CHAPTER XV
When at breakfast on a Monday morning Penhallow said, "That mail is lateagain," his wife knew that he was still eager for news from John.
"The mail is always late on Monday morning, James. If you are in haste toget to the mills, I will send it after you."
"No, it is unimportant, Ann. Another cup, please. Ah! there it is now."He went out on to the porch. "You are late, Billy."
"I ain't late--it was Mrs. Crocker--she kept me."
Penhallow selected two letters postmarked West Point, and opening one ashe went in to the breakfast-room, said, "My dear, it is rathersatisfactory--quite as much as could be expected."
"Well, James! What is rather satisfactory? You are really exasperating attimes."
"Am I? Well, John has passed in the first half dozen--he does not yetknow just where--"
"And are you not entirely contented? You ought to be. What is the otherletter?"
He opened it. "It is only a line from the old drawing-master to say thatJohn did well and would have been second or third, they said, except fornot being higher in mathematics." As he spoke he rose and put bothletters in his pocket. "Now I must go."
"But let me see them, James."
"Oh, John's is only a half dozen lines, and I must go at once--I have anappointment at the mills--I want to look over the letters again, andshall write to him from the office." Ann was slightly annoyed, but saidno more until on the porch before he mounted she took a mild revenge."I know where you are going."
"Well, and where, please?" He fell into her trap.
"First, you will stop at the rectory and read those letters to MarkRivers; then the belated mail will excuse a pause at the post-office toscold Mrs. Crocker. Tell Pole as you go by that last mutton wasatrociously tough. Of course, you won't mention John."
"Well, are you done?" he said, as he mounted Dixy. "I can wait, Ann,until you read the letters."
"Thanks, I am in no hurry." He turned in the saddle and gave her theletters. She put aside her brief feeling of annoyance and stood besidehim as she read them. "Thank you, James. What an uneasy old uncle youare. Now go. Oh, be off with you--and don't forget Dr. McGregor." As herode away, she called after him, "James--James--I forgot something."
He turned, checking Dixy. "Oh, I forgot to say that you must not forgetthe office clerks, because you know they are all so fond of John."
"What a wretch you are, Ann Penhallow! Go in and repent."
"I don't," and laughing, joyously, she stood and looked after the tallfigure as he rode away happy and gaily singing, as he was apt to do ifpleased, the first army carol the satisfaction of the moment suggested:
Come out to the stableAs soon as you 're able,And see that the horsesThat they get some corn.For if you don't do it,The colonel will know it,And then you will rue itAs sure as you're born.
"Ah!" said his wife, "how he goes back--always goes back--to the wildarmy life when something pleases him. Thank God that can never comeagain." She recalled her first year of married life, the dull garrisonroutine, the weeks of her husband's absences, and when the troop cameback and there were empty saddles and weeping women.
At dinner the Squire must needs drink the young cadet's health andexpress to Rivers his regret that there was not a West Point for Leila.Mrs. Ann was of opinion that she had had too much of it already. Riversagreed with his hostess, and in one of his darkest days won the privilegeof long silences by questioning the Squire in regard to the studies andlife at West Point, while Mrs. Ann more socially observant than herhusband saw how moody was Rivers and with what effort he manufacturedan appearance of interest in the captain's enthusiasm concerningeducative methods at the great army school. She was relieved when hecarried off Rivers to the library.
"It is chilly, Mark; would you like a fire?" he asked.
"Yes, I am never too warm."
The Squire set the logs ablaze. "No pipe, Mark?"
"Not yet." He stretched out his lean length before the ruddy birch blazeand was silent. The Squire watched him and made no attempt to disturb thedeep reverie in which the young clergyman remained. At last the greatgrey eyes turned from the fire, and Rivers sat up in his chair, as hesaid, "You must have seen how inconsiderately I have allowed mydepression to dismiss the courtesies of life. I owe you and my dear Mrs.Penhallow both an apology and an explanation."--
"But really, Mark--"
"Oh, let me go on. I have long wanted to talk myself out, and as often mycourage has failed. I have had a most unhappy life, Penhallow. All thepleasant things in it--the past few years--have been given me here. Imarried young--"
"One moment, Mark. Before you came to us the Bishop wrote me inconfidence of your life. Not even Mrs. Penhallow has seen that letter."
