt unable to make clear to her why the twopeople they respected and loved never discussed what the village talkedabout so freely. These intelligent children were in the toils of aquestion which was disturbing the consciences and the interests of acontinent. The simpler side was clear to both of them. The idea ofselling the industrious old barber was as yet enough to settle theirpolitics.
"Aunt Ann must have good reasons," said John. "Mr. Rivers says she is themost just woman he ever knew." It puzzled him. "I suppose we are tooyoung 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. Idon'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 thepride of conscious freedom. The talk ran on. At last she said, "I'll tellyou a queer thing. I heard Mr. Rivers say to uncle--I heard him say, wewere 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 fourdays later, when Rivers came in after dinner and found Penhallow in hislibrary deep in thought.
"Worried, Squire?" he asked.
"Yes, affairs are in a bad way and will be until the election is over. Italways disturbs commerce. The town will go Democratic, I suppose."
"Yes, as I told you, unless you take a hand and are in earnest andoutspoken."
"I could be, but it has not yet the force of imperative duty, and itwould 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 battlewith Tom McGregor."
"Indeed?" The Squire sat up, all attention. "He does not show any marksof it."
"No, but Tom does."
"Indeed! What happened?"
"Well, I believe, Tom thought John told you what boys were in that jokeon Billy. I fancy something was said about you--something personal, whichJohn 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 aspeacemaker. I stopped the battle, but he was not at all disposed to talkabout it. I am sure of one thing--he has had a grudge against Tom--sincehe was rude to Leila."
The Squire rose and walked about the room. "H'm! very strange that--whata mere child he was when he got licked--boys don't remember injuries thatway." Then seeming to become conscious of Rivers' presence, he stoppedbeside him and added, "What with my education and Leila's, he has grownamazingly. 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 Annwouldn'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 thingsof life. Her politics and religion are sacred beliefs not to be rudelyjostled by the disturbance of thinking. If there is illness, debt ortrouble, at the mills or in Westways, she becomes seraphic andintelligent enough."
"Yes, Rivers, and if I put before her, as I sometimes do, a perplexingbusiness matter, I am surprised at her competence. Of course, she is asable as you or I to reason, but on one subject she does not reason orbelieve that it admits of discussion; and by Heaven! my friend, I amsometimes ashamed to keep out of this business. So far as this State isconcerned, it is hopeless. You know, dear friend, what you have been tous, and that to no other man on earth could I speak as I have done toyou; but Mark, if things get worse--and they will--what then? Johnasked 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 nextday."
Rivers smiled. "Like me, I suppose."
"Yes, Mark. He is persistent about everything--lessons, sports, oh!everything; an uncomfortably curious lad, too. These Southern opinionsabout reclaiming a man's slaves bother the boy. He reads my papers, andhow 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 toask Ann Penhallow--I have not heard of the resul
t. 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 Novemberwas sure, and John--He had come to love the lad, and perhaps he had beentoo severe. Then he thought of the boy's fight and smiled. The rector andhe had disagreed. Was it better for boys to abuse one another or tosettle things by a fight? The rector had urged that his argument for theordeal of battle would apply with equal force to the duel of men. He hadsaid, "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 theDecalogue.
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. IsaacGrace, "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 Squirevote?"
"Ask him. Take care, Josiah."
"If the Squire isn't taking any active part, Mrs. Penhallow is. She istaking a good deal of interest in the roof of my chapel and--and--otherthings."
The rector did not like it. "I can't talk, Grace."
"But I can."--"Well," thought the rector, "for an intelligent man you areslow at taking hints." The good-natured rotund preacher went on, amazinghis 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 thenext two months, Grace, I will never tie for you another trout-fly. Yourturn," and he left the chair to Grace, who sat down saying with thepersistency of the good-humoured and tactless, "If I want a roof to mychapel, I've got to keep out of talking Republican polities, that'sclear--"
"And several other things," returned Mark sharply.
"Such as," said Grace, but the rector had gone and Josiah was latheringthe big red face.
