"It was just fun," said Tom; "any of the men could have poked it down."
"Cowards," said the girl, tossing back her dark mass of hair and moving away without a look at the discomfited pair.
"I suppose now you will go and tell the Squire," said Tom. He was alarmed.
She turned, "I—a tell-tale!" Her child-code of conduct was imperative. "I am neither a tell-tale nor a coward. 'Tell-tale pick a nail and hang him to a cow's tail!'" and with this well-known declaration of her creed of playground honour, she walked away.
"She'll tell," said Tom.
"She won't," said John.
"Guess I'll go home," said Tom, and left John to his reflections.
They were most disagreeable.
John went into the woods and sat down on a log. "So," he said aloud, "she called me a coward—and I am—I was—I can't bear it. What would my uncle say?" His eyes filled. He brushed away the tears with his sleeve. A sudden remembrance of how good she had been to him, how loyally silent, added to his distress. He longed for a chance to prove that he was not that—that—Eager and yet distrustful, he got up and walked through the melting snow to the cabin, where he lay on the floor thinking, a prey to that fiend imagination, of which he had a larger share than is always pleasant when excuses are needed.
Leila was coldly civil and held her tongue, but for a few days would not go into the woods with him and rode alone or with her uncle. Tom came no more for a week, until self-assured that the Squire had not heard of his behaviour, as he met him on the road with his usual hearty greeting. Ann Penhallow saw that the boy was less happy than usual and suspected some mild difficulty with Leila, but in her wise way said nothing and began to use him for some of her many errands of helpfulness in the village and on the farms, where always he made friends. Seeing at last that the boy was too silent and to her eye unhappy, she talked of it to Mark Rivers. The next day, after school, he said to John, "I want to see that old cabin in the woods. Long as I have lived here I have never been that far. Come and show me the way. I tried once to find it and got lost. We can have a jolly good talk, you and I."
The word of kindly approach was timely. John felt the invitation as a compliment, and was singularly open to the approval his lessons won from this gentle dark-eyed man. "Oh!" he said, "I should like that."
After lunch, Leila, a little penitent, said with unwonted shyness, "The woods are very nice to-day, and I found the first arbutus under the snow."
When John did not respond, she made a further propitiatory advance, "It will soon be time for that hornets' nest, we must go and see."
"What are you about?" said Mrs. Ann; "you will get stung."
"Pursuit of natural history," said Penhallow smiling.
"You are as bad as Leila, James."
"Won't you come?" asked the girl at last.
"Thank you. I regret that I have an engagement with Mr. Rivers," said
John, with the prim manner he was fast losing.
"By George!" murmured Penhallow as he rose.
John looked up puzzled, and his uncle, much amused, went to get his boots and riding-dress. "Wait till I get you on a horse, my Lord Chesterfield," he muttered. "He and Leila must have had a row. What about, I wonder." He asked no questions.
With a renewal of contentment and well-pleased, John called for the rector. They went away into the forest to the cabin.
"And so," said Rivers, "this is where the first Penhallow had his Indian fight. I must ask the Squire."
"I know about it," said John. "Leila told me, and"—he paused, "I saw it."
"Oh! did you? Let's hear." They lay down, and the rector lazily smoked.
"Well, go ahead, Jack, I like stories." He had early rechristened him
Jack, and the boy liked it.
"Well, sir, they saw them coming near to dusk and ran. You see, it was a clearing then; the trees have grown here since. That was at dusk. They barred the door and cut loop-holes between the logs. Next morning the Indians came on. She fired first, and she cried out, 'Oh! James, I've killed a man.'"
"She said that?" asked Rivers.
"Yes, and she wouldn't shoot again until her man was wounded, then she was like a raging lioness."
"A lioness!" echoed Rivers.
"By evening, help came."
"How did you know all this?"
"Oh! Leila told me some—and the rest—well, sir, I saw it. I've been here often."
The rector studied the excited young face. "Would you like to have been there, Jack?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I should have been afraid, and—" Then quickly, "I suppose he was; she was; any one would have been."
"Like as not. He for her, most of all. But there are many kinds of fear,
Jack."
John was silent, and the rector waited. Then the boy broke out, "Leila told me last week I was a coward."
"Indeed! Leila told you that! That wasn't like her, Jack. Why did she say it?"
This was a friendly hearer, whose question John had invited. To-day the human relief of confession was great to the boy. He told the story, in bits, carefully, as if to have it exact were essential. Mark Rivers watched him through his pipe smoke, trying to think of what he could or should say to this small soul in trouble. The boy was lying on the floor looking up, his hands clasped behind his head. "That's all, sir. It's dreadful."
The young rector's directness of character set him on the right path. "I don't know just what to say to you, Jack. You see, you have been taught to be afraid of horses and dogs, of exposure to rain, and generally of being hurt, until—Well, Jack, if your mother had not been an invalid, she would not have educated you to fear, to have no joy in risks. Now you are in more wholesome surroundings—and—in a little while you will forget this small trouble."
The young clergyman felt that in his puzzle he had been rather vague, and added pleasantly, "You have the courage of truth. That's moral courage. Tom would have explained or denied, or done anything to get out of the scrape, if the Squire had come down on him. You would not."
"Oh! thank you," said John. "I'm sorry I troubled you."
"You did in a way; but you did not when you trusted a man who is your friend. Let us drop it. Where are those Indian graves?"
They went out and wandered in the woods, until John said, "Oh! this must be that arbutus Leila talks about, just peeping out from under the snow." They gathered a large bunch.
"It is the first breath of the fragrance of spring," said Rivers.
"Oh! yes, sir. How sweet it is! It does not grow in Europe."
"No, we own it with many other good and pleasant things."
When they came to the house, Leila was dismounting after her ride. John said, "Here Leila, I gathered these for you."
When she said, "Thank you, John," he knew by her smiling face that he was forgiven, and without a word followed her into the hall, still pursued by the thought; but I was afraid. He put aside this trouble for a time, and the wood sports with Leila were once more resumed. What thought of his failure the girl still kept in mind, if she thought of it at all, he never knew, or not for many days. He had no wish to talk of it, but fearfully desired to set himself right with her and with John Penhallow.
