"I forgot one thing. As the Southern gentlemen come to be shaved and ask where he was born, they hear—think of it—that 'Mr. Johnson' was born in Connecticut! His grandfather had been a slave. I shall see him again.
"This is the longest letter I ever wrote, and you are to feel duly complimented, Mr. Penhallow.
"Good-bye. Love from Aunt Ann.
"Yours truly,
"LEILA GREY.
"P.S. I am sure that I may trust you not to speak of Josiah."
Mr. John Penhallow, as they said at Westways, "going on seventeen," gathered much of interest in reading and re-reading this letter from Miss Grey. To own a secret with Leila was pleasant. To hear of Josiah as "Mr. Johnson" amused him. That he was prosperous he liked, and that he was fearful with or without reason seemed strange. It was and had been hard for the young freeman to realize the ever-present state of mind of a man in terror of arrest without any crime on his conscience. There was perhaps a slight hint of doubt in Leila's request that he would be careful not to mention what she had said of Josiah, "as if I am really a boy and Leila older than I," murmured John. He knew, as he once more read her words, that he ought to tell his uncle, who could best decide what to do about Josiah and his terror of being reclaimed by his old owner.
During the early hours of a summer night Mark Rivers sat on the porch in a rocking-chair, which he declared gave him all the exercise he required. It was the only rocking-chair at Grey Pine, and nothing so disturbed the Squire as Mark Rivers rocking on that unpleasant piece of furniture and smoking as if it were a locomotive. It was an indulgence of Ann Penhallow, who knew that there had been a half-dozen rockers in the burned rectory.
John sat on the steps and listened to the shrill katydids or watched the devious lanterns of the fireflies. A bat darted over the head of Rivers, who ducked as it went by, watching its uncertain flight.
"I am terribly afraid of bats," said the rector. "Are you?"
"I—no. They're harmless."
"Yes, I know that, but I am without reason afraid of them. I think of the demons as being like monstrous bats. But that is a silly use of imagination."
"Uncle Jim doesn't like them, and you once told me that he had very little imagination."
"Yes. One can't explain these dislikes. Your uncle reasons well and has a clear logical mind, but he has neither creative nor receptive imagination."
"Receptive?" asked John.
"Yes, that is why he has none of your aunt's joy in poetry. When I read to her Wordsworth's 'Brougham Castle,' he said that he had never heard more silly nonsense."
"I remember it was that wonderful verse about the 'longing of the shield.'"
"Yes—I forgot you were there. Verse like that is a good test of a person's capacity to feel poetry—that kind, I mean."
"I hear Uncle Jim's horse."
"Yes. I can't see, John, why a man should want to have a horse sent to meet him instead of a comfortable wagon,"—and for emphasis, as usual with Rivers, the rocking-chair was swinging to the limits of its arc of safe motion.
The Squire dismounted and came up the steps with "Good-evening, Rivers,"—and to John, "I have good news for you—but order my supper at once, then we will talk." He was in his boyish mood of gaiety. "How far have you travelled on that rocker, Rivers?"
"Now, Squire—now, really—" It was a favourite subject of chaff.
"Why not have rocking-chairs in church, Mark? Think what a patient congregation you would have! Come, John, I am hungry." He fled laughing.
While the Squire ate in silence, John waited until his uncle said, "Come into the library." Here he filled his pipe and took the match John offered. "There are many curious varieties of man, John. There is the man who prefers a rocking-chair to the saddle. It's queer—very queer; and he is as much afraid of a horse as I am—of—I don't know what."
The Squire's memory failed to answer the call. "What are you grinning at, you young scamp?"
"Oh, Mr. Rivers did say, Uncle Jim, something about bats."
"Yes, that's it—bats—and I do suppose every one has his especial fear. Ah! quite inexplicable nonsense!—fears like mine about bats, or your aunt's about dogs, but also fears that make a man afraid that he will not face a danger that is a duty. When we had smallpox at the mills, soon after Rivers came here, he went to the mill-town and lived there a month, and nursed the sick and buried the dead. At last he took the disease lightly, but it left a mark or two on his forehead. That I call—well, heroic. Confound that rocking-chair! How it squeaks!"
John was too intently listening to hear anything but the speaker who declared heroic the long lean man with the pale face and the eyes like search-lights. John waited; he wanted to hear something more.
"Did many die, uncle?"
"Oh, yes. The men had fought McGregor about vaccination. Many died. There was blindness too. Supplies failed—no one would come in from the farms."
John waited with the fear of defect in his ideal man. Then he ventured,
"And Aunt Ann, was she here?"
"No, I sent her away when I went to Milltown."
"Oh! you were there too, sir?"
"Yes, damn it!" He rarely swore at all. "Where did you suppose I would be? But I lived in terror for a month—oh, in deadly fear!"
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank me, what for? Some forms of sudden danger make me gay, with all my faculties at their best, but not that. I had to nurse Rivers; that was the worst of it. You see, my son, I was a coward."
"I should like to be your kind of a coward, Uncle Jim."
