Westways: A Village Chronicle

by S. Weir Mitchell

  CHAPTER VII

  Before the period of which I write, the county and town had unfailinglyvoted the Democratic ticket. But for half a decade the unrest of thecities reflected in the journals had been disturbing the minds of countrycommunities in the Middle States. In the rural districts of Pennsylvaniathere had been very little actively hostile sentiment about slavery, butthe never ending disputes over Kansas had at last begun to weaken partyties, and more and more to direct opinion on to the originating cause oftrouble.

  The small voting population of Westways had begun to suspect of late thatJames Penhallow's unwillingness to discuss politics meant some change inhis fidelity to the party of which Buchanan was the candidate. What Mrs.Ann felt she had rather freely allowed to be known. The little groupswhich were apt to gather about the grocer's barrels at evening discussedthe grave question of the day with an interest no previous presidentialcanvass had caused, and this side eddy of quiet village life was nowagreeably disturbed by the great currents of national politics. Westwaysbegan to take itself seriously, as little towns will at times, and to askhow this man or that would vote at the coming election in November. Theold farmers who from his youth still called the Squire "James" wereDemocrats. Swallow, the only lawyer the town possessed, was silent, whichwas felt as remarkable in a man who usually talked much more thanoccasion demanded and wore a habit-mask of good-fellowship, which hadserved to deceive many a blunt old farmer, but not James Penhallow.

  At Grey Pine there was a sense of tension. Penhallow was a man slow inthinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive.He had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party andfollow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted.Whether he should take an active share in the politics of the countytroubled him, as he had told Rivers. He must, of course, tell his wifehow he had resolved to vote. To speak here and there at meetings, tothrow himself into the contest, was quite another matter. His wife wouldfeel deeply grieved. Between the two influential feelings the resolutionof forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to holdhis tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for theprinciples unfortunately represented by Fremont, but to have one franktalk with Ann Penhallow. There was no need to do this as yet, and hesmiled again at the thought that Mrs. Ann was, as he pretty well knew,playing the game of politics at Westways. He might stop her. He could askher to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openlymake war against her, that he could not do. It did not matter much as theState in any case would go for Buchanan. He hesitated, and had betterhave been plain with her. She knew that he had been long in doubt, butdid not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions sheheld to as she did to her religious creed. He found relief in hisdecision, and too in freedom of talk with Rivers, who looked upon slaveryas simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsiblefor an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism toconsider a blessing for all concerned.

  John too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder moreand more that what Westways discussed should never be mentioned at GreyPine. He rode Dixy early in the mornings with Leila at his side, fishedor swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on. On September 30th, Annwas to take Leila to the school in Maryland. Three days before thisterrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of thestable-yard, Leila said, "I have only three days. I want to go and seethe Indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places I feel as if Ishall never see again."

  "What nonsense, Leila. What do you mean?"

  "Oh, Aunt Ann says I will be so changed in a year, I won't know myself."

  "You mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now."

  "Yes, that's what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find theright words."

  "Perhaps," he said. "Things never look just the same tomorrow, but theymay look--well, nicer--or--I can't always find the right word. Suppose wewalk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." It was so agreed.

  They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, andas Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly andwere gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributionsto the comfort of a sick woman in the village. They crossed the gardenand were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke. "We just did it.Billy will have to go." They laughed merrily at their escape.

  "Just think, John, how long it is since you came. It seems years. Oh, you_were_ a queer boy! I just hated you."

  "I do suppose, Leila, I must have looked odd with that funny cap and thecane--"

  "And the way you looked when I told you about swinging on the gate. Ihadn't done that for--oh, two years. What did you think of me?"

  "I thought you were very rude, and then--oh, Leila! when you came up outof the drift--" He hesitated.

  "Oh, go on; I don't mind--not now."

  "I thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow."

  "Oh, John! How silly!" Whether or not she was unusually good to look athad hardly ever before occurred to her. She flushed slightly, pleased andwondering, with a new seed of gentle vanity planted in her simple nature,a child on the threshold of the womanly inheritance of maidenhood.

  Then he said gravely, "It is wonderful to me how we have changed. I shallmiss you. To think you are the only girl I ever played with, and now whenyou come back at Christmas--"

  "I am not to come back then, John. I am to stay with my uncles inBaltimore and not come home until next June."

  "You will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. It'sdreadful."

  "Can't be helped, John. You will look after Lucy, and write to me."

  "And you will write to me, Leila?"

  "If I may. Aunt says they are very strict. But I shall write to Aunt Ann,of course."

  "That won't be the same."

  "No."