One day in early April she asked him to go to the stable and order her horse. He did so, and alone with an unpleasant memory, in the stable-yard he stood still a moment, and then with a sudden impulse threw his cap up on to the roof. He took a moment to regret it, and then saying, "I've got to do it!" he went into the stable and out of the hay-loft on to the sloping roof. He did not dare to wait, but let himself slide down the frozen snow, seized his cap, and knew of a sudden that the smooth ice-coating was an unsuspected peril. He rolled over on his face, straightened himself, and slid to the edge. He clutched the gutter, hung a moment, and dropped some fifteen feet upon the hard pavement. For a moment the shock stunned him. Then, as he lay, he was aware of Billy, who cried, "He's dead! he's dead!" and ran to the house, where he met Mrs. Ann and Leila on the porch. "He's killed—he's dead!"
"Who? Who?" they cried.
"Mr. John, he's dead!"
As Billy ran, the dead got his wits about him, sat up, and, hearing Billy howling, got on his feet. His hands were torn and bleeding, but he was not otherwise damaged. He ran after Billy, and was but a moment behind him.
Mrs. Ann was shaking the simple fellow, vainly trying to learn what had happened. Leila white to the lips was leaning against a pillar. John called out, "I'm all right, aunt. I had a fall—and Billy, do hold your tongue."
Billy cried, "He's not dead!" and fled as he had come.
"My poor boy," said Mrs. Ann, "sit down." He gladly obeyed.
At this moment James Penhallow came downstairs. "What's all this row about, Ann? I heard Billy—Oh, so you're the dead man, John. How did you happen to die?"
"I fell off the stable roof, sir."
"Well, you got off easily." He asked no other questions, to John's relief, but said, "Your hands look as if you had fought our big tom-cat."
John had risen on his uncle's approach. Now Penhallow said, "Sit down. Put some court-plaster on those scratches, Ann, or a postage stamp—or—so—Come, Leila, the horses are here. Run upstairs and get my riding-whip. That fool brought me down in a hurry. When the chimney took fire last year he ran through the village yelling that the house was burned down. Don't let your aunt coddle you, John."
"Do let the boy alone, James."
"Come, Leila," he said.
"I think I won't ride to-day, Uncle Jim."
A faint signal from his wife sent him on his way alone with, "All right,
Leila. Any errands, my dear?"
"No—but please call at the grocer's and ask him why he has sent no sugar—and tell Mrs. Saul I want her. If Pole is in, you might mention that when I order beef I do not want veal."
While John was being plastered and in dread of the further questions which were not asked, Leila went upstairs, and the Squire rode away to the iron-works smiling and pleased. "He'll do," he murmured, "but what the deuce was my young dandy doing on the roof?" The Captain had learned in the army the wisdom of asking no needless questions. "Leila must have been a pretty lively instructor in mischief. By and by, Ann will have it out of the boy, and—I must stop that. Now she will be too full of surgery. She is sure to think Leila had something to do with it." He saw of late that Ann was resolute as to what to him would be a sad loss. Leila was to be sent to school before long—accomplishments! "Damn accomplishments! I have tried to make a boy out of her—now the inevitable feminine appears—she was scared white—and the boy was pretty shaky. I am sure Leila will know all about it." That school business had already been discussed with his wife, and then, he thought, "There is to come a winter in the city, society, and—some nice young man, and so good-bye, my dear comrade. Get up, Brutus." He dismissed his cares as the big bay stretched out in a gallop.
After some surgical care, John was told to go to his room and lie down. He protested that he was in no need of rest, but Ann Penhallow, positive in small ways with every one, including her husband, sent John away with an imperative order, nor on the whole was he sorry to be alone. No one had been too curious. He recognized this as a reasonable habit of the family. And Leila? He was of no mind to be frank with her; and this he had done was a debt paid to John Penhallow! He may not have so put it, but he would not admit to himself that Leila's contemptuous epithet had had any influence on his action. The outcome was a keen sense of happy self-approval. When he had dressed for dinner, feeling pretty sore all over, he found Leila waiting at the head of the stairs.
"John Penhallow, you threw your cap on the roof and went up to get it, you did."
"I did, Leila, but how did you know?"
She smiled and replied, "I—I don't know, John. I am sorry for what I said, and oh! John, Uncle Jim, he was pleased!"
"Do you think so?"
"Yes." She caught his hand and at the last landing let it fall. At dinner, the Squire asked kindly: "Are you all right, my boy?"
"Yes, sir," and that was all.
Mark Rivers, who had heard of this incident from Mrs. Penhallow, and at last from Leila, was alone in a position to comprehend the motives which combined to bring about an act of rashness. The rector had some sympathy with the boy and liked him for choosing a time when no one was present to witness his trial of himself. He too had the good sense like the Squire to ask no questions.
Meanwhile, Tom McGregor came no more, feeling the wound to his pride, but without the urgent need felt by John to set himself in a better position with himself. He would have thought nothing of accepting Leila's challenge, but very much wanted to see the polite girl-boy brought to shame. In fact, even the straightforward Squire, with all his ready cordiality, at times found John's extreme politeness ridiculous at his age, but knew it to be the result of absurd training and the absence of natural association with other and manly boys. To Tom it was unexplained and caused that very common feeling of vague suspicion of some claim to superiority which refined manners imply to those who lack manners altogether.
CHAPTER IV
April passed, the arbutus fragrance was gone, while the maples were putting forth ruddy buds which looked like a prophecy of the distant autumn and made gay with colour the young greenery of spring. Meanwhile, school went on, and John grew stronger and broader in this altogether wholesome atmosphere of outdoor activity and indoor life of kindness and apparently inattentive indifference on the part of his busy uncle.
On an evening late in May, 1856 (John long remembered it), the Squire as usual left their little circle and retired to the library, where he busied himself over matters involving business letters, and then fell to reading in the Tribune the bitter politics of Fremont's contest with Buchanan and the still angry talk over Brooks's assault on Senator Sumner. He foresaw defeat and was with cool judgment aware of what the formation of the Republican Party indicated in the way of trouble to come. The repeal of the Missouri Compromise had years before disturbed his party allegiance, and now no longer had he been able to see the grave question of slavery as Ann his wife saw it. He threw aside the papers, set his table in order, and opening the door called John to come in and pay him a visit. The boy rose surprised. Never once had this over-occupied man talked to him at length and he had never been set free to wander in the tempting wilderness of books, which now and then when James Penhallow was absent were remorselessly dusted by Mrs. Ann and the maid, with dislocating consequences over which James Penhallow growled in belated protest.
