CHAPTER XIV
On Saturday the Squire asked John to ride with him. As they mounted,Billy came with the mail. Penhallow glanced at the letters and put themin his pocket.
As the horses walked away, John said, "I was in Westways yesterday,uncle, to get my hair cut. I heard that Pole has had chicken-pox, uncle."
"Funny that, for a butcher!" said the Squire. They chatted of the smallvillage news. "They have quit discussing politics, Uncle Jim."
"Yes, every four years we settle down to the enjoyment of the belief thatnow everything will go right, or if we are of those who lost the fight,then there is the comfort of thinking things could not be worse, and thatthe other fellows are responsible."
"Uncle Jim, at Westways people talked about the election as if it were ahorse-race, and didn't interest anybody when it was over."
"Yes, yes; but there are for the average American many things to thinkabout, and he doesn't bother himself about who is to be President or why,until, as McGregor says, events come along and kick him and say, 'Get upand think, or do something.'"
"When I talked to Mr. Rivers lately, he seemed very blue about thecountry. He seems to believe that everything is going wrong."
"Oh, Rivers!" exclaimed Penhallow, "what a great, noble soul! But, John,a half hour of talk with him about our national affairs leaves me tangledin a net of despair, and I hate it. You have a letter, I see."
"Yes, it is from Leila, sir."
"Let's hear it," said Penhallow.
John was inclined, he could hardly have told why, to consider this letterwhen alone, but now there was nothing possible except to do as he wasbid.
"Read it. I want to hear it, John."
As they walked their horses along the road, John read:
"DEAR JOHN": I did not expect to write to you again until you wrote tome, but I have been perplexed to know what was best to do. I wanted--oh,so much--to consult Uncle Jim, or some older person than you, and so Iask you to send this to Uncle Jim if he is absent, or let him see it ifhe is at home. He is moving about and we do not know how to addresshim."--
"That's a big preface--go on."
"I did not see Josiah again until yesterday morning. Aunt Ann has beeninsisting that my hair needs singeing at the ends to make it grow. [It istoo long now for comfort.]"--
"That's in brackets, Uncle Jim--the hair, I mean."
"Yes--what next?"
"Well, John, when Aunt Ann keeps on and on in her gently obstinate, Imean resolute, way, it is best to give up and make believe a little thatyou agree with her. My hair was to be singed--I gave up."--
"Oh, Leila!" exclaimed Penhallow, rocking in the saddle with laughter,while John looked up smiling. "Go on."
"So aunt's new maid got her orders, and while aunt was asleep in her roomthe maid brought up Josiah. It was as good as a play. He was very civiland quiet. You know how he loved to talk. He singed my hair, and it washorrid--like the smell of singeing a plucked chicken. After that he sentthe maid to his shop for some hair-wash. As soon as she was gone, hesaid, 'I'm done for, Miss Leila. I met Mr. George Grey on the beach thismorning. He knew me and I knew him. He said, "What! you here, yourascally runaway horse-thief!" I said, "I wasn't a thief or a rascal."Then he said something I didn't hear, for I just left him and--I can'tstay here--he'll do something, and I can't run no risks--oh, Lord!'"--
"I thought," said the Squire, "we were done with that tiresome fool,George Grey. Whether he will write again to Woodburn about Josiah or not,no one can say. Woodburn did tell me that if at any time he could easilyget hold of his slave, he would feel it to be a duty to make use of theFugitive-Slave Law. I do not think he will be very eager, but after allit is uncertain, and if I were Josiah, I would run away."
As he talked, the horses walked on through the forest wood-roads. For amoment he said nothing, and then, "It is hard to put yourself in anotherman's place; that means to be for the time of decision that man with hisinheritances, all his memories, all his hopes and all his fears."
This was felt by the lad to be somehow unlike his uncle, who added, "Iheard Mark Rivers say that about Peter, but it applies here. I would run.But go on with your letter. What else does Leila say?"
