CHAPTER XVIII
The figure of Lincoln had been set on the by-ways of State politics by his debate with Douglas. His address in New York in February of 1860 set him on the highways of the nation's life. Meanwhile there were no talks about politics at Grey Pine. The Christmas Season had again gone by with unwonted economies.
While Douglas defined his opinions in the Senate and Jefferson Davis made plain that the Union would be dissolved if a radical Republican were elected, it became clear that the Democratic party which in April was to nominate candidates would be other than of one mind. Penhallow in Washington heard Seward in the Senate. Of this memorable occasion he wrote with such enthusiasm to Leila as he rarely showed:
"I may not write to your aunt, and I am moved to write to you by the effect Mr. Seward's speech had on me. He is not much of a man in his make-up. His voice is husky and his gestures are awkward and have no relation to what he says. It seemed a dried-up sort of talk, but he held the Senate and galleries to fascinated attention for two hours, and was so appealing, so moderate. The questions at issue were handled with what Rivers calls and never uses—the eloquence of moderation. I suppose he will be the nominee of the Republican party. It won't please the abolitionists at all. I wish you could have heard it.
"I came here to see two Southern Senators who have been counsel for us in regard to debts owing the mills by Southern railways. I gathered easily that my well-known Republican views made collection difficult. I was about to say something angry—it would have done no good, and I am opposed to useless anger. It is all pretty bad, because the South has hardly felt the panic, or its continued effect on our trade.
"I am wrong to trouble you with my troubles. We shall pull through.
"Yours,
"JAMES PENHALLOW."
"P.S. I should have been prepared for my failure to get fair treatment. I had learned in New York that lists of abolition houses have been published in the South, and Southern buyers warned not to place orders with them. I wonder if I am thus listed. Our agent in Savannah writes that it is quite useless to solicit orders on account of the prevalent sentiment, and he is leaving the town."
Penhallow went home disappointed and discouraged, and called a private meeting of his Pittsburgh partners. He set before them the state of their affairs. There would be no debts collectible in the South. He smiled as he added that he had collected certain vague promises, which could hardly be used to pay notes. These could and would be met, they said, but finally agreed with him that unless they had other orders, it might be necessary to further reduce their small force. His partners were richer than he, but indisposed to take risks until the fall conventions were over. It was so agreed. As they were leaving, Penhallow said, "But there will be our workmen—what will become of them?" They were sure times would get better, and did not feel his nearness of responsibility for workmen he knew so long and so well.
He rode home at a walk. The situation of his firm was like that of many others, and now this April of 1860 business doubts, sectional feeling and love of country seemed to intensify the interest with which all classes looked forward to the Charleston Democratic Convention.
The Convention met on April 23rd. It was grave and able. There were daily prayers in the churches of Charleston for the success of Southern principles. Henry Grey, a delegate, wrote to his sister:
"The Douglas platform was adopted and at once the delegations of six cotton States withdrew. We who cannot accept Douglas meet in Richmond. It means secession unless the Republicans are reasonable when they nominate in Chicago. Mr. Alexander Stephens predicts a civil war, which most men I meet here consider very unlikely."
Ann handed this letter to her husband, saying, "This will interest you."
He read it twice, and then said, "There is at least one man in the South who believes the North will fight—Stephens."
"But will it, James?" A predictive spectre of fear rose before her.
Slowly folding the letter he said, "Yes, the South does not know us." She walked away.
On May 16th the Republicans met in Chicago. The news of the nomination of Lincoln came to the Squire as riding from the mills he met Dr. McGregor afoot.
"What, walking!" he said. "I never before saw you afoot—away from that saint of a mare."
"Yes, my old mare got bit by something yesterday and kicked the gig to smithereens, and lamed her off hind-leg."
"I will lend you a horse and a gig," said Penhallow.
"Thanks," said McGregor simply. "I am sweating through my coat."
"But don't leave my horse half a day tied to a post—any animal with horse-sense would kick."
"As if I ever did—but when the ladies keep me waiting. Heard the good news? No—We have nominated Lincoln—and Hamlin."
"I preferred Seward. You surprise me. What of the platform?"
"Oh, good! The Union, tariff, free soil. You will like it. The October elections in Pennsylvania will tell us who will win—later you will have to take an active part."
"No. Come up to-morrow and get that horse—No, I'll send it."
The Squire met Rivers on the avenue. As he walked beside the horse, he said, "I am going to dine with you."
"That is always good, but be on your guard about politics at Grey Pine.
Lincoln is nominated."
"Thank God! What do you think of it, Squire?"
"I think with you. This is definite—no more wabbling. But rest assured, it means, if he is elected, secession, and in the end war. We will try to avert it. We will invent compromises, at which the South will laugh; at last, we will fight, Mark. But we are a quiet commercial people and will not fight if we can avoid it. They believe nothing will make us fight. The average, every-day Northerner thinks the threat of secession is mere bluff."
"Do you recall, Squire, what Thucydides said of the Greeks at the time of the Peloponnesian War?"
"I—how the deuce should I?—what did he say?"
"He said the Greeks did not understand each other any longer, although they spoke the same language. The same words in Boston and in Charleston have different meanings."
"But," said Penhallow, "we never did understand one another."
"No, never. War—even war—is better than to keep up a partnership in slavery—a sleeping partnership. Oh, I would let them go—or accept the gage of battle."
"Pretty well that, for a clergyman, Mark. As for me, having seen war, I want never to see it again. This may please you." As he spoke, he extracted a slip of paper from his pocket-book, where to Leila's amusement queer bits of all kinds of matters were collected. Now it was verse. "Read that. You might have written it. I kept it for you. There is Ann on the porch. Don't read it now."
Late that evening Rivers sat down to think over the sermon of the next Sunday. The Squire had once said to him, "War brings out all that is best and all that is worst in a nation." He read the verses, and then read them aloud.
"They say that war is hell, the great accursed,
The sin impossible to be forgiven;
Yet I can look beyond it at its worst
And still find blue in Heaven.
"And as I note how nobly natures form
Under the war's red reign, I deem it true
That He who made the earthquake and the storm
Perchance makes battles too.
"The life He loves is not the life of span
Abbreviated by each passing breath;
It is the true humanity of man
Victorious over death."
"No great thing in the way of poetry—but—a thought—a thought. Oh, I should like to preach of men's duty to their country just now. I envy Grace his freedom. If I preached as he does, people would say it was none of a preacher's business to apply Christ's creed of conduct to a question like slavery. Mrs. Penhallow would walk out of the church. But before long men will blame the preacher who does not say, 'Thou shalt love thy country as thyself'—ah, and better, yes, and preach it too."