"Well, it was awful. Let us talk of something else. I left your aunt better, went to Washington, saw our Congressman, got your nomination to West Point and a letter from Leila. Your aunt must be fast mending, for she was making a long list of furniture for the new parsonage, and 'would I see Ellen Lamb and'—eleven other things, the Lord knows what else, and 'when could she return?' McGregor said in September, and I so wrote to her; she will hate it. And she dislikes your going to West Point. I had to tell her, of course."
"I have had a letter from Leila, uncle. Did she write you anything about
Josiah?"
"About Josiah! No. What was that?"
"She said I was not to tell, but I think you ought to know—"
"Of course, I should know. Go on. Let me see the letter."
"It is upstairs, sir, but this is what she wrote," and he went on to tell the story.
The Squire laughed. "I must let Mr. Johnson know, as Leila did not know, that it was Ann who really sent you to warn him. Poor fellow! I can understand his alarm, and how can I reassure him? George Grey is going to Cape May, or so says your aunt, and I am sure if Josiah knows that he is recognized, he will drop everything and run. I would run, John, and quickly too. Grey will be sure to write to Woodburn again."
"What then, sir?"
"Oh, he told your Aunt Ann and me that he would not go any further unless he chanced to know certainly where Josiah was. If he did, it would be his duty, as he said, to reclaim him. It is not a pleasant business, and I ought to warn Josiah, which you may not know is against the law. However, I will think it over. Ann did not say when Grey was coming, and he is just as apt not to go as to go. Confound him and all their ways."
John had nothing to say. The matter was in older and wiser hands than his. His uncle rose, "I must go to bed, but I have a word to say now about your examinations for admission. I must talk to Rivers. Good-night!"
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 them in 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 small village news. "They have quit discussing politics, Uncle Jim."
"Yes, every four years we settle down to the enjoyment of the belief that now 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 that the other fellows are responsible."
"Uncle Jim, at Westways people talked about the election as if it were a horse-race, and didn't interest anybody when it was over."
"Yes, yes; but there are for the average American many things to think about, 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 up and think, or do something.'"
"When I talked to Mr. Rivers lately, he seemed very blue about the country. 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 tangled in 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 letter when alone, but now there was nothing possible except to do as he was bid.
"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 to me, 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 I ask you to send this to Uncle Jim if he is absent, or let him see it if he is at home. He is moving about and we do not know how to address him."—
"That's a big preface—go on."
"I did not see Josiah again until yesterday morning. Aunt Ann has been insisting that my hair needs singeing at the ends to make it grow. [It is too 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, I mean resolute, way, it is best to give up and make believe a little that you 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 room the maid brought up Josiah. It was as good as a play. He was very civil and quiet. You know how he loved to talk. He singed my hair, and it was horrid—like the smell of singeing a plucked chicken. After that he sent the maid to his shop for some hair-wash. As soon as she was gone, he said, 'I'm done for, Miss Leila. I met Mr. George Grey on the beach this morning. He knew me and I knew him. He said, "What! you here, you rascally 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't stay 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 easily get hold of his slave, he would feel it to be a duty to make use of the Fugitive-Slave Law. I do not think he will be very eager, but after all it is uncertain, and if I were Josiah, I would run away."
As he talked, the horses walked on through the forest wood-roads. For a moment he said nothing, and then, "It is hard to put yourself in another man's place; that means to be for the time of decision that man with his inheritances, all his memories, all his hopes and all his fears."
This was felt by the lad to be somehow unlike his uncle, who added, "I heard 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. He gathered 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 was so sorry for him, I must have cried, for aunt's maid asked me what was the matter. This is all. It is late. I shall mail this to-morrow. Aunt Ann has been expecting Mr. George Grey, my far-away cousin. I wish he was further 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 so pleased to see his dear cousin. Aunt Ann went on knitting and saying something pleasant now and then. At last he asked if she knew that runaway horse-thief we called Josiah was the barber here. He said that he must really write to that rascal's owner, and went over and over the same thing. Aunt Ann looked at me when he mentioned the barber. Then she sat up and said, 'If you have done talking, I desire to say a word.' Of course, he was at her service. You know, John, how he talks. Aunt Ann said, '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. I won't have him disturbed here. Mr. Woodburn behaved with discretion and courtesy. If you make any more trouble, I shall never forgive you. I won't have it, George Grey.' I never saw any one so embarrassed, John. He put his hat on the floor and picked it up, and then he sat down in his chair and, I call it, wilted. He said that he had not quite made up his mind. 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 said that she had insulted him. Aunt Ann was red and angry. She said, 'Tell James Penhallow that, Mr. Grey.' After this he went away, and Aunt Ann said 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 about Mr. Johnson and got a good scolding for not having told her before, and that Josiah had gone away scared. She was tired and angry and sent me away. 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 it
would have been useless because it is sealed, and you know the rule at
Grey 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 red wafer.
"It is well written, uncle."
"Yes—yes. Rivers taught him—and he speaks nearly as good English as
George 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 a letter from the great Dr. Rush in which the mother of Washington is mentioned as 'that respectable lady.' But now, sir, you will be good enough to let me hear that letter without your valuable comments."
The tone was impatient. John said, "Excuse me, uncle, but I couldn't help it."