John read on:
"Josiah was so scared that I could not even get him to listen to me. Hegathered up his barber things in haste, and kept on saying over and over,'I have got to go, missy.' Now he has gone and his shop is shut up. I wasso sorry for him, I must have cried, for aunt's maid asked me what wasthe matter. This is all. It is late. I shall mail this to-morrow. AuntAnn has been expecting Mr. George Grey, my far-away cousin. I wish he wasfurther away! "--
"Good gracious! Leila. Well, John, any more?"
"Yes, sir."
"He came in this morning, I mean Mr. Grey, and began to talk and was sopleased to see his dear cousin. Aunt Ann went on knitting and sayingsomething pleasant now and then. At last he asked if she knew thatrunaway horse-thief we called Josiah was the barber here. He said that hemust really write to that rascal's owner, and went over and over the samething. Aunt Ann looked at me when he mentioned the barber. Then she satup and said, 'If you have done talking, I desire to say a word.' Ofcourse, he was at her service. You know, John, how he talks. Aunt Annsaid, 'You made quite enough trouble, George, about this man at Westways.I told you then that he had done us a service I could never forget. Iwon't have him disturbed here. Mr. Woodburn behaved with discretion andcourtesy. If you make any more trouble, I shall never forgive you. Iwon't have it, George Grey.' I never saw any one so embarrassed, John. Heput his hat on the floor and picked it up, and then he sat down in hischair and, I call it, wilted. He said that he had not quite made up hismind. At this Aunt Ann stood up, letting her knitting drop, and said,'Then you had better; you've got no mind.' After this he got up and saidthat she had insulted him. Aunt Ann was red and angry. She said, 'TellJames Penhallow that, Mr. Grey.' After this he went away, and Aunt Annsaid to me, 'Tell Josiah if you can find him that he need not be afraid;the man will not write to Mr. Woodburn.' After that I told her all aboutMr. Johnson and got a good scolding for not having told her before, andthat Josiah had gone away scared. She was tired and angry and sent meaway. That is all. Let Uncle Jim get this letter.
"Yours truly,
"LEILA.
"P.S. Oh, I forgot. Josiah gave me a letter for Uncle Jim. I enclose it.I did not give it to Aunt Ann; perhaps I ought to have done so. But itwould have been useless because it is sealed, and you know the rule atGrey Pine."
"Poor Josiah!" said Penhallow, "I wonder where he has gone."
"He may say in his letter," said John.
"Read it to me, my son. I forgot my glasses."
"It is addressed to Captain Penhallow."
"Yes, I was always that to Josiah--always."
John opened the letter, which was carefully sealed with a large redwafer.
"It is well written, uncle."
"Yes--yes. Rivers taught him--and he speaks nearly as good English asGeorge Grey."
John looked up from the letter. "Oh, that is funny! It begins,'Respectable Sir.'"
"My dear John, that isn't funny at all--it's old-fashioned. I have seen aletter from the great Dr. Rush in which the mother of Washington ismentioned as 'that respectable lady.' But now, sir, you will be goodenough to let me hear that letter without your valuable comments."
The tone was impatient. John said, "Excuse me, uncle, but I couldn't helpit."
"Oh, read it."
"I am driven away again. I write this to thank you for all you done forme at Westways. Mr. Grey he met me here on the beach and I'm afraid--Idon't take no chances. I saved money here. I can get on anywhere. It'sawful to have to ran away, and that drunkard Peter Lamb all the whilesafe with his mother. I can't get him out of my mind. I'm a Christianman--and I tried to forgive him. I can't do it. If I am quiet and letalone, I forget. I've got to get up and go and hide, and I curse him thatdone it. Please, sir, not tell Mr. Rivers what I say. I seen Miss Leila.I always said Miss
Leila would be a beauty. There ain't no young ladyhere can hold a candle to her. I want to say I did have hope to see Mr.John.
"God bless you, Captain.
"Your obedient servant,
"JOSIAH."
The Squire halted in the open pine forest on a wood-road behind thecabin. He threw one leg over the pommel and sat still with the ease of ahorseman in any of the postures the saddle affords. "Read me both ofthose letters again, and slowly."
This time John made no remarks. When he came to the end of Josiah'sletter, he looked towards the silent figure seated sideways. The Squiremade no comment, but searched his pockets for the flint and steel healways carried. Lighting his pipe he slid to the ground.