During the early summer of 1860, James Penhallow guarded an awkward silence about politics. Leila found that her uncle would not talk of what the closing months of Buchanan's administration might contribute to insure peaceful settlement. John Penhallow was as averse to answering her eager questions. Their silence on matters which concerned a nation's possible dismemberment and her aunt's too evident distress weighed heavily upon Leila. The newspapers bewildered her. The Tribune was for peaceful separation, and then later was against it. Uncle Jim had said he was too worried about the mills to talk politics, "Don't ask me, Leila." At last, an errand to Dr. McGregor's gave her the chance she desired.
"Yes," said the doctor, "I'll come to-day. One of the maids? Well, what else, Leila?" seeing that she still lingered.
"I want to know something about all this tangle of politics. There's Breckinridge, Douglas, Bell and Lincoln—four candidates. Uncle Jim gets almost cross when I ask him what they all stand for. Mr. Rivers told me to be thankful I have no vote. If there is to be war, have I no interest? There is Uncle Jim—and—and John."
The doctor said, "Sit down, Leila. Your uncle could answer you. He won't talk. I don't believe John Penhallow owns any politics except a soldier's blind creed of devotion to the Flag."
"Oh, the Flag, Doctor! But it is a symbol—it is history. I won't write to a man any more who has no certain opinions. He never answers."
"Well, my dear, see how hard it is to know what to think! One State after another is seceding. The old juggle of compromises goes on in that circus we call Congress. The audience is grimly silent. Crittenden's compromise has failed. The President is at last against secession—and makes no vigorous effort to reinforce Fort Sumter. The Cabinet was distinctly with the South—the new men came in too late. You—a girl—may well call it a tangle. It is a diabolical cat's-cradle. My only hope, my dear, is in a new and practically untried man—Abraham Lincoln. The South is one in opinion—we are perplexed by the fears of commerce and are split. There you have all my wisdom. Read the news, but not the weathercock essays called editorials. Oh! I forgot to tell the Squire that Tom, my young doctor, has passed the Army Board and is awaiting orders in Washington. By-bye!"
"Tom as a doctor—and in uniform," Leila murmured, as her horse walked away. "How these boys go on and on, and we women just wait and wait while men dispose of our fates."
In February the Confederacy of the South was organising, and in March of 1861 Mr. Lincoln was President. Penhallow groaned over Cameron as Secretary of War, smiled approval of the Cabinet with Seward and Chase and anxiously waited to see what Lincoln would do.
Events followed fast in those eventful days. On the thirteenth of April Ann Penhallow sat in the spring sunshine on the porch, while Leila read aloud to her with entranced attention "The Marble Faun." The advent of an early spring in the uplands was to be seen in the ruddy colour of the maples. Bees were busy among the young flowers. There was noiseless peace in the moveless infant foliage.
"How still it is!" said Leila looking up from the book. They were far from the madding crowd. "What is it, Billy?"
He was red, breathless, excited, and suddenly broke out in his thin boy-like voice, "Hurrah! They've fired on the flag."
"Who—what flag?"
"Don't know." He had no least idea of what his words meant. "Don't know," and crying "Hurrah! They've fired on the flag," fled away.
Ann said, "Go to the village and find out what that idiot meant."
In a half hour Leila came back. "Well, what is it?"
"The Charleston troops have fired on Fort Sumter—My God! Aunt Ann—on the flag—our flag!"
Ann rose, gathered up her work, hesitated a moment, and saying, "That is bad news, indeed," went into the house.
Leila sat down on the step of the porch and broke into a passion of tears, as James Penhallow coming through the woods dismounted at her side. "What is the matter, my dear child?"
"They have fired on the flag at Sumter—it is an insult!"
"Yes, my child, that—and much more. A blunder too! Mr. Lincoln should
thank God to-day. He will have with him now the North as one man. Colonel
Anderson must surrender; he will be helpless. Alas for his wife, a
Georgia woman!—and my Ann, my dear Ann."
There are few alive to-day who recall the effect caused in the States of the North by what thousands of men and women, rich and poor, felt to be an insult, and for the hour, far more to them than the material consequences which were to follow.
When Rivers saw the working people of the little town passionately enraged, the women in tears, he read in this outbreak of a class not given to sentimental emotion what was felt when the fatal news came home to lonely farms or great cities over all the North and West.
Memorable events followed in bewildering succession during the early spring and summer of 1861. John wrote that Beauregard and all but a score of Southern cadets had left the Point. Robert Lee's decision to resign from the army was to the Squire far more sorrowfully important.
When Lincoln's call to arms was followed in July by the defeat of Bull
Run, James Penhallow wrote to his nephew:
"My Dear John: Your aunt is beyond measure disturbed. I have been more at ease now that this terrible decision as to whether we are to be one or God knows how many is to be settled by the ordeal of battle. I am amazed that no one has dwelt upon what would have followed accepted secession. We should have had a long frontier of custom houses, endless rows over escaping slaves, and the outlet of the Mississippi in the possession of a foreign country. Within ten years war would have followed; better let it come now.
"I am offered a regiment by Governor Curtin. To accept would be fatal to our interests in the mills. It may become an imperative duty to accept; but this war will last long, or I much underestimate the difficulties of overcoming a gallant people waging a defensive war in a country where every road and creek is familiar.
"Yours, in haste,
"JAMES PENHALLOW."
John wrote later:
"MY DEAR UNCLE: Here is news for you! All of my class are ordered to Washington. I shall be in the engineer corps. I see General McClellan is put in command of the army. I will write again from Washington."
Ann Penhallow heard the letter, and saying merely, "It had to come!" made the bitter forecast that it would be James Penhallow's turn next.
John wrote again as he had promised, but now to Leila:
"At last we are in this crowded city. We get our uniforms in a day or two. I am a lieutenant of engineers. We are now in tents. On arrival we were marched to General Scott's headquarters, and while drawn up in line Mr. Lincoln came out. He said a few words to us. His appearance was strange to me. A tall stooping figure, in what our village calls 'store clothes,' but very neat; the face big, homely, with a look of sadness in the eyes. He shook hands with each of us in turn, saying a word of encouragement. Why he spoke specially to me, I do not know. He asked my name. I said 'Penhallow.' 'Oh,' he said, 'a Cornish name—the great iron-works. Do you know the Cornish rhyme? It rings right true.' I said, 'No, sir.' 'Well, it is good. Do your duty. There is a whole creed in the word—man needs no other. God bless you, boys.' It was great, Leila. What is the Cornish rhyme? Ask Uncle Jim. Write me care of the Engineer Camp.