John went in, glanced up at the Captain's sword over the mantelpiece, and sat down as desired by the still-needed fire.
"John," said his uncle in his usual direct way, "have you ever been on the back of a horse?"
"Yes, sir, once—in Paris at a riding-school."
"Once! You said 'once'—well?"
"I fell off—mother was with me."
"And you got on again?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
John flushed and hesitated, watched by the dark-eyed Squire. "I was afraid!" He would not say that his mother forbade it.
"What is your name?"
"John, sir," he returned astonished.
"And the rest—the rest, sir," added his uncle abruptly.
John troubled by the soldier's impatient tones said: "Penhallow, sir." He was near to a too emotional display.
"And you, John Penhallow, my brother's son, were afraid?"
"I was." It was only in part true. His mother had forbidden the master to remount him.
"By George!" said Penhallow angrily, "I don't believe you, I can't!"
John rose, "I may be a coward, Uncle James, but I never lie."
Penhallow stood up, "I beg your pardon, John."
"Oh! no, Uncle James. I—please not." He felt as if the tall soldier was humiliating himself, but could not have put it in words.
"I was hasty, my boy. You must, of course, learn to ride. By the way, do you ever read the papers?"
"Not often, sir—hardly ever. They are kept in your library or Aunt
Ann's."
"Well, it is time you did read them. Come in here when you want to be alone—or any time. You won't bother me. Take what books you want, and ask me about the politics of the day. The country is going to the devil, but don't discuss this election with your aunt."
"No, sir." He had gathered from the rector enough to make him understand the warning.
John went out with the idea that this business of learning to ride was somewhere in the future. He was a little disturbed when the next day after breakfast his uncle said, "Come, John, the horses are in the training-ring."
Mrs. Ann said, "James, if you are going to apply West Point riding-school methods to John, I protest."
"Then protest, my dear," he said.
"You will kill him," she returned.
"My dear Ann, I am not going to kill him, I am going to teach him to live. Come, John. I am going to teach him to ride." Raising horses was one of the Squire's amusements, and the training-course where young horses were broken usually got an hour of his busy day.
"May I come?" asked Leila.
"Please, not," said John, anticipating disaster and desiring no amused spectators.
"In a week or so, yes, Leila," said Penhallow, "not now."
There were two stable-boys waiting and a pony long retired on grassy pension. "Now," said Penhallow, "put a foot on my knee and up you go."
"But, there's no saddle."
"There are two. The Lord of horses put one on the back of a horse and another under a man. Up! sir." John got on. "Grip him with your legs, hold on to the mane if you like, but not by the reins." The pony feeling no urgency to move stood still and nibbled the young grass. A smart tap of the Squire's whip started him, and John rolled off.
"Come, sir, get on." The boys from the stable grinned. John set his teeth. "Don't stiffen yourself. That's better."
He fell once again, and at the close of an hour his uncle said, "There that will do for to-day, and not so bad either."
"I'd like to try it again, sir," gasped John.
"You young humbug," laughed Penhallow. "Go and console your distracted aunt. I am off to the mills."
The ex-captain was merciless enough, and day after day John was so stiff that, as he confessed to Leila, a jointed doll was a trifle to his condition. She laughed, "I went through it once, but one day it came."
"What came, Leila?"
"Oh! the joy of the horse!"
"I shall never get to that." But he did, for the hard riding-master scolded, smiled, praised, and when at last John sat in the saddle the bareback lessons gave him a certain confidence. The training went on day after day, under the rule of patient but relentless efficiency. It was far into June when, having backed without serious misadventures two or three well-broken horses, Penhallow mounted him on Leila's mare, Lucy, and set out to ride with him.
"Let us ride to the mills, John." The mare was perfectly gaited and easy.
They rode on, talking horses.
"You will have to manage the mills some day," said Penhallow. "You own quite a fifth of them. Now I have three partners, but some day you and I will run them." The boy had been there before with Rivers, but now the Squire presented him to the foreman and as they moved about explained the machinery. It was altogether delightful, and this was a newly discovered uncle. On the way home the Squire talked of the momentous November elections and of his dread of the future with Buchanan in power, while he led the way through lanes and woods until they came to the farm.
"We will cross the fields," he said, and dismounting took down the upper bars of a fence. Then he rode back a little, and returning took the low fence, crying, "Now, John, sit like a sack—loosely. The mare jumps like a frog; go back a bit. Now, then, give her her head!" For a moment he was in the air as his uncle cried, "You lost a stirrup. Try it again. Oh! that was better. Now, once more, come," and he was over at Penhallow's side. He had found the joy of the horse! "A bit more confidence and practice and you will do. I want you to ride Venus. She shies at a shadow—at anything black. Don't forget that."
"Oh, thank you, Uncle James!"
"It is Uncle Jim now, my boy. I knew from the first you would come out all right. I believe in blood—horses and men. I believe in blood." This was James Penhallow all over. A reticent man, almost as tenderly trustful as a woman, of those who came up to his standards of honour, truth and the courage which rightly seemed to him the backbone of all the virtues.
What John thought may be readily imagined. Accustomed to be considered and flattered, his uncle's quiet reserve had seemed to him disappointing, and now of late this abrupt praise and accepting comradeship left the sensitive lad too grateful for words. The man at his side was wise enough to say no more, and they rode home and dismounted without further speech.
After dinner John sought a corner with Leila, where he could share with her his new-born enthusiasm about horses. The Squire called to the rector and Mrs. Ann to come into his library. "Sit down, Mark," he said, "I am rash to invite you; both you and Ann bore me to death with your Sunday schools and the mill men who won't come to church. I don't hear our Baptist friend complain."
"But he does," said Rivers.
"I do not wonder," said Ann, "that they will not attend the chapel."
"If," said Penhallow, "you were to swap pulpits, Mark, it would draw. There are many ways—oh, I am quite in earnest, Ann. Don't put on one of your excommunicating looks. I remember once in Idaho at dusk, I had two guides. They were positive, each of them, that certain trails would lead to the top. I tossed up which to go with. It was pretty serious—Indians and so on—I'll tell you about it some time, rector. Well, we met at dawn on the summit. How about the moral, Ann?"
Ann Penhallow laughed. In politics, morals and religion, she held unchanging sentiments. "My dear James, people who make fables supply the morals. I decline."