"Take the rein, John," he said, "or the mare will follow me."
Penhallow was deep in the story these letters told, and he thought bestwhen walking. John sat in his saddle watching the tall soldierly figuremove up the road and back again to the cabin his ancestors had heldthrough one long night of fear. John caught sight of the face asPenhallow came and then turned away on his slow walk, smoking furiously.He sat still, having learned to be respectful of the long silences towhich at times Penhallow was given. Now and then with a word he quietedthe uneasy mare--a favourite taught to follow the master. At lastPenhallow struck his pipe on a stone to empty it, and by habit carefullyset a foot on the live coal. Then he came to the off side of his mare andtook the rein. Facing John, he set an elbow on the horse's back and ahand on his own cheek. This was no unusual attitude. He did not mount,but stood still. The ruddy good-humoured face, clean-shaven and large offeature, had lost its look of constant good-humour. In fact, the featurelanguage expressed the minute's mood in a way which any one less familiarwith the man than John might have read with ease. Then he said, in anabsent way, "Are we men of the North all cowards like Josiah? They thinkso--they do really think so. It is helping to make trouble." Then helifted himself lightly into the saddle, with swift change of mood and anodd laugh of comment on his conclusion, as he broke into a gallop. "Letus get into the sun."
John followed him as they rode swiftly over a cross-road and out on tothe highway. Again the horses were walking, and Penhallow said, "Isuppose you may not have understood me. I was suddenly angry. It is arelief sometimes to let off steam. Well, I fancy time will answer me--orthat is what I try not to believe--but it may--it may. Let us talk ofsomething else. I must find out from Rivers just how well you areprepared for the Point. Then I mean to give you every night an hour or soof what he cannot teach. You ride well, you know French and German, youbox--it may be of service, keep it up once a week at least. I envy youthe young disciplined life--the simpleness of it--the want ofresponsibilities."
"Thank you, sir," returned John, "I hope to like it and to do you credit,uncle."
"You will, I am sure. Let us go to the mills."
John hesitated before he asked, "Could not I have, sir, a few days withAunt Ann at the Cape?"
"No, I shall want you here."
John was silent and disappointed. The Squire saw it. "It can't behelped--I do not feel able to be alone. Leila will be away a year moreand you will be gone for several years. For your sake and mine I want youthis summer. Take care! You lost a stirrup when Dixy shied. Oh! here arethe mills. Good morning, McGregor. All well?"
"Yes, sir. Tom has gone to the city. He is to be in the office of afriend of mine this summer. I shall be alone."
"John goes to West Point this September, Doctor."
"Indeed! You too will be alone. Next it will be Leila. How the youngbirds are leaving the nests! Even that slow lad of Grace's is going. Heis to learn farming with old Roberts. He has a broad back and theadvantage of not being a thinking-machine."
"He may have made the best choice, McGregor."
"No, sir," said the Doctor, "my son has the best of it."
John laughed. "I don't think I should like either farm or medicine."
"No," returned the Doctor, with his queer way of stating things, "theremust be some one to feed the people; Tom is to be trained to cure, andyou to kill."
"I don't want to kill anybody," said John, laughing.
"But that is the business you are going to learn, young man." John wassilent. The idea of killing anybody!
"Heard from Mrs. Penhallow lately?" asked the doctor.
"No, but from Leila to-day; and, you will be surprised, from Josiah too."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Give him the two letters, John. Let me have them to-morrow, Doctor.Good-bye," and they rode on to the mills.
"It is a pity, John, Josiah gave no address," said Penhallow,--"achildlike man, intelligent, and with some underlying temper of the oldAfrican barbarian." The summer days ran on with plenty of work for Johnand without incidents of moment, until the rector went away as was hishabit the first of August, more moody than usual. If the rectory werefinished, he would go there in September, and Mrs. Ann had written to himabout the needed furniture.
On August 20th that lady wrote from Cape May that she must go home, andLeila that her aunt was well but homesick. The Squire, who missed hergreatly, unreluctantly yielded, and on August 25th she was met at thestation by Penhallow and John. To the surprise of both, she had broughtLeila, as her school was not to begin until September 10th.