"Then you knew--but not all. Now I have had a sad relief. He told youof--well, of my life, of my mother's hopeless insanity--and the rest."
"Yes--yes--all, I believe--all."
"Not quite all. I have spent a part at least of every August with her;now at last she is dead. But my family story has left with me the fear ofdying like my brothers or of becoming as she became. When I came to you Iwas a lonely soul, sick in mind and weak in body. I am better--farbetter--and now with some renewal of hope and courage I shall face myworld again. You have had--you will have charity for my days ofmelancholy. I never believed that a priest should marry--and yet Idid. I suffered, and never again can I dream of love. I am doubly armedby memory and by the horror of continuing a race doomed to disaster.There you have it all to my relief. There is some mysterious consolationin unloading one's mind. How good you have been to me! and I have been souseless--so little of what I might have been."
Penhallow rose, set a hand on Rivers's shoulder, seeing the sweat on hisforehead and the appeal of the sad eyes turned up to meet his gaze."What," he said, "would our children have been without you? God knows Ihave been a better man for your company, and the mills--the village--howcan you fail to see what you have done--"
"No--no--I am a failure. It may be that the moods of self-reproach aremorbid. That too torments me. Even to-day I was thinking of how Christwould have dealt with that miserable man, Peter Lamb, and howuncharitable I was, how crude, how void of sympathy--"
"You--you--" said Penhallow, as he moved away. "My own regret is thatI did not turn him over to the law. Well, points of view do differcuriously. We will let him drop. He will come to grief some day. And nowtake my thanks and my dear Ann's for what you have told me. Let us dropthat too. Take a pipe."
"No, I must go. I am the easier in my mind, but I am tired and not atall in the pipe mood." He went out through the hall, and with a hasty"good-night" to his hostess and "pleasant dreams--or none," went slowlydown the avenue.
The woman he left, with her knitting needles at rest a moment, wasconsidering the man and his moods with such intuitive sympathy andcomprehension as belongs to the sex which is physiologically the moresubject to abrupt changes in the climate of the mind. As her husbandentered, she began anew the small steadying industry for which man has nosubstitute.
"Upon my word, James, when you desire to exchange confidences, you mustget further away from me."
"You don't mean me to believe you overheard our talk in the library, withthe door closed and the curtain across it." Her acuteness of hearingoften puzzled him, and he had always to ask for proof.
She nodded gay assurance, and said again, ceasing to knit, "I overheardtoo much--oh, not all--bits--enough to trouble me. I moved away so as notto hear. All I care to know is how to be of real service to a friend towhom we owe so much."
"I want you--in fact, Mark wants you--to hear in full what you know inpart."
"Well, James, I have very little curiosity about the details of themisfortunes of my friends unless to know is to obtain means ofhelpfulness."
"You won't get any here, I fear, but as he has been often strange anddepressed and, as he says, unresponsive to your kindness, he does wantyou now to see what cause there was."
"Very well,
if he wants it. I see you have a letter."
"Yes, I kept it. It was marked strictly confidential--I hate that--" Shesmiled as he added, "It seems to imply the possibility of indiscretion onmy part."
"Oh, James! Oh, you dear man!" and she laughed outright, liking to teasewhere she deeply loved, knowing him through and through, as he nevercould know her. Then she saw that he was not in the mood for jesting withan edge to it; nor was she. "At all events, you did not let me see thatletter--now I am to see it."
"Yes, you are to see it. You might at any time have seen it."
"Yes, read it to me."
"When our good Bishop sent Mark Rivers here to us, he wrote me thisletter--"
"Well, go on."