"Very good, but you see mine."
"I never see what I do not want to see," which was pretty close to the truth.
"The fact is," said Rivers, "I have preaccepted the Squire's hint. Grace is sick again. I tell him it is that last immersion business. I have promised to preach for him next Sunday, as your young curate at the mills wants to air his eloquence here."
"Not really!" said Mrs. Ann, "at his chapel?"
"Yes, and I mean to use a part of our service."
"If the Bishop knew it."
"If! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad I did it."
Mrs. Ann totally disapproved. She took up her knitting and said no more, while Rivers and Penhallow talked of a disturbance at the works of no great moment. The rector noticed Mrs. Penhallow's sudden loss of interest in their talk and her failure to comment on his statement, an unusual thing with this woman, who, busy-minded as the bee, gathered honey of interest from most of the affairs of life. In a pause of the talk he turned to her, "I am sorry to have annoyed you," he said—"I mean about preaching for Grace."
"But why do you do it?"
"Because," he returned, "my Master bids me. Over and over one finds in His Word that he foreknew how men would differ and come to worship Him and use His revelations in ways which would depend on diversity of temperaments, or under the leadership of individual minds of great force. It may be that it was meant that we should disagree, and yet—I—yet as to essentials we are one. That I never can forget."
"Then," she said quickly, "you are of many creeds."
"No and yes," he returned smiling. "In essentials yes, in ceremonial usage no; in some other morsels of belief held by others charitably dubious—I dislike argument about religion in the brief inadequateness of talk—especially with you from whom I am apt to differ and to whom I owe so much—so very much."
She took up her knitting again as she said, "I am afraid the balance of debt is on our side."
"Then," said Penhallow, who, too, disliked argument on religion, "if you have got through with additions to the useless squabbles of centuries, which hurt and never help, I—"
"But," broke in his wife, "I have had no answer."
"Oh, but you have, Ann; for me, Rivers is right."
"Then I am in a minority of one," she returned, "but I have not had my say."
"Well, dear, keep it for next time. Now I want, as I said, a little counsel about John."
"And about Leila, James. Something has got to be done."
The Squire said ruefully, "Yes, I suppose so. I do not know that anything needs to be done. You saw John's condition before dinner. He had a swollen nose and fair promise of a black eye. I asked you to take no notice of it. I wanted first to hear what had happened. I got Leila on the porch and extracted it by bits. It seems that Tom was rude to Leila."
"I never liked your allowing him to play with the children, James."
"But the boy needs boy-company."
"And what of Leila? She needs girl-company."
"I fear," said Rivers, "that may be the case."
"It is so," said Mrs. Ann decisively, pleased with his support. "What happened, James?"
"I did not push Leila about what Tom did. John slapped his face and got knocked down. He got up and went at Tom like a wildcat. Tom knocked him down again and held him. He said that John must say he had had enough."
"He didn't," said Rivers, "I am sure he didn't."
"No, Mark, he said he would die first, which was what he should have said. Then Billy had the sense to pull the big boy off, and as Leila was near tears I asked no more questions. It was really most satisfactory."
"How can you say that?" said his wife. "It was brutal."
"You do not often misunderstand me, Ann. I mean, of course, that our boy did the right thing. How does it strike you, Mark?"
He had a distinct intention to get the rector into trouble. "Not this time, Squire," and he laughed. "The boy did what his nature bade him. Of course, being a nice little boy, he should have remonstrated. There are several ways—"
"Thanks," said Penhallow. "Of course, Ann, the playing with Tom will end.
I fancy there is no need to interfere."
"He should be punished for rudeness to Leila," said Mrs. Penhallow.
"Oh, well, he's a rough lad and like enough sorry. How can I punish him without making too much of a row."
"You are quite right, as I see it," said Rivers. "Let it drop; but, indeed, it is true that Leila should have other than rough lads as school-companions."
"Oh, Lord! Rivers."
"I am glad to agree with you at least about one thing," said Mrs. Penhallow. "In September John will be sixteen, and Leila a year or so younger. She is now simply a big, daring, strong boy."
"If you think that, Ann, you are oddly mistaken."
"I am," she said; "I was. It was only one end of my reasons why she must go to school. Before John came and when we had cousins here—girls, she simply despised them or led them into dreadful scrapes."
"Well, Ann, we will talk it over another time."
Rivers smiled and Ann Penhallow went out, longing to attend to the swollen face now bent low over a book. The two men she left smoked in such silence as is one of the privileges of friendship. At last Penhallow said, "Of course, Mark, my wife is right, but I shall miss the girl. My wife cannot ride with me, and now I am to lose Leila. After school come young men. Confound it, rector, I wish the girl had less promise of beauty—of—well, all the Greys have it—attractiveness for our sex. Some of them are fools, but they have it all the same, and they keep it to the end. What is most queer about it is that they are not easily won. The men who trouble hearts for a game do not win these women."
"Some one will suffer," said Rivers reflectively. He wondered if the wooing of Ann Grey by this masterful man had been a long one. A moment he gave to remembrance of his own long and tender care of the very young wife he had won easily and seen fade with terrible slowness as her life let fall its joys as it were leaf by leaf, with bitter sense of losing the fair heritage of youth. Now he said, "Were all these women, Squire, who had the gift of bewitchment, good?"
"No, now and then hurtful, or honest gentlewomen, or like Ann Grey too entirely good for this wicked world—"
"As Westways knows," said Rivers, thinking how the serene beauty of a life of noble ways had contributed spiritual charm to whatever Ann Penhallow had of attractiveness. "But," he went on, "Leila cannot go until the fall, and you will still have the boy. I had my doubts of your method of education, but it has worked well. He has a good mind and is so far ahead of his years in education that he will be ready for college too early."
"Well, I hate to think of these changes. He must learn to box."
"Another physical virtue to be added," laughed Rivers.
"Yes, he must learn to face these young country fellows." After a brief pause he added, "I am looking forward to Buchanan's nomination and election, Mark, with anxiety. Both North and South are losing temper."
"Yes, but shall you vote for him? I presume you have always been a
Democrat, more or less—less of late."
"I shall vote for Fremont if he is nominated; not wholly a wise choice. I am tired of what seems like an endless effort North and South, to add more exasperations. It will go on and on. Each section seems to want to make the other angry."