"My dear James," cried Mrs. Ann, "it is worth while to have been away tolearn how good it is to get home again. I thought I would surprise youwith Leila." As the Squire kissed her, Leila and the maid came from thecar to the platform loaded with bundles.
John stood still. Nature had been busy with her artist-work. A year hadgone by--the year of maturing growth of mind and body for a girl nearingsixteen. Unprepared for her change, John felt at once that this was awoman, who quickly smiling gave him a cordial greeting and her hand."Why, John Penhallow," she said, "what a big boy you are grown!" It wasas if an older person had spoken to a younger. A head taller than thelittle Mrs. Ann, she was in the bloom of maiden loveliness, rosy, joyous,a certain new stateliness in her movements. The gift of grace had beenadded by the fairy godmother nature.
John said, with gravity, "You are most welcome home, Leila," and thenquickly aware of some coldness in his words, "Oh, I am so very glad tosee you!" She had gone by him in the swift changes of life. Without soputting it distinctly into the words of a mental soliloquy, John wasconscious that here was another Leila.
"Come, in with you," said the happy master of Grey Pine.
"How well you look, Ann, and how young! The cart will bring yourbundles."
John Penhallow on an August afternoon was of Billy's opinion that Leilahad "rowed a lot" as she came out upon the porch and gaily laughingcried, "At last,--Aunt Ann has done with me."
They were both suffering from one of those dislocations of relation whicheven in adult life are felt when friends long apart come together again.The feeling of loss, as far as John was concerned, grew less as Leilawith return of childlike joy roamed with him over the house and throughthe stables, and next day through Westways, with a pleasant word forevery one and on busying errands for her aunt. He was himself occupiedwith study; but now the Squire had said it would be wise to drop hiswork.
With something of timidity he said to Leila, "I am free for thisafternoon; come and see again our old playgrounds. It will be a longwhile before we can take another walk."
"Certainly, John. And isn't it a nice, good-natured day? The summer isover. Sometimes I wish we had no divisions of months, and the life of theyear was one quiet flow of days--oh, with no names to remind you."
"But think, Leila, of losing all the poetry of the months. Why not haveno day or night? Oh, come along. What do you want with a sunshade and aveil--we will be mostly in the woods."
"My complexion, Mr. Penhallow," cried Miss Grey gaily.
He watched her young figure as she went upstairs--the mass of darkenedgold hair coiled in the classic fashion of the day on the back of herhead. She looked around from the stair. "I shall be ready in a minute,John. It rained yesterday--wil
l it be wet in the woods?"
"No," cried John, "and what does it matter?" He had a dull feeling ofresentment, of loss, of consciousness of new barriers and of distancefrom the old comrade.
Their way led across the garden, which was showing signs of feeling thechilly nights of the close of summer in this upland, where the seasonssometimes change abruptly.
"The garden has missed Aunt Ann," said Leila. "Uncle Jim looks at it fromthe porch, says 'How pretty!' and expects to see roses on his table everyday. I do believe he considers a garden as merely a kind of flower-farm."
"Aunt Ann's garden interests her the way Westways does. There are sickflowers and weeds like human weeds, and bugs and diseases that need aflower-doctor, and flowers that are morbid or ill-humoured. That is notmy wisdom, Leila, it is Mr. Rivers's."
"No, John, it isn't at all like you."
"Aunt Ann didn't like it, and yet I think he meant it to be a compliment,for he really considers Aunt Ann a model of what a woman ought to be."
"I know that pretty well," said Leila. "When I used to lose my temperover that horrid algebra, I was told to consider how Aunt Ann kept hertemper no matter what happened, as if that had anything to do withalgebra and equations. If he had seen her when she talked to George Greyabout Josiah, he would have known Aunt Ann better. I was proud of her."
"Aunt Ann angry!" said John. "I should have liked to have seen that. PoorJosiah!"
They talked of the unlucky runaway, and were presently among the familiarpine and spruce, far beyond the garden bounds. "Do put up that veil,"said John, "and you have not the least excuse for your parasol."
"Oh, if you like, John. Tell me about West Point. It was such asurprise."