"MY DEAR SIR: I send you the one of my young clergy with whom I am themost reluctant to part. You will soon learn why, and learning will bethankful. But to make clear to you why I urge him--in fact, order him togo--requires a word of explanation. He is now only twenty-six years ofage but looks older. He married young and not wisely a woman who lived achildlike dissatisfied life, and died after two years. One of hisbrothers died an epileptic; the other, a promising lawyer, became insaneand killed himself. This so affected their widowed mother that she fellinto a speechless melancholy and has ever since been in the care ofnurses in a farmer's family--a hopeless case. I became of late alarmed athis increasing depression and evident failure in bodily strength. He wasadvised to take a small country parish, and so I send him to you and myfriend, Mrs. Penhallow, sure that he will give as much as he gets. I neednot say more. He is well worth saving--one of God's best--with tooexacting a conscience--learned, eloquent and earnest, and to end, agentleman."
"There is a lot more about Indian missions, which I think are hopeless,but I sent him a cheque, of course."
"I supposed, James, that his depression was owing to his want of vigoroushealth. Now I see, but how very sorrowful it is! What else is there? Idid not mean to listen, but something was said about his mother."
"Yes. He has spent with her a large part of every August--he called ithis holiday. My God, Ann! Poor fellow! This August she died. It must be arelief."
"Perhaps."
"Oh, surely. This is all, Ann."
"I wish you had been less discreet long ago, James. I think that theBishop knowing how sensitive, how very reticent Mark is, meant only thathe should not learn what was confided to you."
"I never thought of that, Ann. You may be right."
She made no further comment, except to say, "But to know clears the airand leaves me free to talk to him at need." Penhallow felt that where hehimself might be a useless confessor, his wife was surely to be trusted.
"If, Ann, the man could only be got on to the back of a horse--" She wonthe desirable relief of laughter, and the eyes that were full of thetears of pity for this disastrous life overflowed of a sudden with mirthat the Squire's one remedy for the troubles of this earthly existence.
"Oh, I am in earnest," he said. "Now I must write to John."
When after a week or more she did talk to Mark Rivers, he was the betterfor it and felt free to speak to her as a younger man may to an olderwoman and can rarely do to the closest of male friends, for, after all,most friendships have their personal limitations and the man who has notboth men and women friends may at some time miss what the doubleintimacies alone can give.
* * * * *
The uneasy sense of something lost was more felt than mentioned that fallat Grey Pine, where quick feet on the stair and the sound of younglaughter were no longer heard. Rivers saw too how distinctly the villagefolk missed these gay young people. Mrs. Crocker, of the shop whereeverything was to be bought, bewailed herself to Rivers, who was thereceiver of all manner of woes. "Mrs. Penhallow is getting to be soparticular no one knows where to find her. You would never think it, sir,but she says my tea is not fit to drink, and she is going to get hersugar from Philadelphia. It's awful! She says it isn't as sweet as itused to be--as if sugar wasn't always the same--"
"Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.
"And my tea!--Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, androars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had.Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me--charge it to me--and a pound toMrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." Heaccepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed thelittle drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives asclear.
Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't tenminutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about thesugar and the tea--worst she ever had. She--oh, Lord!--She wouldn'tlisten, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar fromtown."
"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"
"No, sir. In came Pole grinning that very evening. He said she had madean awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. Pole said she was thatbad--She didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad aboutthe mutton."
"Well, what did Pole do?"
"You'd never guess. It was one of the Squire's own sheep. Pole he justsent her the other leg of the same sheep!"
Again the rector laughed. "Well, and what did Mrs. Penhallow do?"
"She told him that was all right. Pole he guessed I'd better send her apound of the same tea."
"Did you?"
"I did--ain't heard yet. Now what would you advise? Never saw her thisway before."
"Well," said Rivers, "tell her how the town misses Leila and John."
"They do. I do wonder if it's just missing those children upsets her so."
Whether his advice were taken or not, Rivers did not learn directly, butMrs. Crocker said things were better when next they met, and theclergyman asked no questions.