"Oh, read it."
"I am driven away again. I write this to thank you for all you done for me at Westways. Mr. Grey he met me here on the beach and I'm afraid—I don't take no chances. I saved money here. I can get on anywhere. It's awful to have to ran away, and that drunkard Peter Lamb all the while safe with his mother. I can't get him out of my mind. I'm a Christian man—and I tried to forgive him. I can't do it. If I am quiet and let alone, I forget. I've got to get up and go and hide, and I curse him that done 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 lady here 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 the cabin. He threw one leg over the pommel and sat still with the ease of a horseman in any of the postures the saddle affords. "Read me both of those letters again, and slowly."
This time John made no remarks. When he came to the end of Josiah's letter, he looked towards the silent figure seated sideways. The Squire made no comment, but searched his pockets for the flint and steel he always 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 best when walking. John sat in his saddle watching the tall soldierly figure move up the road and back again to the cabin his ancestors had held through one long night of fear. John caught sight of the face as Penhallow came and then turned away on his slow walk, smoking furiously. He sat still, having learned to be respectful of the long silences to which at times Penhallow was given. Now and then with a word he quieted the uneasy mare—a favourite taught to follow the master. At last Penhallow struck his pipe on a stone to empty it, and by habit carefully set a foot on the live coal. Then he came to the off side of his mare and took the rein. Facing John, he set an elbow on the horse's back and a hand 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 of feature, had lost its look of constant good-humour. In fact, the feature language expressed the minute's mood in a way which any one less familiar with the man than John might have read with ease. Then he said, in an absent way, "Are we men of the North all cowards like Josiah? They think so—they do really think so. It is helping to make trouble." Then he lifted himself lightly into the saddle, with swift change of mood and an odd laugh of comment on his conclusion, as he broke into a gallop. "Let us get into the sun."
John followed him as they rode swiftly over a cross-road and out on to the highway. Again the horses were walking, and Penhallow said, "I suppose you may not have understood me. I was suddenly angry. It is a relief sometimes to let off steam. Well, I fancy time will answer me—or that is what I try not to believe—but it may—it may. Let us talk of something else. I must find out from Rivers just how well you are prepared for the Point. Then I mean to give you every night an hour or so of what he cannot teach. You ride well, you know French and German, you box—it may be of service, keep it up once a week at least. I envy you the young disciplined life—the simpleness of it—the want of responsibilities."
"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 with
Aunt Ann at the Cape?"
"No, I shall want you here."
John was silent and disappointed. The Squire saw it. "It can't be helped—I do not feel able to be alone. Leila will be away a year more and you will be gone for several years. For your sake and mine I want you this summer. Take care! You lost a stirrup when Dixy shied. Oh! here are the mills. Good morning, McGregor. All well?"
"Yes, sir. Tom has gone to the city. He is to be in the office of a friend 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 young birds are leaving the nests! Even that slow lad of Grace's is going. He is to learn farming with old Roberts. He has a broad back and the advantage 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, "there must be some one to feed the people; Tom is to be trained to cure, and you 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 was silent. 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,—"a childlike man, intelligent, and with some underlying temper of the old African barbarian." The summer days ran on with plenty of work for John and without incidents of moment, until the rector went away as was his habit the first of August, more moody than usual. If the rectory were finished, he would go there in September, and Mrs. Ann had written to him about the needed furniture.
On August 20th that lady wrote from Cape May that she must go home, and Leila that her aunt was well but homesick. The Squire, who missed her greatly, unreluctantly yielded, and on August 25th she was met at the station by Penhallow and John. To the surprise of both, she had brought Leila, as her school was not to begin until September 10th.
"My dear James," cried Mrs. Ann, "it is worth while to have been away to learn how good it is to get home again. I thought I would surprise you with Leila." As the Squire kissed her, Leila and the maid came from the car to the platform loaded with bundles.
John stood still. Nature had been busy with her artist-work. A year had gone by—the year of maturing growth of mind and body for a girl nearing sixteen. Unprepared for her change, John felt at once that this was a woman, who quickly smiling gave him a cordial greeting and her hand. "Why, John Penhallow," she said, "what a big boy you are grown!" It was as if an older person had spoken to a younger. A head taller than the little Mrs. Ann, she was in the bloom of maiden loveliness, rosy, joyous, a certain new stateliness in her movements. The gift of grace had been added by the fairy godmother nature.
John said, with gravity, "You are most welcome home, Leila," and then quickly aware of some coldness in his words, "Oh, I am so very glad to see you!" She had gone by him in the swift changes of life. Without so putting it distinctly into the words of a mental soliloquy, John was conscious 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 your bundles."
John Penhallow on an August afternoon was of Billy's opinion that Leila had "rowed a lot" as she came out upon the porch and gaily laughing cried, "At last,—Aunt Ann has done with me."
They were both suffering from one of those dislocations of relation which even 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 Leila with return of childlike joy roamed with him over the house and through the stables, and next day through Westways, with a pleasant word for every one and on busying errands for her aunt. He was himself occupied with study; but now the Squire had said it would be wise to drop his work.
With something of timidity he said to Leila, "I am free for this afternoon; come and see again our old playgrounds. It will be a long while before we can take another walk."