"I will when I am there, if I am able to pass the examinations."
"You will--you will. Uncle Jim told me you would pass easily."
"Indeed! He never told me that. I have my doubts."
"And I have none," she returned, smiling. "Mr. Rivers dislikes it.He wrote to me about it just before he left. Do you know, he didreally think that you ought to be a clergyman. He said you were soserious-minded for--for a boy."
John laughed, "nice clergyman I'd have made." Did Leila too consider hima boy? "Oh! here we are at the old cabin. I never forget the first day wecame here--and the graves. The older I grow, Leila, the more clearly Ican see the fight and the rifle-flashes, and the rescue--and the night--Ican feel their terror."
"Oh, we were mere children, John; and I do suppose that it is a prettywell decorated tradition." He looked at her with surprise, as she added,"I used to believe it all, now it seems strange to me, John--like a dreamof childhood. I think you really are a good deal of a boy yet."
"No, I am not a boy. I sometimes fancy I never was a boy--I came here achild." And then, "I think you like to tease me, Leila," and this wastrue, although she was not pleased to be told so. "You think, Leila, thatit teases me to be called a boy by your ladyship. I think it is becauseyou remember what a boy once said to you here--right here."
"What do you mean?" She knew very well what he meant, but quicklyrepenting of her feminine fib, said, "Oh, I do know, but I wanted toforget--I wanted to pretend to forget, because you know what friends wehave been, and it was really so foolish."
He had been lying at her feet; now he rose slowly. "You are not like myLeila to-day."
"Oh, John!"
"No--and it is hard, because I am going away--and--it will not bepleasant to think how you are changed."
"I wish you wouldn't say such things to me, John."
"I had to--because--I love you. If I was a boy when I was, as you say,silly, I was in earnest. It was nonsense to ask you, to say you wouldmarry me some day. It wasn't so very long ago after all; but I agree withyou, it _was_ foolish. Now I mean to make no such proposal."
"Please, John." She looked up at him as he stood over her so grave, soearnest--and so like Uncle Jim. For the time she got the fleetingimpression of this being a man.
He hardly heard her appeal. "I want to say now that I love you." For amoment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "I love you and Ialways shall. Some day I shall ask you that foolish question again, andagain."
She too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being awoman. Now his expression of passion embarrassed her--because she had noanswer ready; nor was it all entirely disagreeable.
He stood still a moment, and added, "That is all--I ask nothing now."
Then she stood up, having to say something and unwilling to hurthim--wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlikereply. "Oh, John, I do wish you would never say such things to me. I amtoo young to listen to such nonsense."
"And I am young too," he laughed. "Well--well--let us go home and confesslike children."
"Now I know you are a fool, John Penhallow, and very disagreeable."
"When we were ever so young, Leila, and we quarrelled, we used to agreenot to speak to one another for a day. Are you cross enough for thatnow?"
"No, I am not; but I want to feel sure that you will not say such thingsto me again."
"I make no promise, Leila; I should break it. If I gave you a boy's love,forget it, laugh at it; but if I give you a man's love, take care."
This odd drama--girl and woman, boy and maturing man--held the stage; nowone, now the other.
"Take care, indeed!" she said, repeating his words and turning on himwith sudden ungraciousness, "I think we have had enough of thisnonsense."
She was in fact the more disturbed of the two, and knowing it let angerloose to chase away she knew not what, which was troubling her withemotion she could neither entirely control nor explain later as theresult of what seemed to her mere foolishness. If he was himselfdisturbed by his storm of primitive passion, he did not show it as shedid.
"Yes," he said in reply, "we have had for the present enough ofthis--enough talk, I mean--"
"We!" she exclaimed.
"Leila! do you want me to apologize?"
"No."
"Then--let us get those roses for Aunt Ann--what are left of them."
She was glad to escape further discussion--not sure of her capacity tokeep in order this cousin who was now so young and now so alarmingly old.His abrupt use of self-control she recognised--liked and then disliked,for a little wrath in his reply would have made her feel more at ease.With well-reassumed good-humour, she said, "Now you are my nice oldplaymate, but never, never bother me that way again."