"It is not Mrs. Penhallow's opinion, I fear. The wrongdoing is all on our side."
Said the Squire gravely, "That is a matter, Mark, we never now discuss—the one matter. Her brothers in Maryland, are at odds. One at least is bitter, as I gather from their letters."
"Well, after the election things will quiet down, as usual."
"They will not, Mark. I know the South. Unhappily they think we live by the creed of day-book and ledger. We as surely misunderstand them, and God alone knows what the future holds for us."
This was unusual talk for Penhallow. He thought much, but talked little, and his wife's resolute attitude of opinions held from youth was the one trouble of an unusually happy life.
"We can only hope for the best," said Rivers. "Time is a great peacemaker."
"Or not," returned his host as Rivers rose. "Just a word, Mark, before you go. I am desirous that you should not misunderstand me in regard to my politics. I see that slavery is to be more and more in question. My own creed is, 'let it alone, obey the laws, return the runaways,—oh! whether you like it or not,—but no more slave territory.' And for me, my friend, the States are one country and above all else, above slave questions, is that of an unbroken union. I shall vote for Fremont. I cannot go to party meetings and speak for him because, Mark, I am in doubt about the man, and because—oh! you know."
Yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve. The Squire of Grey Pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of defence.
"The humorous side of it," he said, "is that my very good wife has been doing some pretty ardent electioneering while I am sitting still, because to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out and declare my whole political religion of which I am not quite secure enough to talk freely."
The young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes.
"I may, Mark, I may do no more than let it be known how I shall vote.
That is all. It will be of use. I could wish to do more. I think that
here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for Buchanan, but why
I cannot see."
Mrs. Ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the South.
"Of course, Mark, my change of opinion will excite remark. Whoever wins,
I shall be uneasy about the future. Must you go? Good-night."
He went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe, dismissing the subject for the time. On his return, he found John in the library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece. "Well, Jack," he said, "a penny for your thoughts."
"Oh; I was thinking what the sword had seen."
"I hope it will see no more, but it may—it may. Now I want to say a word to you. You had a fight with Tom McGregor and got the worst of it."
"I did."
"I do not ask why. You seem to have shown some pluck."
"I don't know, uncle. I was angry, and I just slapped his face. He deserved it."
"Very well, but never slap. I suppose that is the French schoolboy way of fighting. Hit hard—get in the first blow."
"Yes, sir. I hadn't a chance."
"You must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword. I have spoken to Sam, the groom. I saw him last year in a bout with the butcher's boy. After he has knocked you about for a month, you will be better able to take care of the Penhallow nose."
"I shall like that."
"You won't, but it will help to fill out your chest." Then he laughed,
"Did you ever get that cane?"
"No, sir. Billy found it. Leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and now she won't give it to me."
"Well, well, is that so? The ways of women are strange."
"I don't see why she keeps it, uncle."
"Nor I. Now go to bed, it is late. She is a bit of a tease, John. Mark
Rivers says she is now just one half of the riddle called woman."
John understood well enough that he was some day expected by his uncle to have it out with Tom. He got two other bits of advice on this matter. The rector detained him after school, a few days later. "How goes the swimming, John?" he asked.
The Squire early in the summer had taken this matter in hand, and as Ann Penhallow said, with the West Point methods of kill or cure. John replied to the rector that he was now given leave to swim with the Westways boys. The pool was an old river-channel, now closed above, and making a quiet deep pool such as in England is called a "backwater" and in Canada a "bogan." The only access was through the Penhallow grounds, but this was never denied.
"Does Tom McGregor swim there?" asked Rivers.
"Yes, and the other boys. It is great fun now; it was not at first."
"About Tom, John. I hope you have made friends with him."
Said John, with something of his former grown-up manner, "It appears to me that we never were friends. I regret, sir, that it seems to you desirable."
"But, John, it is. For two Christian lads like you to keep up a quarrel—"
"He's a heathen, sir. I told him yesterday that he ought to apologize to
Leila."
"And what did he say?"
"He said, he guessed I wanted another licking. That's the kind of
Christian he is."
"I must speak to him."
"Oh, please not to do that! He will think I am afraid." Here were the
Squire and Rivers on two sides of this question.
"Are you afraid, John? You were once frank with me about it."
"I do not think, Mr. Rivers, you ought to ask me that." He drew up his figure as he spoke.
The rector would have liked to have whistled—a rare habit with him when alone and not in one of his moods of depression. He said, "I beg your pardon, John," and felt that he had not only done no good, but had made a mistake.
John said, "I am greatly obliged, sir." When half-way home he went back and met Rivers at his gate.
"Well," said the rector, "left anything?"
"No, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up. "I wasn't honest, sir." And again with his old half-lost formal way, "I—I—you might have thought—I wasn't—quite honourable. I mean—I'll never be able to forgive that blackguard until I can—can get even with him. You see, sir?"
"Yes, I see," said Rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what to say. "Well, think it over, John. He is more a rough cub than a blackguard. Think it over."
"Yes, sir," and John walked away.
The rector looked after the boy thinking—he's the Squire all over, with more imagination, a gentleman to the core. But how wonderfully changed, and in only eight months.
John was now, this July, allowed to ride with Leila when his uncle was otherwise occupied. He had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not spared advice from Leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress of equestrianism. She was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly resentful state of mind.
"Don't pull on him so hard, John. The great thing is to get intimate with a horse's mouth. He's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff, you wouldn't feel it."
John began to be a little impatient. "Let us talk of something else than horses. I got a good dose of advice yesterday from Uncle Jim. I am afraid that you will be sent to school in the fall. I hate schools. You'll have no riding and snowballing, and I shall miss you. You see, I was never friends with a girl before."
"Uncle Jim would never let me go."
"But Aunt Ann?" he queried. "I heard her tell Mr. Rivers that you must go. She said that you were too old, or would be, for snowballing and rough games and needed the society of young ladies."
"Young ladies!" said Leila scornfully. "We had two from Baltimore year before last. I happened to hit one of them in the eye with a snowball, and she howled worse than Billy when he plays bear."
"Oh, you'll like it after a while," he said, with anticipative wisdom, "but I shall be left to play with Tom. I want you to miss me. It is too horrid."
"I shall miss you; indeed, I shall. I suppose I am only a girl, but I won't forget what you did when that boy was rude. I used to think once you were like a girl and just afraid. I never yet thanked you," and she leaned over and laid a hand for a moment on his. "I believe you wouldn't be afraid now to do what I dared you to do."