"I put this on a separate slip for you. In Baltimore we were delayed and I had an hour's leave. I called on your uncle, Charles Grey. He is Union through and through. His brother Henry has gone South. While I was walking with Mr. Charles Grey, a lady went by us, drawing away her skirts with quite unmistakable contempt and staring at your uncle in a way which was so singular that I asked what it all meant. He replied, 'It is your United States cadet uniform—and the lady is Mrs. Henry Grey. I am not of their acquaintance.' This, Leila, was my first taste of the bitterness of feeling here. It is the worse for the uprising of union feeling all over Maryland.
"My class-mates are rather jolly about their commissions and the prospect of active war. I have myself a certain sense of being a mere cipher, a dread too of failure. I can say so to you and to no one else. I am going where death is in the air—and there are things which make me eager to live—and—to be able to live to feel that I have done my duty. Thinking of how intensely you feel and how you grieve over being unable to do more than pray, I mean to pet a little the idea that I am your substitute."
At this point she sat a while with the letter on her lap. Then she read on:
"I hoped for a brief furlough, but got none, and so I shall apply to memory and imagination for frequent leave of absence,—from duty.
"Yours,
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
"To pet a little the idea! That is so like John. Well, yes—I don't mind being petted as a substitute and at a distance. It's rather confusing."
CHAPTER XIX
It was late in October and ten at night, when Leila with her uncle was endeavouring to discover on one of the large maps, then so much in demand, the situation of the many small conflicts which local feeling brought about.
"It all wants a head—one head, Leila. Now it is here, there and everywhere, useless gain or loss—and no large scheme. John left Washington two weeks ago. You saw his letter?"
"No."
"Then I may have told you—I am sure I did. Damn it, Leila! I am so bothered. I did tell Ann, I suppose."
"Why, of course, Uncle Jim. I wish I could help you. Is it the mills?"
"Yes. Your little property, part of John's—your aunt's—are all in the family business. Ann says, 'What's the difference? Nothing matters now.' It isn't like her."
"I'm sure I don't care, Uncle Jim."
"Don't talk nonsense. In a month we shall know if we are bankrupt. I did not mean to trouble you. I did mean to tell you that to my relief John is out of Washington and ordered to report to General Grant at Cairo. See, dear, there is a pin marking it on the map."
"Do you know this General?"
"Yes. He took no special rank at the Point, but—who can tell! Generals are born, not made. I saw a beautiful water-colour by him at the Point. That's all I know of him. Now, go to bed—and don't take with you my worries and fight battles in your dreams."
There was in fact no one on whom he could willingly unload all of his burdens. The need to relieve the hands out of work—two-thirds of his force—was growing less of late, as men drifted off into the State force which the able Governor Curtin was sending to McClellan. Penhallow's friends in Pittsburgh had been able to secure a mortgage on Grey Pine, and thus aided by his partners he won a little relief, while Rivers watched him with increasing anxiety.
On the 17th of January, 1862, he walked into McGregor's office and said to his stout friend, "McGregor, I am in the utmost distress about my wife. Inside my home and at the mills I am beset with enough difficulties to drive a man wild. We have a meeting in half an hour to decide what we shall do. I used to talk to Ann of my affairs. No one has or had a clearer head. Now, I can't."
"Why not, my friend?"
"She will not talk. Henry Grey is in the Confederate service; Charles is out and out for the Union; we have no later news of John. We miserably sit and eat and manufacture feeble talk at table. It is pitiful. Her duties she does, as you may know, but comes home worn out and goes to bed at nine. Even the village people see it and ask me about her. If it were not for Leila, I should have no one to talk to."
A boy came in. "You are wanted, sir, at the mill office."
"Say I will come at once. I'll see you after the meeting, McGregor."
"One moment, Squire. Here's a bit of good news for you. Cameron has resigned, and Edwin Stanton is Secretary of War."
"Stanton! Indeed! Thank Heaven for that. Now things will move, I am sure."
The Squire found in his office Sibley, one of his partners, a heavy old man, who carried the indifferent manners of a farmer's son into a middle age of successful business. He sat with his chair tilted back, a huge Cabana cigar hanging unlighted from the corner of his mouth. He made no movement towards rising, but gave his hand as he sat, and said: "There, Penhallow, just read that!"
As the Squire took the telegram, Sibley scratched a match on the back of his pantaloons and waiting for the sulphur to burn out lit his cigar. Ever after the smell of sulphur brought to the Squire of Grey Pine the sense of some pleasant association and then a less agreeable remembrance.
"Read it—read it out loud, Penhallow! It was a near thing. Wardlow couldn't meet us—be here at noon. Read it—I've read it about ten times—want to hear it again. I've been as near broke as you—but that's an old story. When you're at your last dollar, buy a fast pair of trotters—one thousand-dollar pair—and drive them. Up goes your credit! Told you that once."
Penhallow looked up from the telegram. "Is this certain?"
"Yes, it has been repeated—you can rely on it."
"WASHINGTON, Willard's Hotel.
"Mr. Stanton has given contract for field artillery to the Penhallow
Mills.
"RICHARD AINSELEY."
Penhallow had read it aloud as he stood. Then he sat down.
"Don't speak to me for a moment, Sibley. Thank God!" he murmured, while the care-wrinkled face of the veteran speculator looked at him with a faint smile of affectionate regard.
"Well," said Penhallow, "is this all?"
"No. While Cameron was in office the contract was drawn in favour of the Lancaster Works. We have been urging our own claims, and their Washington agent, your very particular friend, Mr. Swallow, would have had the job in a week more. When Stanton saw our bid and that it was really a more advantageous offer, he sent first for Swallow and then for Ainseley and settled it at once. I believe your name and well-known character did the business. Do you know—do you realize what it means to us?"
"Hardly. I had no hope while Cameron was in office. I left it to you and
Ainseley."
"Well, you will see the contract to-morrow." He wriggled on to one leg of the frail office chair and came down with a crash. He gathered up his two hundred pounds and laughing said, as he looked at the wreck, "That's what we would have been tomorrow but for that bit of yellow paper. In six months you will be a rich man, my friend. Cannon—shells—the whole outfit. We must get to work at once. An ordnance officer will be here to-morrow with specifications, and your own knowledge will be invaluable. I'd like to see Swallow again. He was so darned sure!"
Wardlow turned up by the noon train, and they worked until dusk, when his partners left him to secure hands in Pittsburgh, while the good news spread among the men still at work. Penhallow rode home through the woods humming his old army songs—a relieved and happy man.
The Doctor waited a half-hour in vain, and after his noonday dinner was about to go out when Mrs. Penhallow was driven to his door. Somewhat surprised, he went back with her.