"Yes, ma'am," said John, laughing. "I can hear Aunt Ann say, 'Run, dears,and get me flowers--and--there will be cakes for you.'"
"No, bread and apple-butter, John." They went along merry, making believeto be at ease.
"The robins are gone," said Leila. "I haven't seen one today; and thewarblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon. I haven't seen asquirrel lately. Josiah used to say that meant an early winter."
"Oh, but the asters! What colour! And the golden-rod! Look at it close,Leila. Each little flower is a star of gold."
"How pretty!" She bent down over the flowers to pay the homage of honestpleasure. "How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wildbeauties of the woods; I never could." She was "making up" as childrensay.
"Oh, you were the schoolmaster once," he laughed. "Come, we have enough;now for the garden."
They passed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, wherea night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster thelatest buds. Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a budhere and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gatheringthe more matronly roses which had bloomed in time. John watched her bendover them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds standstill and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden.
He came to her side, "Well, Leila, I'll swap thoughts with you."
She looked up, "Your's first then."
"I was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose--likesome other more human th
ings."
"Is that a charade, John? You will be writing poems about the lament ofthe belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine andwere alas! too late."
He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise. "Thanks, cousin; it isyou who should be the laureate of the garden. Shelley would envy you."
"Indeed! I am flattered, sir, but I have not read any of Shelley as yet.You have, I suppose? He is supposed to be very wicked. Get me some moregolden-rod, John." He went back to the edge of the wood and came againladen, rejoining her at the porch.
For two days her aunt kept her busy. Early in the week she went away tobe met in Philadelphia by her Uncle Charles, and to be returned to herMaryland school.
A day or two later John too left to undergo the dreaded examination atWest Point. The two older people were left alone at Grey Pine with therector, who had returned from his annual holiday later than usual. Alwaysdepressed at these seasons, he was now indisposed for the society of eventhe two people who were his most valued friends. He dined with them theday John went away and took up the many duties of his clerical life,until as was his custom, a week later he came in smiling for the Saturdaydinner, saying, "Well, here comes the old house-dog for his bone."
They made him welcome as gaily. "Has the town wickedness accumulated inyour absence, Mark?" said Penhallow.
"Mine has," said Ann Penhallow, "but I never confess except to myself."
"Ann Penhallow might be a severe confessor," said Rivers as they satdown. "How you must miss John and Leila. I shall most sadly."
"Oh, for my part," said Ann, "I have made up my mind not to lament theinevitable, but my husband is like a lost dog and--oh!--heart-hungryfor Leila, and worried about that boy's examination--his passing."
"Have I said a word?" said the Squire indignantly. "Pass! Of course, hewill pass."
"No one doubts that, James; but you are afraid he will not be near thetop."
"You are a witch, Ann. How did you know that?"
"How?" and she laughed. "How long have we been married!"
"Nonsense, Ann! What has that got to do with the matter?"
"Well," said Rivers, a little amused, "we shall know in a day or two. Hewill pass high."
"Of course," said Penhallow.
Then the talk drifted away to the mills, the village and the farm work.When after dinner Rivers declined to smoke with the Squire, Ann walkedwith the clergyman down the avenue and said presently, "Dine with us onMonday, Mark, and as often as possible. My husband is really worryingabout John."
"And you, dear lady?"
"I--oh, of course, I miss them greatly; but Leila needs the contact withthe social life she now has in the weekly holiday at Baltimore; and asfor John, did it never occur to you that he ought to be among men of hisage--and social position--and women too, who will not, I fancy, count formuch in the 'West Point education.'
"Yes--yes, what you say is true of course, but ah! I dread for him thetemptations of another life than this."
"Would you keep him here longer, if you could?" she asked.
"No. What would life be worth or how could character be developed withouttemptation? That is one of my puzzles about the world to come, a worldwhere there would be no 'yes and no' would hardly be worth while."
"And quite beyond me," cried Ann, laughing. "We have done our best forthem. Let us pray that they will not forget. I have no fear for Leila. Ido not know about John. I must go home. Come often. Good-night. I supposethe sermon takes you away so early."
"Yes--more or less, and I am poor company just now. Good-night."
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