"Certainly, John. And isn't it a nice, good-natured day? The summer is over. Sometimes I wish we had no divisions of months, and the life of the year 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 have no day or night? Oh, come along. What do you want with a sunshade and a veil—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 darkened gold hair coiled in the classic fashion of the day on the back of her head. She looked around from the stair. "I shall be ready in a minute, John. It rained yesterday—will it be wet in the woods?"
"No," cried John, "and what does it matter?" He had a dull feeling of resentment, of loss, of consciousness of new barriers and of distance from the old comrade.
Their way led across the garden, which was showing signs of feeling the chilly nights of the close of summer in this upland, where the seasons sometimes change abruptly.
"The garden has missed Aunt Ann," said Leila. "Uncle Jim looks at it from the porch, says 'How pretty!' and expects to see roses on his table every day. 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 sick flowers and weeds like human weeds, and bugs and diseases that need a flower-doctor, and flowers that are morbid or ill-humoured. That is not my 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 temper over that horrid algebra, I was told to consider how Aunt Ann kept her temper no matter what happened, as if that had anything to do with algebra and equations. If he had seen her when she talked to George Grey about 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. Poor
Josiah!"
They talked of the unlucky runaway, and were presently among the familiar pine 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 a surprise."
"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 did really think that you ought to be a clergyman. He said you were so serious-minded for—for a boy."
John laughed, "nice clergyman I'd have made." Did Leila too consider him a boy? "Oh! here we are at the old cabin. I never forget the first day we came here—and the graves. The older I grow, Leila, the more clearly I can see the fight and the rifle-flashes, and the rescue—and the night—I can feel their terror."
"Oh, we were mere children, John; and I do suppose that it is a pretty well 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 dream of 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 a child." And then, "I think you like to tease me, Leila," and this was true, although she was not pleased to be told so. "You think, Leila, that it teases me to be called a boy by your ladyship. I think it is because you remember what a boy once said to you here—right here."
"What do you mean?" She knew very well what he meant, but quickly repenting of her feminine fib, said, "Oh, I do know, but I wanted to forget—I wanted to pretend to forget, because you know what friends we have been, and it was really so foolish."
He had been lying at her feet; now he rose slowly. "You are not like my
Leila to-day."
"Oh, John!"
"No—and it is hard, because I am going away—and—it will not be pleasant 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 would marry me some day. It wasn't so very long ago after all; but I agree with you, 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, so earnest—and so like Uncle Jim. For the time she got the fleeting impression of this being a man.
He hardly heard her appeal. "I want to say now that I love you." For a moment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "I love you and I always shall. Some day I shall ask you that foolish question again, and again."
She too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being a woman. Now his expression of passion embarrassed her—because she had no answer 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 hurt him—wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlike reply. "Oh, John, I do wish you would never say such things to me. I am too young to listen to such nonsense."
"And I am young too," he laughed. "Well—well—let us go home and confess like 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 agree not to speak to one another for a day. Are you cross enough for that now?"
"No, I am not; but I want to feel sure that you will not say such things to 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; now one, now the other.
"Take care, indeed!" she said, repeating his words and turning on him with sudden ungraciousness, "I think we have had enough of this nonsense."
She was in fact the more disturbed of the two, and knowing it let anger loose to chase away she knew not what, which was troubling her with emotion she could neither entirely control nor explain later as the result of what seemed to her mere foolishness. If he was himself disturbed by his storm of primitive passion, he did not show it as she did.
"Yes," he said in reply, "we have had for the present enough of this—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 to keep 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 old playmate, 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 believe to be at ease.
"The robins are gone," said Leila. "I haven't seen one today; and the warblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon. I haven't seen a squirrel 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 honest pleasure. "How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; I never could." She was "making up" as children say.
"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, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds. Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time. John watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still 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—like some other more human things."
"Is that a charade, John? You will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late."
He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise. "Thanks, cousin; it is you 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 more golden-rod, John." He went back to the edge of the wood and came again laden, rejoining her at the porch.
For two days her aunt kept her busy. Early in the week she went away to be met in Philadelphia by her Uncle Charles, and to be returned to her Maryland school.
A day or two later John too left to undergo the dreaded examination at West Point. The two older people were left alone at Grey Pine with the rector, who had returned from his annual holiday later than usual. Always depressed at these seasons, he was now indisposed for the society of even the two people who were his most valued friends. He dined with them the day 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 Saturday dinner, saying, "Well, here comes the old house-dog for his bone."
They made him welcome as gaily. "Has the town wickedness accumulated in your 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 sat down. "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 the inevitable, but my husband is like a lost dog and—oh!—heart-hungry for Leila, and worried about that boy's examination—his passing."
"Have I said a word?" said the Squire indignantly. "Pass! Of course, he will pass."
"No one doubts that, James; but you are afraid he will not be near the top."
"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. He will 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 walked with the clergyman down the avenue and said presently, "Dine with us on Monday, Mark, and as often as possible. My husband is really worrying about John."
"And you, dear lady?"