"Sit down," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Oh, for me nothing! I want to talk about my husband. He is ill, I am sure—he is ill. He eats little, he sleeps badly, he has lost—oh, altogether lost—his natural gaiety. He hardly speaks at all."
The Doctor was silent.
"Well," she said.
"Can you bear a little frank talk?" he asked.
"Yes—why not?"
"Do you know that he is on the verge of complete financial ruin?"
"What does that matter? I can—I can bear anything—give up anything—"
"You have the woman's—the good woman's—indifference about money. Do you talk to him about it?"
"No. We get on at once to the causes of trouble—this unrighteous war—that I can't stand."
"Ah, Mrs. Penhallow, there must be in the North and South many families divided in opinion; what do you suppose they do? This absolute silence is fatal. You two are drifting apart—"
"Oh, not that! Surely not that!"
"Yes! The man is worried past endurance. If he really were to fall ill—a serious typhoid, for instance, the South and your brother and John, everything would be forgotten—there would be only James Penhallow. It would be better to talk of the war—to quarrel over it—to make him talk business—oh, anything rather than to live as you are living. He is not ill. Go home and comfort him. He needs it. He has become a lonely man, and it is your fault. He was here to-day in the utmost distress about you—"
"About me?"
"Yes."
"There is nothing the matter with me!"
"Yes, there is—oh, with both of you. This war will last for years—and so will you. All I have to say is that my friend, James Penhallow, is worth all the South, and that soon or late he will stand it no longer and will go where he ought to be—into the army."
"You are talking nonsense—he will never leave the mills." He had called up her constant fear.
"It is not nonsense. When he is a broken man and you and he are become irritable over a war you did not make and cannot end, he will choose absence and imperative duty as his only relief."
As she stood up, red and angry, she said, "You have only hurt and not helped me." She said no other word as he went with her to the wagon. He looked after her a moment.
"Well, well! There are many kinds of fools—an intelligent fool is the worst. I didn't help her any, and by George! I am sorry."
When at twilight the doctor came home from distant visits to farms, he met Leila near to his door. "I want to see you a minute," she said, as she slipped out of her saddle.
"A woman's minute or a man's minute?"
"A man's."
She secured her mare as he said, "Well, come in. It's rather amusing, Leila. Sit down. I've had James Penhallow here to say his wife's breaking down. I've had Mrs. Penhallow here to say James Penhallow is ill. Except the maids and the cats and you, all Grey Pine is diagnosing one another. And now, you come! Don't tell me you're ill—I won't have it."
"Please don't joke, Doctor. I am troubled about these dear people. I talked to Mr. Rivers about it, and he is troubled and says it is the mills and money. I know that, but at the bottom of it all is the war. Now Aunt Ann is reading the papers again—I think it is very strange; it's confusing, Doctor."
"Here," reflected the doctor, "is at least one person with some sense."
She went on, speaking slowly, "Uncle Jim comes home tired. Aunt Ann eats her dinner and reads, and is in bed by nine. The house is as melancholy as—I feel as if I were in a mousetrap—"
"Why mouse-trap, my dear?"
"It sounds all right. The mouse is waiting for something awful to happen—and so am I. Uncle Jim talked of asking people to stay with us. It's just to please Aunt Ann. She said, 'No, James, I don't want any one.' He wished to please her. She really thinks of nothing but the war and Uncle Jim, and when Uncle Jim is away she will spend an hour alone over his maps. She has—what do you call it—?"
"Is obsession the word you want?"
"Yes—that's it."
"Now, Leila, neither you nor I nor Mark Rivers can help those two people we love. Don't cry, Leila; or cry if it will help you. When you marry, be sure to ask, 'what are your politics, Jeremiah?'" His diversion answered his purpose.
"I never would marry a man named Jeremiah."
"I recommend a well-trained widower."
"I prefer to attend to my husband's education myself. I should like a man who is single-minded when I marry him."
"Well, for perversion of English you are quite unequalled. Go and flirt a bit for relief of mind with Mark Rivers."
"I would as soon flirt with an undertaker. Why not with Dr. McGregor?"
"It would be comparable, Leila, to a flirtation between a June rose and a frost-bitten cabbage. Now, go away. These people's fates are on the lap of the gods."
"Of the god of war, I fear," said Leila.
"Yes, more or less." He sent her away mysteriously relieved, she knew not why. "A little humour," he reflected, "is as the Indians say, big medicine."
Whether the good doctor's advisory prescription would have served as useful a purpose in the case of Ann Penhallow, he doubted. That heart-sick little lady was driven swiftly homeward, the sleigh-runners creaking on the frozen snow: "Walk the horses," she said to Billy, as they entered the long avenue, "and quit talking."
While with the doctor and when angrily leaving him, she was the easy victim of a storm of emotions. As she felt the healthy sting of the dry cold, she began the process of re-adjustment we are wise to practise after a time of passion when by degrees facts and motives begin to reassume more just proportions. He had said, the war would last long. That she had not believed. Could she and James live for years afraid to speak of what was going on? The fact that her much-loved Maryland did not rise as one man and join the Confederacy had disturbed her with her first doubt as to the final result of the great conflict. She thought it over with lessening anger at the terrible thing McGregor had said, "You two are drifting apart." This sentence kept saying itself over and over.
"Stop, Billy." She was back again in the world of everyday. "Get in, Mr. Rivers. We are both late for our Dante." As she spoke, an oppressed pine below which he stood under a big umbrella was of a mind to bear its load no longer and let fall a bushel or so of snow on the clergyman's cover. His look of bewilderment and his upward glance as if for some human explanation routed from Ann's mind everything except amusement over this calamity.
"You must not mind if I laugh." She took for granted the leave to laugh, as he said, "I don't see where the fun comes in. It is most disagreeable." The eloquent eyes expressed calamity. It was really felt as if it had been a personal attack.
"It was a punishment for your utterly abominable politics." For the first time for months she was her unfettered self. His mind was still on his calamity. "I really staggered under it."
"Shake it off and get in to the sleigh. My husband ought to have all the big pines cut down." Rivers's mind had many levels. Sometimes they were on spiritual heights, or as now—almost childlike.
"To stay indoors would be on the whole more reasonable," he said, "or to have these trees along the avenue shaken."
"I'd like the job," ventured Billy.
"Keep quiet," said Mrs. Ann.
"It is most uncomfortable as it melts," said Rivers.
Ann thought of John Penhallow's early adventure in the snow, and seeing how strangely real was Mark Rivers's discomfort, remarked to herself that he was like a cat for dislike of being wet, and was thankful for her privilege of laughing inwardly.