He laughed. There had been many such dares. "Which dare was it, Leila?"
"Oh, to go at night—at night to the Indian graves. I tried it once and got half way—"
"And was scalped all the way back, I suppose."
"I was, John. Try it yourself."
"I did, a month after I came."
"Oh! and you never told me."
"No, why should I?"
It had not had for him the quality of bodily peril. It was somehow far less alarming. He had started with fear, but was of no mind to confess. They rode on in silence, until at last she said. "I hope you won't fight that boy again."
"Oh," he said, "I didn't mind it so very much."
She was hinting that he would again be beaten. "But I minded, John. I hated it."
He would say no more. He had now had, as concerned Tom, three advisers. He kept his own counsel, with the not unusual reticence of a boy. He did not wish to be pitied on account of what he did not consider defeat, and wanted no one to discuss it. He was better pleased when a week later the English groom talked to him after the boxing-lesson. "That fellow, Tom, told me about your slapping him. He said that he didn't want to lick you if you hadn't hit him."
"It's not a thing I want to talk about, Sam. I had to hit him and I didn't know how; that's all. Put on the gloves again."
"There, that'll do, sir. You're light on your pins, and he's sort of slow. If you ever have to fight him, just remember that and keep cool and keep moving."
The young boxing-tutor was silently of opinion that John Penhallow would not be satisfied until he had faced Tom again. John made believe, as we say, that he had no such desire. He had, however, long been caressed and flattered into the belief that he was important, and was, in his uncle's army phrase, to be obeyed and respected accordingly by inferiors. His whole life now for many months had, however, contributed experiences contradictory to his tacitly accepted boy-views. Sometimes in youth the mental development and conceptions of what seem desirable in life appear to make abrupt advances without apparent bodily changes. More wholesomely and more rarely at the plastic age characteristics strengthen and mind and body both gather virile capacity. When John Penhallow met his cousin on his first arrival, he was in enterprise, vigour, general good sense and normal relation to life, really far younger than Leila. In knowledge, mind and imagination, he was far in advance. In these months he had passed her in the race of life. He felt it, but in many ways was also dimly aware that Leila was less expressively free in word and action, sometimes to his surprise liking to be alone at the age when rare moods of mild melancholy trouble the time of rapid female florescence. There was still between them acceptance of equality, with on his part a certain growth of respectful consideration, on hers a gentle perception of his gain in manliness and of deference to his experience of a world of which she knew as yet nothing, but with some occasional resentment when the dominating man in the boy came to the surface. When his aunt praised his manners, Leila said, "He isn't always so very gentle." When his uncle laughed at his awkward horsemanship, she defended him, reminding her uncle, to his amusement, of her own early mishaps.
CHAPTER V
John's intimacy with the Squire prospered. Leila had been a gay comrade, but not as yet so interested as to tempt him to discussion of the confusing politics of the day. "She has not as yet a seeking mind," said the rector, who in the confessional of the evening pipe saw more and more plainly that this was a divided house. The Squire could not talk politics with Ann, his wife. She held a changeless belief in regard to slavery, a conviction of its value to owner and owned too positive to be tempted into discussing it with people who knew so little of it and did not agree with her. James Penhallow, like thousands in that day of grim self-questioning, had been forced to reconsider opinions long held, and was reaching conclusions which he learned by degrees made argument with the simplicity of his wife's political creed more and more undesirable. Leila was too young to be interested. The rector was intensely anti-slavery and saw but one side of the ominous questions which were bewildering the largest minds. The increasing interest in his nephew was, therefore, a source of real relief to the uncle. Meanwhile, the financial difficulties of the period demanded constant thought of the affairs of the mills and took him away at times to Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Thus the summer ran on to an end. Buchanan and Breckenridge had been nominated and the Republicans had accepted Fremont and Dayton.
Birthdays were always pleasantly remembered at Grey Pine, and on September 20th, when John, aged sixteen, came down to breakfast, as he took his seat Ann came behind him and said as she kissed him, "You are sixteen to-day; here is my present."
The boy flushed with pleasure as he received a pair of silver spurs. "Oh! thank you, Aunt Ann," he cried as he rose.
"And here is mine," said Leila, and laughing asked with both hands behind her back, "Which hand, John?"
"Oh! both—both."
"No."
"Then the one nearest the heart." Some quick reflection passed through
Ann Penhallow's mind of this being like an older man's humour.
Leila gave him a riding-whip. He had a moment's return of the grown-up courtesies he had been taught, and bowed as he thanked her, saying, "Now, I suppose, I am your knight, Aunt Ann."
"And mine," said Leila.
"I do not divide with any one," said Mrs. Ann. "Where is your present,
James?"
He had kept his secret. "Come and see," he cried. He led them to the porch. "That is mine, John." A thorough-bred horse stood at the door, saddled and bridled. Ann thought the gift extravagant, but held her tongue.
"Oh, Uncle Jim," said John. His heart was too full for the words he wanted to say. "For me—for me." He knew what the gift meant.
"You must name him," said Leila. "I rode him once, John. He has no name.
Uncle Jim said he should have no name until he had an owner. Now I know."
John stood patting the horse's neck. "Wasn't his mother a Virginia mare,
James?" said Ann.
"Yes."
"Oh, then call him Dixy."
For a moment the Squire was of a mind to object, but said gaily, "By all means, Ann, call him Dixy if you like, and now breakfast, please." Here they heard Dixy's pedigree at length.
"Above all, Jack, remember that Dixy is of gentle birth; make friends with him. He may misbehave; never, sir, lose your temper with him. Be wary of use of whip or spur."
There was more of it, until Mrs. Ann said, "Your coffee will be cold. It is one of your uncle's horse-sermons."
John laughed. How delightful it all was! "May I ride today with you, uncle?"
"Yes, I want to introduce you to—Dixy—yes—"
"And may I ride with you?" asked Leila.
"No, my dear," said the aunt, "I want you at home. There is the raspberry jam and currant jelly and tomato figs."
"Gracious, Leila, we shall not have a ride for a week."
"Oh, not that bad, John," said Mrs. Ann, "only two days and—and Sunday. After that you may have her, and I shall be glad to be rid of her. She eats as much as she preserves."
"Oh! Aunt Ann."