"I—oh, of course, I miss them greatly; but Leila needs the contact with the social life she now has in the weekly holiday at Baltimore; and as for John, did it never occur to you that he ought to be among men of his age—and social position—and women too, who will not, I fancy, count for much in the 'West Point education.'
"Yes—yes, what you say is true of course, but ah! I dread for him the temptations 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 without temptation? That is one of my puzzles about the world to come, a world where there would be no 'yes and no' would hardly be worth while."
"And quite beyond me," cried Ann, laughing. "We have done our best for them. Let us pray that they will not forget. I have no fear for Leila. I do not know about John. I must go home. Come often. Good-night. I suppose the sermon takes you away so early."
"Yes—more or less, and I am poor company just now. Good-night."
CHAPTER XV
When at breakfast on a Monday morning Penhallow said, "That mail is late again," his wife knew that he was still eager for news from John.
"The mail is always late on Monday morning, James. If you are in haste to get to the mills, I will send it after you."
"No, it is unimportant, Ann. Another cup, please. Ah! there it is now."
He went out on to the porch. "You are late, Billy."
"I ain't late—it was Mrs. Crocker—she kept me."
Penhallow selected two letters postmarked West Point, and opening one as he went in to the breakfast-room, said, "My dear, it is rather satisfactory—quite as much as could be expected."
"Well, James! What is rather satisfactory? You are really exasperating at times."
"Am I? Well, John has passed in the first half dozen—he does not yet know just where—"
"And are you not entirely contented? You ought to be. What is the other letter?"
He opened it. "It is only a line from the old drawing-master to say that John did well and would have been second or third, they said, except for not being higher in mathematics." As he spoke he rose and put both letters in his pocket. "Now I must go."
"But let me see them, James."
"Oh, John's is only a half dozen lines, and I must go at once—I have an appointment at the mills—I want to look over the letters again, and shall write to him from the office." Ann was slightly annoyed, but said no more until on the porch before he mounted she took a mild revenge. "I know where you are going."
"Well, and where, please?" He fell into her trap.
"First, you will stop at the rectory and read those letters to Mark Rivers; then the belated mail will excuse a pause at the post-office to scold Mrs. Crocker. Tell Pole as you go by that last mutton was atrociously tough. Of course, you won't mention John."
"Well, are you done?" he said, as he mounted Dixy. "I can wait, Ann, until you read the letters."
"Thanks, I am in no hurry." He turned in the saddle and gave her the letters. She put aside her brief feeling of annoyance and stood beside him as she read them. "Thank you, James. What an uneasy old uncle you are. Now go. Oh, be off with you—and don't forget Dr. McGregor." As he rode away, she called after him, "James—James—I forgot something."
He turned, checking Dixy. "Oh, I forgot to say that you must not forget the office clerks, because you know they are all so fond of John."
"What a wretch you are, Ann Penhallow! Go in and repent."
"I don't," and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tall figure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do if pleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested:
Come out to the stable
As soon as you 're able,
And see that the horses
That they get some corn.
For if you don't do it,
The colonel will know it,
And then you will rue it
As sure as you're born.
"Ah!" said his wife, "how he goes back—always goes back—to the wild army life when something pleases him. Thank God that can never come again." She recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrison routine, the weeks of her husband's absences, and when the troop came back and there were empty saddles and weeping women.
At dinner the Squire must needs drink the young cadet's health and express to Rivers his regret that there was not a West Point for Leila. Mrs. Ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already. Rivers agreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilege of long silences by questioning the Squire in regard to the studies and life at West Point, while Mrs. Ann more socially observant than her husband saw how moody was Rivers and with what effort he manufactured an appearance of interest in the captain's enthusiasm concerning educative methods at the great army school. She was relieved when he carried off Rivers to the library.
"It is chilly, Mark; would you like a fire?" he asked.
"Yes, I am never too warm."
The Squire set the logs ablaze. "No pipe, Mark?"
"Not yet." He stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blaze and was silent. The Squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb the deep reverie in which the young clergyman remained. At last the great grey eyes turned from the fire, and Rivers sat up in his chair, as he said, "You must have seen how inconsiderately I have allowed my depression to dismiss the courtesies of life. I owe you and my dear Mrs. Penhallow both an apology and an explanation."—
"But really, Mark—"
"Oh, let me go on. I have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often my courage has failed. I have had a most unhappy life, Penhallow. All the pleasant things in it—the past few years—have been given me here. I married young—"
"One moment, Mark. Before you came to us the Bishop wrote me in confidence of your life. Not even Mrs. Penhallow has seen that letter."
"Then you knew—but not all. Now I have had a sad relief. He told you of—well, of my life, of my mother's hopeless insanity—and the rest."
"Yes—yes—all, I believe—all."
"Not quite all. I have spent a part at least of every August with her; now at last she is dead. But my family story has left with me the fear of dying like my brothers or of becoming as she became. When I came to you I was a lonely soul, sick in mind and weak in body. I am better—far better—and now with some renewal of hope and courage I shall face my world again. You have had—you will have charity for my days of melancholy. I never believed that a priest should marry—and yet I did. I suffered, and never again can I dream of love. I am doubly armed by memory and by the horror of continuing a race doomed to disaster. There you have it all to my relief. There is some mysterious consolation in unloading one's mind. How good you have been to me! and I have been so useless—so little of what I might have been."