Billy, who was, as Leila said, an unexpectable person, contributed to Ann Penhallow's sense of there being still some available fun in a world where men were feebly imitating the vast slaughters of nature. He considered the crushed umbrella, the felt hat awry, and the disconsolate figure. "Parson do look crosser than a wet hen."
Then too Rivers's laugh set free her mirth, and Ann Penhallow laughed as she had not done for many a day. "That is about my condition," said Rivers. "I shall go home and get into dry clothes. Billy, you're a poet."
"Don't like nobody to call me names," grunted Billy.
"I wish James had heard that," cried Ann, while Rivers gathered up the remains of his umbrella.
As Billy drove away, Mrs. Penhallow called back, "You will come to dinner to-day?"
"Thank you, but not to-day."
As Ann came down the stairs to the hall, Penhallow was in the man's attitude, with his back to the fire. Leila with a hand on the mantel and a foot on the fender was talking to her uncle, an open letter in her hand. Ann heard him say, "That was in October"—and then—"Why this must be a month old!"
"It must have been delayed. He wrote a note after the fight at Belmont, and that was in October. He did write once since then, but it was hardly worth sending. As a letter writer, John is rather a failure, but this is longer." She laughed gaily as she spread open the letter.
"He has got a new hero, uncle—General Grant. John is strong on heroes—he began with you."
"Stuff and nonsense," said the Squire. "Read it."
Leila hesitated.
"Oh, let's hear it," cried her aunt.
"Go on, dear," said the Squire.
Leila still hesitated. Usually Ann Penhallow carried away John's rare letters to be read when alone. Now she said, with unnatural deliberation. "Read it; one may as well hear his news; we can't always just ignore what goes on."
Leila a little puzzled glanced at her aunt. The Squire pleased and astonished said, "Go on, my dear."
Turning to the candles on the hall table, Leila read the letter:—"Why how long it has been! It is dated November 20th."
"DEAR LEILA: We have been moving from place to place, and although I know or guess why, it is best left out of letters. At Belmont General Grant had a narrow escape from capture. He was the last man on board the boat. He is a slightly built, grave, tired-looking man, middle-aged, carelessly dressed and eternally smoking. I was in the thick of the row—a sort of aide, as there was no engineer work. He was as cool as a cucumber—"
"Why are cucumbers cool?" asked Leila, looking up. "Oh, bother! Go on!" said Penhallow.
"We shall move soon. Good-bye.
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
Ann made no comment. The Squire said, "It might have been longer. Come, there's dinner, and I am hungry."
Ann looked at him. He was gay, and laughed at her account of Rivers's disaster.
"I have some good news for you, Ann. I shall keep it until after dinner.
Then we can talk it over at leisure. It concerns all of us, even John."
"I don't see how I am to wait," said Leila.
"You will have to."
Ann made an effort to meet the tone of gaiety in her husband's talk, and when the wine was set before him, he said, "Now, Ann, a glass—and Leila, 'To our good news and good luck—and to John.'"
They followed him into the library, and being in sacrificial mood, Ann filled a pipe, lighted a match, and said, "I want you to smoke, James."
"Not yet, dear. Sit down."
"No, I want to stand." She stood beside the fire, a little lady, with an arm around the waist of her niece. The Squire seated was enjoying the suspense of his eager audience.
"You know, dear Ann, that for two years or more the mills have been without large orders. We have been in the most embarrassing situation. Our debts"—he was about to say, 'in the South'—"unpaid. I had to ask you to help us."
This was news to Leila. "Why mention that, James?" said her aunt.
"Well, we long ago lessened our force. To shut down entirely was ruin, but when we met to-day we were to decide whether it was honest to borrow more money and stagger on, or as I thought, honourable to close the mills and realize for our creditors all we could."
Ann sat down with some feeling of remorse. Why had she not known all this? Was it her fault? He had borne it for the most part without her knowledge—alone. "My God! It is true," she reflected, "we have drifted apart." He had hopefully waited, not wanting to trouble a woman already so obviously sorrow-laden. He seemed to echo her thought.
"You see, dear," and the strong face grew tender, "I did not mean to disturb you until it became inevitable. I am glad I waited."
Ann, about to speak, was checked by his lifted hand. "Now, dear, all my troubles are over. Mr. Stanton, the new Secretary of War, has signed a contract with our firm for field artillery. It is a fortune. Our bid was low. A year's work—shot, shell—and so on. Congratulate me, Ann."
"My God!" he cried, "what is the matter?"
Ann Penhallow turned quickly, a hand on the table staying herself. "And you—you are to make cannon—you—and I—and with my money!" she laughed hysterical laughter—"to kill my people the North has robbed and driven into war and insulted for years—I—I—" her voice broke—she stood speechless, pale and more pale.
Penhallow was appalled. He ran to catch her as she swayed.
"Don't touch me," she cried. "I feared for—you—the army—but never this—this!" Despite her resistance, he laid her on the lounge.
"Leila," she said, "I want to go upstairs to bed." The face became white; she had fainted.
"Is she dead?" he said hoarsely, looking down at her pale face.
"No—no. Carry her upstairs, uncle." He picked up the slight form and presently laid her on her bed. "Leave her to me, Uncle Jim. I have seen girls in hysterics. Send up a maid—the doctor! No, I will come down when she is undressed. See, her colour is better."
He went downstairs, reluctant to leave her. In the library he sat down and waited. An hour passed by, and at last Leila reappeared. She kissed him with more than her usual tenderness, saying, "She is quiet now. I will lie down on her lounge to-night. Don't worry, Uncle Jim."
This advice so often given was felt by him to be out of his power to follow. He knew very well that this he would have now to consider was not only a mere business affair. It ceased to be that when he heard with the shock of bewilderment his wife's outburst of angry protest. He loved her as few men love after many years of married life, and his affection was still singularly young. His desire to content her had made him unwisely avoid talk about differences of opinion. In fact his normal attitude was dictated by such gentle solicitude as is not uncommon in very virile men, who have long memory for the careless or casual sharp word. To the end of his days he never suspected that to have been less the lover and more the clear-sighted outspoken friend would have been better for her and for him. He sat into the night smoking pipe after pipe, grappling with a situation which would have presented no difficulties to a coarser nature. At last he went upstairs, listened a moment at Ann's chamber door, and having smoked too much spent a thought-tormented night, out of which he won one conclusion—the need to discuss his trouble with some friend. At six he rose and dressed, asked the astonished cook for an egg and coffee, went to the stables, and ordered a groom to saddle horses and follow him.
A wild gallop over perilously slippery roads brought him to McGregor's door, a quarter of a mile from the mills. The doctor was at breakfast, and rose up astonished. "What's wrong now, Penhallow?" he said.