A few days went by, and as it rained in the afternoon there was no riding, but there was the swimming-pool, and for rain John now cared very little. On his way he met a half dozen village lads. They swam, and hatched (it was John's device) a bit of mischief involving Billy, who was fond of watching their sports when he was tired of doing chores about the stable. John heard of it later. The likelihood of unpleasant results from their mischief was discussed as they walked homeward. There were in all five boys from the village, with whom by this time John had formed democratic intimacies and moderate likings which would have shocked his mother. He had had no quarrels since long ago he had resented Tom McGregor's rudeness to Leila and had suffered the humiliation of defeat in his brief battle with the bigger boy. The easy victor, Tom, had half forgotten or ignored it, as boys do. Now as they considered an unpleasant situation, Joe Grace, the son of the Baptist preacher, broke the silence. He announced what was the general conclusion, halting for emphasis as he spoke.
"I say, fellows, there will be an awful row."
"That's so," said William, the butcher's son.
"Anyhow," remarked Ashton, whose father was a foreman at the mills, "it was great fun; didn't think Billy could run like that."
It will be observed that the young gentleman of ten months ago had become comfortably democratic in his associations and had shed much of his too-fine manners as the herding instincts of the boy made the society of comrades desirable when Leila's company was not attainable.
"Oh!" he said, "Billy can run, but I had none of the fun." Then he asked anxiously, "Did Billy get as far as the house?"
"You bet," said Baynton, the son of the carpenter, "I saw him, heard him shout to the Squire. Guess it's all over town by this time."
"Anyhow it was you, John, set it up," said a timid little boy, the child of the blacksmith.
"That's so," said Grace, "guess you'll catch it hot."
John considered the last spokesman with scorn as Tom, his former foe, said, "Shut up, Joe Grace, you were quick enough to go into it—and me too."
"Thanks," said John, reluctantly acknowledging the confession of partnership in the mischief, "I am glad one of you has a little—well, honour."
They went on their way in silence and left him alone. Nothing was said of the matter at the dinner-table, where to John's relief Mr. Rivers was a guest. John observed, however, that Mrs. Ann had less of her usual gaiety, and he was not much surprised when his uncle leaving the table said, "Come into the library, John." The Captain lighted his pipe and sat down.
"Now, sir," he said, "Billy is a poor witness. I desire to hear what happened."
The stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy. He stood for a moment silent. The Captain, impatient, exclaimed, "Now, I want the simple truth and nothing else."
The boy felt himself flush. "I do not lie, sir. I always tell the truth."
"Of course—of course," returned Penhallow. "This thing has annoyed me.
Sit down and tell me all about it."
Rather more at his ease John said, "I went to swim with some of the village boys, sir. We played tag in the water—"
The Squire had at once a divergent interest, "Tag—tag—swimming? Who invented that game? Good idea—how do you play it?"
John a little relieved continued, "You see, uncle, you can dive to escape or come up under a fellow to tag him. It's just splendid!" he concluded with enthusiasm.
Then the Captain remembered that this was a domestic court-martial, and self-reminded said, "The tag has nothing to do with the matter in question; go on."
"We got tired and sat on the bank. Billy was wandering about. He never can keep still. I proposed that I should hide in the bushes and the boys should tell Billy I was drowned."
"Indeed!"
"We went into the water; I hid in the bushes and the boys called out I was drowned. When Billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and my shoes, and before I could get out he just yelled, 'John's drowned, I must take his clothes home to his poor aunt.' Then he ran. The last I heard was, 'He's drowned, he's drowned!'"
"And then?"
"Well, the other fellows put on something and went after him; they caught him in the cornfield and took away my clothes. Then Billy ran to the house. That is all I know."
The Squire was suppressing his mirth. "Aren't you ashamed?"
"No, sir, but I am sorry."
"I don't like practical jokes. Billy kept on lamenting your fate. He might have told Leila or your aunt. Luckily I received his news, and no one else. You will go to Westways and say there is to be no swimming for a week in my pool."
"Yes, sir."
"You are not to ride Dixy or any other horse for ten days." This was terrible. "Now, be off with you, and tell Mr. Rivers to come in."
"Yes, sir."
When Rivers sat down, the Squire suppressing his laughter related the story. "The boy's coming on, Mark. He's Penhallow all over."
"But, Squire, by the boy's looks I infer you did not tell him that."
"Oh, hardly. I hate practical jokes, and I have stopped his riding for ten days."
"I suppose you are right," and they fell to talking politics and of the confusion of parties with three candidates in the field.
Mrs. Ann who suspected what had been the result of this court-martial was disposed towards pity, but John retired to a corner and a book and slipped away to bed early. Penalties he had suffered at school, but this was a terrible experience, and now he was to let the other boys know that the swimming-pool was closed for a week. At breakfast he made believe to be contented in mind, and asked in his best manner if his uncle had any errands for him in Westways or at the mills. When the Captain said no and remarked further that if he wished to walk, he would find the wood-roads cooler than the highway John expressed himself grateful for his advice with such a complete return of his formal manner as came near to unmasking the inner amusement which the Squire was getting from the evident annoyance he was giving Mrs. Ann, who thought that he was needlessly irritating a boy who to her mind was hurt and sore.
"Come, Leila," she said rising. "We may meet you in the village, John; and do get your hair cut, and see Mr. Spooner and tell him—no, I will write it."
John was pleased to feel that he had other reasons for visiting Westways than his uncle's order. He went down the avenue whistling, and in no hurry.
Leila had some dim comprehension of John's state of mind. Of Billy and of the Squire's court-martial she had heard from Mrs. Ann, and although that lady said little, the girl very well knew that her aunt thought her husband had been too severe. She stood on the porch, vaguely troubled for this comrade, and watched him as he passed from view, taking a short cut through the trees. The girl checked something like a sob as she went into the house.
It was the opinion of the county that Mrs. Penhallow was a right good woman and masterful; but of Leila the judgment of the village was that she was just sweet through and through. The rector said she radiated the good-nature of perfect health. What more there was time would show. Westways knew well these two young people, and Leila was simply Leila to nearly every one. "Quite time," reflected Mrs. Ann, "that she was Miss Leila." As she went with her through the town there were pleasant greetings, until at last they came to the butcher's. Mr. Pole, large after the way of his craft, appeared in a white apron. "Well, now, how you do grow, Leila."