Penhallow had his own distracting troubles. The financial condition whichbecame serious in the spring and summer of 1857 was beginning to causehim alarm, and soon after the new year came in he felt obliged to talkover his affairs and to advise his wife to loan the mill company moneynot elsewhere to be had except at ruinous interest. She wished simply togive him the sum needed, but he said no, and made clear to her why herequired help. She was pleased to be consulted, and showing, as usual,notable comprehension of the business situation, at once did as hedesired.
Rivers not aware of what was so completely occupying Penhallow's mind,wondered later why he would not discuss the decision of the Supreme Courtin the Dred Scott case and did not share his own indignation. "But," heurged, "it declares the Missouri Compromise not warranted by theConstitution!"
"I can't talk about it, Mark," said Penhallow, "I am too worried by myown affairs."
Then Rivers asked no further questions; he hoped he would read themasterly dissenting opinion of Justices McLean and Curtis. Penhallowreturned impatiently that he had no time, and that the slavery questionwere better left to the decision of "Chief Justice Time."
It was unlike the Squire, and Rivers perplexed and more or less ignorantconcerning his friend's affairs left him, in wonder that what was soangrily disturbing the Northern States should quite fail to interestPenhallow.
Meanwhile there were pleasant letters from Leila. She thought it hard tobe denied correspondence with John, and wrote of the satisfaction felt byher Uncle Henry and his friends in regard to the Dred Scott decision. Shehad been wise enough to take her Uncle Charles's advice and to hold herRepublican tongue, as he with a minority in Baltimore was wisely doing.
The money crisis came with full force while the affairs of Kansas weretroubling both North and South. In August there was widespread ruin.Banks failed, money was held hard, contracts were broken and to avoid aworse calamity the Penhallow mills discharged half of the men. Meanwhileunder Governor Walker's just and firm rule, for a brief season 'BleedingKansas' was no longer heard of. To add to the confusion of parties,Douglas broke with the Administration and damaged the powerful Democraticmachine when he came out with changed
opinions and dauntless courageagainst the new Lecompton constitution.
In June Leila's school life came to a close, and to the delight of herrelations she came home. When that afternoon Rivers came into the hall, atall young woman rose of a sudden and swept him a curtsey, saying, "I amLeila Grey, sir. Please to be glad to see me."
"Good gracious, Leila! You are a woman!"
"And what else should I be?"
"Alas! what? My little friend and scholar--oh! the evil magic of time."
"Oh! Friend--friend!" she exclaimed, "then, now, and always." She gavehim both hands.
"Yes, always," he said quickly. "And this," he said to himself, "is thechild who used to give me the morning kiss. It is very wonderful!"
"I really think, Aunt Ann, that Mr. Rivers just for a moment did not knowme."
"Indeed! That must have amused him."
"Oh, here is James." There was laughter at dinner and a little gayventure into the politics of Leila's school, which appeared to have beendisagreeable to Miss Grey.
Rivers watched the animated face as she gave her account of how theschool took a vote in the garden and were all Democrats. The Squire alittle puzzled by his wife's evident disinclination to interfere with thedinner-table politics got a faint suspicion that here had come into GreyPine a new and positive influence. He was more surprised that Mrs. Annasked, "What did you say, Leila?"
"I? Now, Aunt Ann, what would you have done or said?"
"Oh, voted with the Democrats, of course."
"Oh, Mrs. Penhallow!" cried the Rector.
The Squire much amused asked, "Well, Leila, did you run away?"
"I--Oh, Uncle Jim! I said I was a democrat--I voted the Democraticticket."
"Did you?" exclaimed Rivers.
"So James Penhallow and my brother Charles have lost a Republican vote,"laughed Ann.
"But, Aunt Ann, I added that I was a Douglas Democrat."
The Squire exploded into peals of laughter. Ann said, "For shame!"
"They decided to lynch me, but no one of them could catch me before MissMayo appeared on the playground and we all became demure as pussy cats.She was cross."
"She was quite right," said her aunt. "I do not see why girls should bediscussing politics."
Rivers became silently regardant, and Penhallow frowning sat still. Theanticipated bolt had fallen--it fell in vain. Leila did not accept thedecree, but defended herself gaily. "Aunt Ann," she said, "Douglas isright, or at least half right. And do tell me how old must a girl bebefore she has a right to think?"