"Oh, everything—everything."
"Then sit down and let us talk. What is it?"
The Squire took himself in hand and quietly related his story of the contract and his wife's reception of what had been to him so agreeable until she had spoken.
"Can you bear—I said it yesterday to Mrs. Penhallow—a frank opinion?"
"Yes, from you—anything."
"Have no alarm about her health, my friend. It is only the hysteria of a woman a little spoiled by too tender indulgence."
The Squire did not like it, but said, "Oh, perhaps! But now—the rest—the rest—what am I to do?" The doctor sat still a while in perplexed thought. "Take your time," said Penhallow. "I have sent the horses to the stable at the mills, where my partners are to meet me early to-day."
The doctor said, "Mrs. Penhallow will be more or less herself to-day. I will see her early. There are several ways of dealing with this matter. You can take out of the business her share of the stock."
"That would be simple. My partners would take it now and gladly."
"What else you do depends on her condition of mind and the extent to which you are willing to give way before the persistency of a woman who feels and does not or can not reason."
"Then I am not now to do anything but tell her that I will take her stock out of the business."
"That may relieve her. So far I can go with you. But, my dear Penhallow, she may be utterly unreasonable about your manufacture of cannon, and what then you may do I cannot say. How long will it be before you begin to turn out cannon?"
"Oh, two months or more. Many changes will be needed, but we have meanwhile an order for rails from the Baltimore and Ohio."
"Then we can wait. Now I am off for Grey Pine. See me about noon. Don't go back home now. That's all."
While the Squire walked away to the mills, McGregor was uneasily moving his ponderous bulk to and fro in the room.
"It's his damn tender, soft-hearted ways that will win in the end. My old Indian guide used to say, 'Much stick, good squaw.' Ann Penhallow has never in her whole life had any stick. Damn these sugar plum husbands! I'd like to know what Miss Leila Grey thinks of this performance. Now, there's a woman!"
When after a night of deep sleep Ann woke to find Leila standing by her bed, she rose on an elbow saying, "What time is it? Why are you here?"
"It is eight, aunt. You were ill last night; I stayed on your lounge."
Now her aunt sat up. "I was ill, you say—something happened." The thing pieced itself together—ragged bits of memories storm-scattered by emotion were reassembled, vague at first, then quickly more clear. She broke into unnaturally rapid speech, reddening darkly, with ominous dilatation of the pupils of her large blue eyes. "And so James Penhallow is to be made rich by making cannon to kill my people—oh, I remember!" It seemed absurdly childlike to Leila, who heard her with amazement. "And with my money—it is easy to stay at home and murder—and be paid for it. Let him go and—fight. That's bad enough—I—"
"God of Heaven, Aunt Ann!" the girl broke in, "don't dare to say that to
Uncle Jim. Are you crazy—to say such things."
"I don't know what I am. Oh, those cannon! I hear them. He shall not do it—do you hear me? Now send me up a cup of tea—and don't come in again. I want James—tell him—tell him."
"He went away to the mills at six o'clock."
"I know. He is afraid to talk to me—I want to see him—send for him at once. I said at once—do you hear! Now go."
As Leila turned to leave, she heard a knock at the door, said "Come in," and to her relief saw enter large and smiling the trusted doctor. As he neared the bed, Ann fell back speechless and rigid.
"Ah, Leila! That makes it all plain. There is no danger. Close the blinds; I want the room darkened. So! Come into the back room—leave the door ajar." He selected a trustworthy chair and sat down with deliberate care. "Now listen to me, my dear. This is pure hysteria. It may last for days or weeks—it will get well. It is the natural result of birth, education, worry, etc.—and a lot of darned et ceteras. When you let loose a mob of emotions, you get into trouble—they smash things, and this is what has become of one of God's sweetest, purest souls."
"It is most dreadful, Doctor; but what shall we do with Uncle Jim. If she has a mere cold in the head, he is troubled."
"Yes—yes." The doctor took counsel with himself. "I will send up old Mrs. Lamb to help you—she is wise in the ways of sick women. Take your rides—and don't fret over this suicide of reason." He was pleased with his phrase. "Let her see Penhallow if she asks for him, but not if you can help it. It is all as plain as day. She has been living of late a life of unwholesome suppression. She has been alarmed by Penhallow's looks, hurt by her brothers' quarrels, and heart-sick about the war and John. Then your uncle springs on her this contract business and there is an explosion."
After giving careful orders, he went away. To Penhallow he said, "When you are at home keep out of her room. If you have to see her, tell her nothing has been done or will be for months. The time will come when you will have to discuss matters."
CHAPTER XX
Leila Grey never forgot the month which followed. Penhallow was mercifully spared the sight of the drama of hysteria, and when not at the mills went about the house and farm like a lost dog; or, if Leila was busy, took refuge with Rivers. Even the war maps claimed no present interest until a letter came from John after the capture of Port Donaldson. At evening they found the place on the map.
"Well, now let's hear it. Ann is better, McGregor says," He was as readily elated as depressed. "Does she ask for me?"
"No," said Leila, "at first she did, but not now."
"Read the letter, my dear."
"DEAR LEILA: I wrote to Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim a fortnight ago—"
"Never came," said Penhallow.
"I am called an engineer, but there is no engineering required, so I am any General's nigger. I have been frozen and thawed over and over. No camp fires allowed, and our frozen 15,000 besieged 21,000 men. General S.T. Smith picked me up as an aide, and on the 15th personally led a charge on the Rebel lines, walking quietly in front of our men to keep them from firing. It did not prevent the Rebs from abusing our neutrality. It was not very agreeable, but we stormed their lines and I got off with a bit out of my left shoulder—nothing of moment. Now we have them. If this war goes on, Grant will be the man who will end it. I am too cold to write more. Love to all.
"General Smith desires to be remembered to Uncle Jim, and told me he was more than satisfied with
"Yours,
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
"Isn't that delightful, Uncle Jim? But every night I think of it—this facing of death. I see battles and storming parties. Don't you see things before you fall asleep? I can see whatever I want to see—or don't want to."
"Never saw anything of the kind—I just go to sleep."
"I thought everybody could see things as I do."
"See John too, Leila? Wish I could."
"Yes," she said, "sometimes." In fact, she could see at will the man who was so near and so dear and a friend to-day—and in that very lonely time when the house was still and the mind going off guard, the something indefinitely more.
The Squire, who had been studying the map, was now standing before the fire looking up where hung over the mantel his sword and the heavy army pistols. He turned away as he said, "Life is pretty hard, Leila. I ought to be here—here making guns. I want to be where my class-mates are in the field. I can't see my way, Leila. When I see a duty clearly, I can do it. Now here I have to decide what is my duty. There is no devil like indecision. What would you do?"