"Not enough yet," said Leila.
"Fine day, Mrs. Penhallow." He was a little uneasy, divining her errand.
"Now, Pole, before I make a permanent change to the butcher at the mills, I wish to say that it is because a pound of beef weighs less at Grey Pine than in your shop."
At this time John was added to the hearers, being in search of William Pole with the Squire's order about the swimming. He waited until his aunt should be through. He was a little amused, which on the whole was, just then, good for him.
"Now ma'am, after all these years you won't drop me like that."
"Short weights are reason enough."
Leila listened, sorry for Pole, who reddened and replied, "Fact is, ma'am, I don't always do the weighing myself, and the boys they are real careless. What with Hannah's asthma keeping me awake and a lot of fools loafing around and talking politics, I do wonder I ever get things right. It's Fremont and it's Buchanan—a man can't tell what to do."
Mrs. Penhallow was not usually to be turned aside, and meant now to deal out even justice. But if the butcher knew it or not, she was offered what she liked and at home could not have. "I hope, Pole, you are not going to vote for Fremont."
"Well, ma'am, it ain't easy to decide. I've always followed the Squire."
Ann Penhallow knew, alas! what this would mean.
"I've been thinking I'll stand to vote for Buchanan. Was you wanting a saddle of lamb to-day? I have one here, and a finer I never saw."
"Well, Pole, keep your politics and your weights in order. Send me the lamb."
The butcher smiled as Mrs. Ann turned away. Whether the lady of Grey Pine was conscious of having bought a vote or not, it was pretty clear to her nephew that Peter Pole's weights would not be further questioned as long as his politics were Democratic.
When his aunt had gone, John called Bill Pole out of the shop and said, "There's to be no swimming for a week, for any of us. Where are the other fellows?"
"Guessed we would catch it. They're playing ball back of the church. I'll go along with you."
He was pleased to see how the others would take their deprivation of a swim in the September heat. They came on the other culprit's, who called to John to come and play. He was not so minded, and was in haste to get through with a disagreeable errand. As he hesitated, Pole eager to distribute the unpleasant news cried out, "The Squire says that we can't swim in the pool for a week—none of us. How do you fellows like that?"
"It's mighty mean of him."
"What's that?" said John. "He was right and you know it. I don't like it any better than you do—but—"
Bill Baynton, the youngest boy, broke in, "Who told the Squire what fellows was in it?"
"It wasn't Billy," said another lad; "he just kept on yelling you was dead."
"Look here," said Tom McGregor turning to John, "did you tell the Squire we fellows set it up?"
John was insulted. He knew well the playground code of honour, but remembered in time his boxing-master's advice, the more mad you are the cooler you keep yourself. He replied in his old formal way, "The question is one you have no right to ask; it is an insult."
To the boys the failure to say "no" meant evasion. "Then, of course, you told," returned the older lad. "If I wasn't afraid you'd run home and complain, I'd spank you."
It had been impossible for John to be angry with his uncle, although the punishment and the shame of carrying the news to the other boys he felt to be a too severe penalty. But here was cause for letting loose righteous anger. He had meant to wait, having been wisely counselled by his boxing-master to be in no haste to challenge his enemy, until further practice had made success possible; but now his rising wrath overcame his prudence, "Well, try it," he said. "You beat me once. If you think I'll tell if I am licked, I assure you, you are safe. I took the whole blame about Billy and I was asked no names."
Tom hesitated and said, "I never heard that."
"I will accept an apology," said John in his most dignified way. The boys laughed. John flushed a little, and as Tom remained silent added, "If you won't, then lick me if you can."
As he spoke, he slipped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The long lessons in self-defence had given him some confidence and, what was as useful, had developed chest and arms.
"Hit him, Tom," said the small boy. In a moment the fight was on, the non-combatants delighted.
To Tom's surprise his wild blows somehow failed to get home. It was characteristic of John then as in later days that he became cool as he realized his danger, while Tom quite lost his head as the success of the defence disappointed his attack. To hit hard, to rush in and throw his enemy, was all he had of the tactics of offence. The younger lad, untouched, light on his feet, was continually shifting his ground; then at last he struck right and left. He had not weight enough to knock down his foe, but as Tom staggered, John leaped aside and felt the joy of battle as he got in a blow under the ear and Tom fell.
"Get on him—hit him," cried the boys. "By George, if he ain't licked!"
John stood still. Tom rose, and as he made a furious rush at the victor, a loud voice called out, "Halloa! quit that."
Both boys stood still as Mark Rivers climbed over the fence and stood between them. John was not sorry for the interruption. He was well aware that in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough to encounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. He stood still panting, smiling, and happy.
"Hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. Tom, furious, was collecting blood from his nose on his handkerchief. Neither boy spoke. "Well, John," said Rivers waiting.
"I'll shake hands, sir, when Tom apologizes."
The rector smiled. Apologies were hardly understood as endings to village fights. "He won't do it," said John with a glance at the swollen face; "another time I'll make him."
"Will you!" exclaimed Tom.
The rector felt that on the whole it might have been better had they fought it out. Now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "You are a nice pair of young Christians," he said. "At all events, you shall not fight any more to-day. Come, John."
The boy put on his jacket and went away with Rivers, who asked presently what was this about. "Mr. Rivers, soon after I came that fellow was rough to Leila; I hit him, and he beat me like—like a dog."
"And you let all these suns go down upon your wrath?"
"There wasn't any wrath, sir. He wouldn't apologize to Leila; he wouldn't do it."
"Oh! indeed."
"Then he said something to-day about Uncle Jim."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, he made it pretty clear that he thought me a liar."
"Well, but you knew you were not."
"Yes, sir, but he didn't appear to know."
"Do you think you convinced him?"
"No, sir, but I feel better."
"Ah! is that so? Morally better, John?" and he laughed as he bade him good-bye.
The lad who left him was tired, but entirely satisfied with John
Penhallow. He went to the stable and had a technical talk with the
English groom, who deeply regretted not to have seen the fight.
There being no riding or swimming to fill the time, he took a net, some tackle and a bucket, and went down to the river and netted a "hellbender." He put him in a bucket of water and carried him to the stable, where he was visited by Leila and Rivers, and later departed this life, much lamented. In the afternoon, being in a happy mood, John easily persuaded Leila to abandon her ride, and walk with him.