Penhallow rose, set a hand on Rivers's shoulder, seeing the sweat on his forehead and the appeal of the sad eyes turned up to meet his gaze. "What," he said, "would our children have been without you? God knows I have been a better man for your company, and the mills—the village—how can you fail to see what you have done—"
"No—no—I am a failure. It may be that the moods of self-reproach are morbid. That too torments me. Even to-day I was thinking of how Christ would have dealt with that miserable man, Peter Lamb, and how uncharitable I was, how crude, how void of sympathy—"
"You—you—" said Penhallow, as he moved away. "My own regret is that I did not turn him over to the law. Well, points of view do differ curiously. We will let him drop. He will come to grief some day. And now take my thanks and my dear Ann's for what you have told me. Let us drop that too. Take a pipe."
"No, I must go. I am the easier in my mind, but I am tired and not at all in the pipe mood." He went out through the hall, and with a hasty "good-night" to his hostess and "pleasant dreams—or none," went slowly down the avenue.
The woman he left, with her knitting needles at rest a moment, was considering the man and his moods with such intuitive sympathy and comprehension as belongs to the sex which is physiologically the more subject to abrupt changes in the climate of the mind. As her husband entered, she began anew the small steadying industry for which man has no substitute.
"Upon my word, James, when you desire to exchange confidences, you must get further away from me."
"You don't mean me to believe you overheard our talk in the library, with the door closed and the curtain across it." Her acuteness of hearing often puzzled him, and he had always to ask for proof.
She nodded gay assurance, and said again, ceasing to knit, "I overheard too much—oh, not all—bits—enough to trouble me. I moved away so as not to hear. All I care to know is how to be of real service to a friend to whom we owe so much."
"I want you—in fact, Mark wants you—to hear in full what you know in part."
"Well, James, I have very little curiosity about the details of the misfortunes of my friends unless to know is to obtain means of helpfulness."
"You won't get any here, I fear, but as he has been often strange and depressed and, as he says, unresponsive to your kindness, he does want you now to see what cause there was."
"Very well, if he wants it. I see you have a letter."
"Yes, I kept it. It was marked strictly confidential—I hate that—" She smiled as he added, "It seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion on my part."
"Oh, James! Oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to tease where she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he never could know her. Then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting with an edge to it; nor was she. "At all events, you did not let me see that letter—now I am to see it."
"Yes, you are to see it. You might at any time have seen it."
"Yes, read it to me."
"When our good Bishop sent Mark Rivers here to us, he wrote me this letter—"
"Well, go on."
"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am the most reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will be thankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him—in fact, order him to go—requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years of age but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived a childlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of his brothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insane and killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fell into a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care of nurses in a farmer's family—a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed at his increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He was advised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and my friend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I need not say more. He is well worth saving—one of God's best—with too exacting a conscience—learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, a gentleman."
"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless, but I sent him a cheque, of course."
"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigorous health. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? I did not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."
"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August—he called it his holiday. My God, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be a relief."
"Perhaps."
"Oh, surely. This is all, Ann."
"I wish you had been less discreet long ago, James. I think that the Bishop knowing how sensitive, how very reticent Mark is, meant only that he should not learn what was confided to you."
"I never thought of that, Ann. You may be right."
She made no further comment, except to say, "But to know clears the air and leaves me free to talk to him at need." Penhallow felt that where he himself might be a useless confessor, his wife was surely to be trusted.
"If, Ann, the man could only be got on to the back of a horse—" She won the desirable relief of laughter, and the eyes that were full of the tears of pity for this disastrous life overflowed of a sudden with mirth at the Squire's one remedy for the troubles of this earthly existence.
"Oh, I am in earnest," he said. "Now I must write to John."
When after a week or more she did talk to Mark Rivers, he was the better for it and felt free to speak to her as a younger man may to an older woman and can rarely do to the closest of male friends, for, after all, most friendships have their personal limitations and the man who has not both men and women friends may at some time miss what the double intimacies alone can give.
* * * * *
The uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fall at Grey Pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of young laughter were no longer heard. Rivers saw too how distinctly the village folk missed these gay young people. Mrs. Crocker, of the shop where everything was to be bought, bewailed herself to Rivers, who was the receiver of all manner of woes. "Mrs. Penhallow is getting to be so particular no one knows where to find her. You would never think it, sir, but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get her sugar from Philadelphia. It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as it used to be—as if sugar wasn't always the same—"
"Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.
"And my tea!—Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had. Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me—charge it to me—and a pound to Mrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." He accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the little drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear.
Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea—worst she ever had. She—oh, Lord!—She wouldn't listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from town."
"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"
"No, sir. In came Pole grinning that very evening. He said she had made an awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. Pole said she was that bad—She didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad about the mutton."
"Well, what did Pole do?"
"You'd never guess. It was one of the Squire's own sheep. Pole he just sent her the other leg of the same sheep!"
Again the rector laughed. "Well, and what did Mrs. Penhallow do?"