"It is a question as to what you will do, not I—and—oh, dear Uncle Jim, it is, you know, what we call in that horrid algebra the X of the equation."
"I must see your Aunt Ann. Is she"—and he hesitated—"is she herself?"—he would not say, quite, sane.
"She is not at all times."
"How far must I consider her, or be guided by the effect my decision will have on her? There are my partners to consider. The money does not influence me—it is Ann—Ann." Then she knew that he would make any sacrifice necessary to set Ann Penhallow at ease. "I think," she said as she rose, "that we had better go to bed."
"I suppose so," he said. "Wait a moment. Your aunt told me that I had better go where there was war—she could not have guessed that I have lived for months with that temptation. I shall end by accepting a command. Now since her reproach I shall feel that war offers the bribe of ease and relief from care."
"I know, the call of duty—you will have to go. But, oh, my God! it is very terrible."
"The fact is, this sudden good fortune for a time so set me at ease that I lost sight of my honest craving for action. Now I ought to thank Ann for making me see what I ought to do—must do. But how—how? It will clear up somehow. Goodnight."
It was the end of March before McGregor told Penhallow that Mrs. Penhallow insisted on seeing him. "Now, Squire," he said, "you will be shocked at her appearance, but she is really well in body, and this thing has got to be set at rest. She talks of it incessantly."
Penhallow entered the dimly lighted room and passed his old nurse, Mrs. Lamb, as she whispered, "Don't stay long, sir." He was shocked as he won clearer vision in the dim light.
"Oh, James!" she said, "they wouldn't let me see you. Open the shutters." He obeyed, and kneeling kissed the wasted face he loved so well. The commonplaces of life came to his aid as he kissed her again, and she said, "Dear me, James, you haven't shaved to-day."
"No, I am going to stop at the barber's—but I miss Josiah."
She smiled. "Yes, poor Josiah."
Then he took courage, fearfully timid as men are when they confront the illness of women. "I want to say to you, Ann, that having your power of attorney I have withdrawn your fifty thousand dollars you had lent to the mills. My partners were glad to take it." He said nothing of their surprise at the offer.
"Thank you," she returned feebly. "And you are going on with the business?" her voice rising as she spoke.
"We will talk of that later, Ann. I was told not to let you talk long. I shall endeavour to invest your money so as to give you a reasonable return—it will take time."
He did not succeed in diverting her attention. She put out a thin hand and caught his sleeve. "Do you think me unreasonable, James?"
"Yes," he said, and it needed courage.
"I was sure you would say so." The great blue eyes, larger for the wasted setting of nature's wonderful jewels, looked up at him in dumb appeal. "Won't you think a little of how I feel—and—and shall feel?"
"Think a little—a little?" he returned; "I have done nothing else but think."
"You don't answer me, James." There was the old quiet, persistent way he had known in many happy days, reinforced by hysteric incapacity to comprehend the maze of difficulties in which he was caught.
"It is a pity I did not die," she said, "that would have saved you all this trouble."
He felt the cruelty of her words as he broke away and left the room. McGregor had waited, and hearing his story said, "It will pass. You must not mind it—she is hardly sane."
James Penhallow mounted and rode to the village, was duly shaved, and went on to the post-office. Mrs. Crocker rotund and rosy came out and handed him as he sat in the saddle a sheaf of letters. "Yes, Mrs. Penhallow is better, thank you." As he rode away the reins on Dixy's neck, he read his letters and stuffed them in his pocket until he came to one, over which he lingered long. It ran thus:
"MY DEAR SIR: Will you not reconsider the offer of the colonelcy of a regiment? It will not require your presence until July. There is no need to reply at once. There is no one else so entirely fit for such a charge, and the Attorney-General, your friend Meredith, unites with me in my appeal to you. The State and the country need you.
"Yours truly,
"ANDREW CURTIN."
He reached but one conclusion as he turned the tempting offer over in his mind, and acting on it wrote the Governor from his office that his wife was at present too ill for him to consider the offer of a command.
As day by day he sat with Ann, to his relief she ceased to dwell on the matter which had so disturbed her, and rapidly regaining health, flesh and strength, began to ask about the house and the village people. It was a happy day when in May he carried her down to a hammock on the porch. A week later she spoke again, "What conclusion have you reached?" she said.
"About the mills?"
"Yes."
"Ask me in a week, Ann. Do you want to read John's letters? There are several—one about a battle at Pittsburgh Landing in Tennessee."
"I want to hear nothing of the war. Is he well?"
"Yes, thank God." The news of McClellan's army was anything but satisfactory, and more and more the soldier longed to be in the field.
Early in June, Penhallow on his way to meet his partners paused at
McGregor's house to ask his opinion of his wife. "How do I find her?
Better every day—more herself. But what of you?"
"Of me? I can stand it no longer, Doctor. I cannot see this war in Virginia go on to the end without taking part in it. I must—do anything—anything—make any sacrifice."
"But your wife—the mills—"
"I have but one answer—my country! I told you I had refused Governor Curtin's offer—what to do about our contract I do not yet know. They are reorganizing the artillery service."
"And you would like that best?"
"Yes. What amuses you?"
The doctor smiled often, but as Mrs. Crocker said, when he did laugh it was as good as a Fourth of July celebration and the house shook. As the Squire watched him, the smile broadened out in circles from the mouth like the ripples cast by a stone on still water; then the eyes grew merrily busy and the big frame shook with laughter.
"Well, now, Squire! To give up making guns and go in for using them—well—well!"
"Don't chaff me, McGregor; I mean to be in it, cost what it may. I am to meet my partners—good-bye."
The doctor wondered what Ann Penhallow would do or say. It was past guessing but he saw clearly that Penhallow was glad of any excuse to get into the field.
"Glad to see you, Ainseley," said Penhallow. "Good morning, Sibley. You will find things moving. Many casting moulds will be ready by this day week."
"Last night," said Sibley, the richer member of the firm, "I had a telegram from Austin, the iron-man. He asks what we would take to transfer our contract. I replied that we did not deal that way with Government contracts. To-day I got this other—read it."
"On what terms will you take me in? My ore, as you know, is not hematite and is better than yours."
Penhallow sat still reading the telegram again and again. Here was an unlooked-for way out of his troubles. At last he looked up, and to their surprise said, "My capital in the business is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and you—the firm—pay me a rental of ten thousand."
"Not last year," said Ainseley; "we could not, as you know."
"Yes. Our partnership ends this July 1st. Wire Austin that I will sell him my share and go out. You may ask him what bonus you please—I mean, I will sell to you at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—the rental will go on, of course."