"Got to make believe sometimes, sir," said Josiah. "She's an uncommonkind lady, and the pumpkins she gives me are fine. A fellow's got time tothink between this and November. Pumpkins and leaky roofs do make a mankind of thoughtful." He grinned approval of his own wisdom. "Now don'ttalk, sir. Might chance to cut you."
This sly unmasking of motives, his own and those of others, wasdisagreeable to the good little man who was eager to get his chapelroofed and no more willing than Mrs. Penhallow to admit that how he wouldvote had anything to do with the much needed repairs. His people werepoor and the leaks were becoming worse and worse. He kept his peace, andthe barber smiling plied the razor.
Now the Squire paused at the open door, where he met his nephew. "Come toget those scalp-locks trimmed, John? They are perilously long. If youwere to get into a fight and a fellow got hold of them, you would have abad time." Then as his uncle went away laughing, John knew that theSquire must have heard of his battle from Mark Rivers. He did not likeit. Why he did not know or ask himself, being as yet too immature forsuch 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 youshould be fighting. I am sure that neither Mr. Rivers nor your aunt wouldapprove 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 tosay 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 hadnot been agreeable, but this admonition was unendurable. He entered theshop.
"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 myhair 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 curlylocks 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 hisgood-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 geta new name."
"Indeed! Of course, every one knows you must have run away--but no onecares."
"Might say I was run away with--can't always hold a horse," he laughedaloud in a leisurely way. "When he took me over the State-line, I didn'tgo back."
"I see," said John laughing, as he rose and paid the barber. The crackedmirror satisfied him that he was well shorn.
"You looks a heap older now you're shorn. Makes old fellows lookyounger--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, mustknow you ran away."
When John first arrived the black barber's appearance so impressed thelad that he spoke to him as Mr. Josiah, and seeing later how much thispleased him continued in his quite courteous way to address him now andthen as Mr. Josiah. The barber liked it. He hesitated a moment beforeanswering.
"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 curiouslike knowin' half. When I first came here, I guessed I'd best change myname, 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 gotto like the folks and the Captain."
John's experience was enlarging. He could hardly have realized thestrange comfort the black felt in his confession. What it all summed upfor Josiah in the way of possible peril of loss of liberty John presentlyhad made plain to him. He was increasingly urgent in his demand foranswers to the many questions life was bringing. The papers he read hadbeen sharp schoolmasters, and of slave life he knew nothing except fromhis aunt's pleasant memories of plantation life when a girl on a greatMaryland manor. That she could betray to servitude the years ofgrey-haired freedom seemed to John incredible of the angel of kindlyhelpfulness. He stood still in thought, troubled by his boy-share ofpuzzle 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 hurtanybody? 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 bornslave; she can't help it--and they was good people too--all the peoplethat 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 couldremember 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 wasleanin' against a stump--how will that colt turn out? I said, I don'tknow, but I did. It wasn't any good. My mind was took up watchin' a hawkgoin' here and there over head like he was enjoyin' hisself. Then--thenit come over me--that he'd got no boss but God. It got a grip on melike--" 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 ofhawks. I ain't never told any one."
"Are you glad to be free?"
"Ah, kind of h
alf glad, sir. I ain't altogether broke in to it. You seeI'm old for change."
As he ended, James Penhallow reappeared. "Got through, John? You lookyears older. Your aunt will miss those curly locks." He went into theshop as John walked away, leaving Josiah who would have liked to add aword more of caution and who nevertheless felt somehow a sense of reliefin having made a confession the motive force of which he would have foundit impossible to explain.
John asked himself no such question as he wandered deep in boy-thoughtalong the broken line of the village houses. Josiah's confidence troubledand yet flattered him. His imagination was captured by the suggested ideaof the wild freedom of the hawk. He resolved to be careful, and felt moreand more that he had been trusted with a secret involving danger.
While John wandered away, the barber cut the Squire's hair, and to hissurprise Josiah did not as usual pour out his supply of village gossip.
Westways: A Village Chronicle Page 5