"She told him that was all right. Pole he guessed I'd better send her a pound of the same tea."
"Did you?"
"I did—ain't heard yet. Now what would you advise? Never saw her this way before."
"Well," said Rivers, "tell her how the town misses Leila and John."
"They do. I do wonder if it's just missing those children upsets her so."
Whether his advice were taken or not, Rivers did not learn directly, but Mrs. Crocker said things were better when next they met, and the clergyman asked no questions.
Penhallow had his own distracting troubles. The financial condition which became serious in the spring and summer of 1857 was beginning to cause him alarm, and soon after the new year came in he felt obliged to talk over his affairs and to advise his wife to loan the mill company money not elsewhere to be had except at ruinous interest. She wished simply to give him the sum needed, but he said no, and made clear to her why he required help. She was pleased to be consulted, and showing, as usual, notable comprehension of the business situation, at once did as he desired.
Rivers not aware of what was so completely occupying Penhallow's mind, wondered later why he would not discuss the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case and did not share his own indignation. "But," he urged, "it declares the Missouri Compromise not warranted by the Constitution!"
"I can't talk about it, Mark," said Penhallow, "I am too worried by my own affairs."
Then Rivers asked no further questions; he hoped he would read the masterly dissenting opinion of Justices McLean and Curtis. Penhallow returned impatiently that he had no time, and that the slavery question were better left to the decision of "Chief Justice Time."
It was unlike the Squire, and Rivers perplexed and more or less ignorant concerning his friend's affairs left him, in wonder that what was so angrily disturbing the Northern States should quite fail to interest Penhallow.
Meanwhile there were pleasant letters from Leila. She thought it hard to be denied correspondence with John, and wrote of the satisfaction felt by her Uncle Henry and his friends in regard to the Dred Scott decision. She had been wise enough to take her Uncle Charles's advice and to hold her Republican tongue, as he with a minority in Baltimore was wisely doing.
The money crisis came with full force while the affairs of Kansas were troubling both North and South. In August there was widespread ruin. Banks failed, money was held hard, contracts were broken and to avoid a worse calamity the Penhallow mills discharged half of the men. Meanwhile under Governor Walker's just and firm rule, for a brief season 'Bleeding Kansas' was no longer heard of. To add to the confusion of parties, Douglas broke with the Administration and damaged the powerful Democratic machine when he came out with changed opinions and dauntless courage against the new Lecompton constitution.
In June Leila's school life came to a close, and to the delight of her relations she came home. When that afternoon Rivers came into the hall, a tall young woman rose of a sudden and swept him a curtsey, saying, "I am Leila Grey, sir. Please to be glad to see me."
"Good gracious, Leila! You are a woman!"
"And what else should I be?"
"Alas! what? My little friend and scholar—oh! the evil magic of time."
"Oh! Friend—friend!" she exclaimed, "then, now, and always." She gave him both hands.
"Yes, always," he said quickly. "And this," he said to himself, "is the child who used to give me the morning kiss. It is very wonderful!"
"I really think, Aunt Ann, that Mr. Rivers just for a moment did not know me."
"Indeed! That must have amused him."
"Oh, here is James." There was laughter at dinner and a little gay venture into the politics of Leila's school, which appeared to have been disagreeable to Miss Grey.
Rivers watched the animated face as she gave her account of how the school took a vote in the garden and were all Democrats. The Squire a little puzzled by his wife's evident disinclination to interfere with the dinner-table politics got a faint suspicion that here had come into Grey Pine a new and positive influence. He was more surprised that Mrs. Ann asked, "What did you say, Leila?"
"I? Now, Aunt Ann, what would you have done or said?"
"Oh, voted with the Democrats, of course."
"Oh, Mrs. Penhallow!" cried the Rector.
The Squire much amused asked, "Well, Leila, did you run away?"
"I—Oh, Uncle Jim! I said I was a democrat—I voted the Democratic ticket."
"Did you?" exclaimed Rivers.
"So James Penhallow and my brother Charles have lost a Republican vote," laughed Ann.
"But, Aunt Ann, I added that I was a Douglas Democrat."
The Squire exploded into peals of laughter. Ann said, "For shame!"
"They decided to lynch me, but no one of them could catch me before Miss
Mayo appeared on the playground and we all became demure as pussy cats.
She was cross."
"She was quite right," said her aunt. "I do not see why girls should be discussing politics."
Rivers became silently regardant, and Penhallow frowning sat still. The anticipated bolt had fallen—it fell in vain. Leila did not accept the decree, but defended herself gaily. "Aunt Ann," she said, "Douglas is right, or at least half right. And do tell me how old must a girl be before she has a right to think?"
"Think! Oh, if you like, think. But, my dear Leila, your uncle, Mr. Rivers and I, although we think and hold very diverse opinions, feel that on such matters discussion only leaves a sting, and so we tacitly leave it out of our talk. There, my dear, you have my opinion."
There was a moment of silence. Leila looked up. "Oh, my dear Aunt Ann, if you were on the side of old Nick, Mr. Rivers wouldn't care a penny less for you, and I never could see why to differ in talk about politics is going to hurt past anything love could accept. Aunt Helen and Uncle Charles both talk politics and they do love one another, although Aunt Helen is tremendously Democratic."