"My heavens!" cried Sibley, "what do you mean? It is throwing away a fortune, man—a fortune."
Penhallow laughed. "And yet I mean to do it. The work is ready to go on.
You will have ordnance officers here—you won't miss me."
They argued with him in vain. Waldron not altogether dissatisfied sat still, wondering how much bonus Austin would stand, while Ainseley and Sibley troubled for their friend and not well pleased, fought his decision. "Are you fully resolved on this, Penhallow?" said Sibley.
"I am. I cannot take out the small amount of money John Penhallow owns.
It must remain, at least for a time, and will be a convenience to you.
My wife's money is already out. It was only a loan."
"But why should not you sell out to Austin," said Sibley, "if you mean to leave us, and get out of him a profit—and why after all this act of supreme folly? Pardon me, it is that—really that"
Penhallow smiled. "I go out of this business because I simply cannot stay out of the army. I could not be a soldier and accept continuous profits from a Government contract. Imagine what would be said! For the same reason I cannot sell to Austin at an advance. That is clear—is it not?"
"Yes," said Ainseley, "and I am sorry. Think it over."
"I have done my thinking. It will take the lawyers and you at least two months to settle it and make out the papers. After July 1st I shall not come to the mills. I mean to leave no occasion for unpleasant comment when I re-enter the service. Of course, you will advertise your new partnership and make plain my position. I am sorry to leave you, but most glad to leave you prosperous. I will put it all on paper, with a condition that at the close of the war—I give it three years—I shall be free to replace Austin—that is, if the Rebs don't kill me."
As he mounted at evening to ride home, he was aware of Leila. "Halloa, Uncle Jim! As Mr. Rivers was reading Dante to Aunt Ann, I begged off, and so here I am—thought I would catch you. I haven't been on a horse for a week. The mare knows it and enjoyed the holiday. She kicked Pole's bull terrier into the middle of next week."
"A notable feat. I wish some one would kick me into the middle of
August."
"What's wrong, Uncle Jim? Aunt Ann is every day better; John is well; you don't look unhappy. Oh, I know when anything really is the matter."
"No, I am happier than I have been for many a day. You know what Rivers says, 'In the Inn of Decision there is rest,'—some oriental nonsense. Well, I am a guest in the Inn of Decision, but I've got to pay the bill."
"Please not to talk riddles, uncle. I have gone through so much this spring—what with aunt and this terrible war—and where John is we don't know. I heard from Aunt Margaret. She says that we escape the endless reminders of war—the extras called at night, heard in church, great battle on the Potomac, lists of killed and wounded. It must be awful. You buy a paper—and find there was no battle."
"Yes, we escape that at least. I have made arrangements to close my partnership on July 1st."
"Oh, Uncle Jim!"
"The President, I hear, will call for three hundred thousand men—I can stand it no longer—I am eating my heart out. I refused a regiment some time ago; now I shall ask for one. I wrote at once to the Governor."
She leaned over, laid a hand on his arm and said, "Is not one dear life enough?"
"My child, John had to go. I could, of course, find some excuse for not going. I set myself free to-day. But now I am to settle with Ann. Except for that I would be supremely contented. You would not keep me here if you had the power, nor would you bring home John if you could, dear."
"No," she said faintly. Some quickly dismissed suspicion rose to consciousness as he stole a glance at her face. "I understand," she added, "it is a question of honour—you must go."
"It is a question of duty, dear; but what Ann will say I do not know—but
I shall go."
She turned. "Uncle Jim, if you did not go and the war went on to—God alone knows what end—she would be sick with shame. I know. You see I am a woman and I know. She will suffer, but she will not break down again and she will not try to hold you back. But this house without you and John will be rather lonely. How did you get out of the mills, uncle?"
He answered her at length as they rode homeward with more to think of than was pleasant. At the avenue gate she said earnestly, "Don't wait too long before telling Aunt Ann."
"Upon my word, I am sorry," returned the Squire, "for the unfortunate man who may become your husband. If you undertake to offer advice at your tender years, what will you do when you are older?"
"My husband-that-is-to-be sends you his compliments," laughed Leila, "and says—I don't know what he says, but it is exactly the right thing, Captain Penhallow. But really, don't wait, uncle."
"You are quite right, my dear." Nevertheless he waited. Decisiveness in affairs and in moments of peril he had, but where Ann was concerned he became easily unsure, and as McGregor said, "wabbled awful." This was to Leila. "What gets the matter with men? The finer they are, the braver—the more can a woman bother their judgment. He wires for a regimental command—gets it; and, by George, throws away a fortune to get the privilege of firing a cannon at Mrs. Ann's beloved Rebels. He mustn't make guns it seems—he tries not to believe her hysterics at all affected by his tossing away this big contract."
"Now, Doctor, you are in one of your cynical moods. I hate you to talk this way about the finest gentleman I ever knew, or ever shall know. You delight to tease me."
"Yes—you are so real. No one could get hysterics out of you. Now why do you suppose James Penhallow wants to plunge into this chaotic war?"
"Or your son, Tom? Why do you get up of a winter night to ride miles to see some poor woman who will never pay you a penny?"
"Pure habit."
"Nonsense. You go—and Uncle Jim goes—because to go is duty."
"Then I think duty is a woman—that accounts for it, Leila. I retire beaten."
"You are very bad to-day—but make Uncle Jim talk it all out to Aunt
Ann."
"He will, and soon. He has been routed by a dozen excuses. I told him at last that the mill business has leaked out and the village is saying things. I told him it must not come to her except through him, and that he could not now use her health as an excuse for delay. It is strange a man should be so timid."
And still Penhallow lingered, finding more or less of reason in the delays created by the lawyers. Meanwhile he had accepted the command of the 129th Pennsylvania infantry which was being drilled at Harrisburg, so that he was told there was no occasion for haste in assuming charge. But at last he felt that he must no longer delay.
The sun was setting on an afternoon in July when Penhallow, seeing as she sat on the porch how the roses of the spring of health were blooming on his wife's cheeks, said, "I want to talk to you alone, Ann. Can you walk to the river?"
"Yes, I was there yesterday."
The cat-birds, most delightful of the love-poets of summer, were singing in the hedges, and as they walked through the garden Penhallow said, "The rose crop is promising, Ann."
"Yes." She was silent until they sat on the bank above the little river. Then she said, "You are keeping something from me, James. No news can trouble me as much as—as to be sure that I am kept in the dark about your affairs."
"I meant to be frank, Ann, but I have felt so alarmed about your health—"
"You need not be—I can bear anything but not to know—"