"Think! Oh, if you like, think. But, my dear Leila, your uncle, Mr.Rivers and I, although we think and hold very diverse opinions, feel thaton such matters discussion only leaves a sting, and so we tacitly leaveit out of our talk. There, my dear, you have my opinion."
There was a moment of silence. Leila looked up. "Oh, my dear Aunt Ann, ifyou were on the side of old Nick, Mr. Rivers wouldn't care a penny lessfor you, and I never could see why to differ in talk about politics isgoing to hurt past anything love could accept. Aunt Helen and UncleCharles both talk politics and they do love one another, although AuntHelen is tremendously Democratic."
"My dear Leila!"
"Oh, Aunt Ann! I will not say a word more if you want me to hold mytongue."
"Wouldn't the other way be more wholesome on the whole?" said Rivers.
"I have long thought so," said the Squire. "There are ways and ways--"
"Perhaps," said Ann. "Shall you ride with your uncle tomorrow, Leila?"
"Oh, shall I! I long for it--I dream about it. May I ride Dixy, UncleJim?"
"Yes, if you have a riding-habit you can wear. We will see to that. Youhave grown a good bit, but I fancy we can manage."
"And how is Pole, aunt; and the doctor and Crocker and his fat wife--oh,and everybody?"
"Oh, much, as usual. We had a skirmish about mutton, but the last Polesent is good--in fact, excellent. He needs watching."
Then the talk fell on the lessened work at the mills, and there being nowfour players the Squire had his whist again, and later carried Riversaway to smoke in the library, leaving Ann and Leila.
As the library door closed, Leila dropped on a cushion at her aunt'sfeet, and with her head in Ann's lap expressed her contentment by a fewmoments of silence. Then sitting up, she said, "I am so happy I shouldlike to purr. I was naughty at dinner, but it was just because I wantedto make Uncle Jim laugh. He looks--Don't you think he looks worried,aunt? Is it the mills and--the men out of work? Dear Aunt Ann, how canone keep on not talking about politics and things that are next to one'sreligion--and concerning our country--my country?"
Ann made no direct reply, but went back to what was nearer than any creedof politics. "Yes, dear. When one big thing worries James, theneverything worries him. The state of the money market makes all businessdifficult, and he feels uncomfortable because the mill company is in wantof work, and because their debts are overdue and not likely to be paid infull or at all."
"I wish I could do something to help Uncle Jim."
"You can ride with him and I cannot. You can talk to him withoutlimitations; I cannot. He is reasonable about this grave question ofslavery. He does not think it right; I do--oh, good for master and bestfor the black. When, soon after our marriage, we spoke of it, he waspositive and told me to read what Washington had said about slavery. Wewere both young and said angry things which left a pang of remembrance.After that we were careful. But now this terrible question comes up inthe village and in every paper. It will get worse, and I see no end toit."
Leila was silent, remembering too her aunt's share in Josiah's escape.The advice implied in her aunt's frank talk she saw was to be accepted."I will remember, Aunt Ann." At least she was free to talk to her uncle.
"Has any one heard of Josiah?" asked Leila.
"No, I was sorry for him. He had so many good traits. I think he wouldhave been more happy if he had remained with his master."
Leila had her doubts, but was self-advised to say no more than, "I oftenthink of him. Now I shall go to bed."
"Yes, you must be tired."
"I am never tired, but to be free to sit up late or go to bed and readwhat I want to--and to ride! Good-night. I can write to John--now there'sanother bit of freedom. Oh, dear, how delightful it all is!" She wentupstairs thinking how hard it would be to keep off of the forbiddenground, and after all was her aunt entirely wise? Well, there was UncleJim and John.
While this talk went on the rector alone with his host said, "You areevidently to have a fresh and very positive factor in your householdlife--"
"Hush," said the Squire. "Talk low--Ann Penhallow has incrediblehearing."