"My dear Leila!"
"Oh, Aunt Ann! I will not say a word more if you want me to hold my tongue."
"Wouldn't the other way be more wholesome on the whole?" said Rivers.
"I have long thought so," said the Squire. "There are ways and ways—"
"Perhaps," said Ann. "Shall you ride with your uncle tomorrow, Leila?"
"Oh, shall I! I long for it—I dream about it. May I ride Dixy, Uncle
Jim?"
"Yes, if you have a riding-habit you can wear. We will see to that. You have grown a good bit, but I fancy we can manage."
"And how is Pole, aunt; and the doctor and Crocker and his fat wife—oh, and everybody?"
"Oh, much, as usual. We had a skirmish about mutton, but the last Pole sent is good—in fact, excellent. He needs watching."
Then the talk fell on the lessened work at the mills, and there being now four players the Squire had his whist again, and later carried Rivers away to smoke in the library, leaving Ann and Leila.
As the library door closed, Leila dropped on a cushion at her aunt's feet, and with her head in Ann's lap expressed her contentment by a few moments of silence. Then sitting up, she said, "I am so happy I should like to purr. I was naughty at dinner, but it was just because I wanted to make Uncle Jim laugh. He looks—Don't you think he looks worried, aunt? Is it the mills and—the men out of work? Dear Aunt Ann, how can one keep on not talking about politics and things that are next to one's religion—and concerning our country—my country?"
Ann made no direct reply, but went back to what was nearer than any creed of politics. "Yes, dear. When one big thing worries James, then everything worries him. The state of the money market makes all business difficult, and he feels uncomfortable because the mill company is in want of work, and because their debts are overdue and not likely to be paid in full or at all."
"I wish I could do something to help Uncle Jim."
"You can ride with him and I cannot. You can talk to him without limitations; I cannot. He is reasonable about this grave question of slavery. He does not think it right; I do—oh, good for master and best for the black. When, soon after our marriage, we spoke of it, he was positive and told me to read what Washington had said about slavery. We were both young and said angry things which left a pang of remembrance. After that we were careful. But now this terrible question comes up in the village and in every paper. It will get worse, and I see no end to it."
Leila was silent, remembering too her aunt's share in Josiah's escape.
The advice implied in her aunt's frank talk she saw was to be accepted.
"I will remember, Aunt Ann." At least she was free to talk to her uncle.
"Has any one heard of Josiah?" asked Leila.
"No, I was sorry for him. He had so many good traits. I think he would have been more happy if he had remained with his master."
Leila had her doubts, but was self-advised to say no more than, "I often think of him. Now I shall go to bed."
"Yes, you must be tired."
"I am never tired, but to be free to sit up late or go to bed and read what I want to—and to ride! Good-night. I can write to John—now there's another bit of freedom. Oh, dear, how delightful it all is!" She went upstairs thinking how hard it would be to keep off of the forbidden ground, and after all was her aunt entirely wise? Well, there was Uncle Jim and John.
While this talk went on the rector alone with his host said, "You are evidently to have a fresh and very positive factor in your household life—"
"Hush," said the Squire. "Talk low—Ann Penhallow has incredible hearing."
"True—quite true—I forgot. How amazingly the child has changed. She will be a useful ferment, I fancy. How strange it is always—this abrupt leap of the girl into the heritage of womanhood. The boy matures slowly, by imperceptible gradations. Now Leila seems to me years older than John, and the change is really somewhat startling; but then I have seen very little of young women. There is the girl, the maid, the woman."
"Oh, but there is boy, lad, and man."
"Not comparable, Squire; continuously growing in one case, and in the other developmental surprises and, ever after, fall and rise of energy. The general trouble about understanding women is that men judge them by some one well-known woman. I heard a famous doctor say that no man need pretend to understand women unless he had been familiar with sick women."
The Squire recalling the case of Ann Penhallow was silent. The clergyman thinking too of his own bitter experience lapsed into contemplative cleaning of a much valued meerschaum pipe. The Squire not given to morbid or other psychological studies made brief reply. "I hope that Leila will remain half boy."
"Too late, Squire—too late. You've got a woman on your hands. There will be two heads to Grey Pine."
"And may I ask where do I come in?" He was at times almost dull-witted, and yet in danger swift to think and quick to act.
Rivers filling the well-cleaned pipe looked up. There was something of unwonted gaiety in the moving face-lines which frame the eyes and give to them the appearance of change of expression. "My dear friend, you were as dough that is kneaded in the hands of Leila, the girl; you will be no less so now in the hands of this splendid young woman."
"Oh, now—by George! Rivers, you must think me—"
"Think you! Oh, like other men. And as concerns Mrs. Ann, there will sometimes be a firm alliance with Leila before which you will wilt—or—no, I will not venture further."
"You had better not, or you may fail like other prophets."
"No, I was thinking as you spoke of the fact that Leila has seen a good deal of a very interesting society in Baltimore, and has had the chance, and I am sure the desire, to hear more of the wild Southern party-talk than most girls have."