"True--quite true--I forgot. How amazingly the child has changed. Shewill be a useful ferment, I fancy. How strange it is always--this abruptleap of the girl into the heritage of womanhood. The boy matures slowly,by imperceptible gradations. Now Leila seems to me years older than John,and the change is really somewhat startling; but then I have seen verylittle of young women. There is the girl, the maid, the woman."
"Oh, but there is boy, lad, and man."
"Not comparable, Squire; continuously growing in one case, and in theother developmental surprises and, ever after, fall and rise of energy.The general trouble about understanding women is that men judge them bysome one well-known woman. I heard a famous doctor say that no man needpretend to understand women unless he had been familiar with sick women."
The Squire recalling the case of Ann Penhallow was silent. The clergymanthinking too of his own bitter experience lapsed into contemplativecleaning of a much valued meerschaum pipe. The Squire not given to morbidor other psychological studies made brief reply. "I hope that Leila willremain half boy."
"Too late, Squire--too late. You've got a woman on your hands. There willbe two heads to Grey Pine."
"And may I ask where do I come in?" He was at times almost dull-witted,and yet in danger swift to think and quick to act.
Rivers filling the well-cle
aned pipe looked up. There was something ofunwonted gaiety in the moving face-lines which frame the eyes and give tothem the appearance of change of expression. "My dear friend, you were asdough that is kneaded in the hands of Leila, the girl; you will be noless so now in the hands of this splendid young woman."
"Oh, now--by George! Rivers, you must think me--"
"Think you! Oh, like other men. And as concerns Mrs. Ann, therewill sometimes be a firm alliance with Leila before which you willwilt--or--no, I will not venture further."
"You had better not, or you may fail like other prophets."
"No, I was thinking as you spoke of the fact that Leila has seen a gooddeal of a very interesting society in Baltimore, and has had the chance,and I am sure the desire, to hear more of the wild Southern party-talkthan most girls have."
"Yes, she has been in both camps."
"And always was and is, I fancy, eagerly curious in the best sense. Morethan my dear Mrs. Ann, she has wide intellectual sympathies--andappetites."
"That's a very fine phrase, Mark."
"Isn't it, Squire? I was also comparing in my mind John's want ofassociation with men of his own social accident of position. He livedhere with some rough country lads and with you and me. He has had no suchchance as Leila's."
"Oh, the Point will mature him. Then two years on the Plains--and afterthat the mills."
"Perhaps--two years! But, Penhallow, who can dare to predict what God hasin store for us. Two years!"
"Yes--too true--who can! Just now we are financially diseased, and menare thinking more of the bread and butter and debts of to-morrow than ofMr. Buchanan in the toils of his Southern Cabinet."
"That's so. Good-night."
Leila took upstairs with her John's last letter to her aunt, and sittingdown read it eagerly:
"WEST POINT.
"MY DEAR AUNT: The life here, as I wrote you, is something almostmonastic in its systematic regularity, and its despotic claims on one'stime. It leaves small leisure for letters except on Sundays; and if afellow means to be well placed, even then he is wise to do some work. Theoutside world seems far away, and we read and can read few papers.
"I am of Uncle Jim's politics, but although there are many prettysensitive cadets from the South, some of them my friends, there is sopleasant a camaraderie among us that there are few quarrels, andcertainly none of the bitterness of the two sections.
"I think I may have told you that we have no furlough until we have beenhere two years, but I hope some time for a visit from Uncle Jim and you,or at least from him and Leila. How she would enjoy it! The wonderfulbeauty of the great river in the embrace of these wooded mountains, thecharm of the heroic lives it has nourished and the romance of its earlyhistory are delightful--"
"Enjoy it," murmured Leila, "oh, would I not indeed!" Then she read on:
"Tell Leila to write me all about the horses and the town, and if Josiahhas been heard of. Tom McGregor writes me that after he is graduated nextyear, he means to try for a place in the army and get a year or two ofarmy life before he settles down to help his father. So it takes only twoyears to learn how to keep people alive and four to learn how to killthem."
"I wonder who John means to kill." She sat in thought a while, and risingto undress said, "He must be greatly changed, my dear boy, Jack. Jack!"