  They walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly atthe tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, asthey moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling onthe abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a carelesshand. Presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on themoss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago.She was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure asshe thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desiresthat her serious-minded cousin should miss her.

  The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, MissGrey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at herfeet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challengeof mirth was wanting.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

  "Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and--and--Lucy, and who will rideher--"

  "You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy."

  "I suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tearsshe had been sternly taught to suppress.

  "Isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? I wasjust going to speak of Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim often talks tome and to Mr. Rivers about the election, but if I say a word or ask aquestion at table, Aunt Ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'"

  "But once, John, I heard Mr. Rivers say that slavery was a curse andwicked. Uncle Jim, he said Aunt Ann's people held slaves, and he didn'twant to talk about it. I couldn't hear the rest. I told you once aboutthis."

  "How you hear things, Leila. Prince Fine Ear was a trifle to you."

  "Who was Prince Fine Ear?" she asked.

  "Oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the rosestalk. It's a pretty French fairy tale."

  "What a gabble there must be in the garden, John."

  "It doesn't need Prince Fine Ear to hear. Don't these big pines talk toyou sometimes, and the wind in the pines--the winds--?"

  "No, they don't, but Lucy does."

  Something like a feeling of disappointm
ent faintly disturbed the play ofhis fancies. "Let us go to the graves."

  "Yes, all right, come."

  They got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, Leilacarelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaningagainst the cabin logs.

  "This is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes. "There isa white golden-rod; find me another, John."

  He went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap ahalf dozen. "Old Josiah says the blacks in the South think it is goodluck to find the first white golden-rod. Then, he says, you must have aluck-wish. What shall it be? Come--quick now."

  "Oh, I--don't know. Yes, I wish to have Lucy at that terribleboarding-school."

  John laughed. "Oh, Leila, is that the best you can do?"

  "Yes, wish a wish for me, if mine doesn't suit."

  Then he said, "I wish the school had small-pox and you had to stay atGrey Pine."

  "I didn't think you'd care as much as that. Aren't these flowersbeautiful? Wish me a real wish."

  "Then, I wish that when we grow up you would marry me."

  "Well, John, you are a silly." She took on an air of authoritativereprimand. "Why, John, you are only a boy, but you ought to know betterthan to talk such nonsense."

  "And you," he said, "are just a little girl."

  "Oh, I'm not so very little," returned Miss Grey.

  "When I'm older, I shall ask you again; and if you say no, I'll askagain--and--until--"

  "What nonsense, John. Let's go home."

  He rose flushed and troubled, and said, "Are you vexed, Leila?"

  "No, of course not; but it was foolish of you."

  He made no reply, in fact hardly heard her. He was for the moment olderin some ways than his years. What had strangely moved him disturbed Leilanot at all. She talked on lightly, laughing at times, and was answeredbriefly; for although he had no desire to speak, the unfailing courteousways of his foreign education forced him to disregard his desire to say."Oh, do let me alone; you don't understand." He hardly understood himselfor the impulsive stir of emotion--a signal of coming manhood. Annoyed byhis unwillingness to talk, she too fell to silence, and they walkedhomeward.

  During the time left to them there was much to do in the way of visits tothe older village people and some of the farmer families who had beenhere on the soil nearly as long as the Penhallows. There were no otherneighbours near enough for country intercourse, and the life at Grey Pineoffered few attractions to friends or relatives from the cities unlessthey liked to tramp with the Squire in search of game. The life was,therefore, lonely and would for some women have been unendurable; but asthe Baptist preacher said to Rivers, "Duties are enough to satisfy Mrs.Penhallow, and I do guess she enjoys her own goodness like the angelsmust do."

  Mark Rivers answered, "That is pretty nearly true, but I wish she wouldnot invent duties which don't belong to women."

  "About the election, you mean?"

  "Yes. It troubles me, and I am sure it troubles the Squire. What aboutyourself, Grace?" and a singularly sad smile went with the query and aside glance at his friend's face. He had been uneasy about him sinceGrace had bent a little in the House of Rimmon.

  "Oh, Rivers, the roof has got to leak. I have kept away from Mrs.Penhallow. I can't accept her help and then preach against her party,and--I mean to do it. I've wrestled with this little sin and--I don't sayI wasn't tempted--I was. Now I am clear. We Baptists can stand what waterleaks down on us from Heaven."

  "You mean to preach politics, Grace?"

  "Yes, that's what I mean to do. Oh! here comes Mrs. Penhallow."

  They had met in front of Josiah's shop. As Mrs. Penhallow approached, Mr.Grace discovering a suddenly remembered engagement hurried away, andRivers went with her along the rough sidewalk of Westways.

  "I go away to-morrow with Leila," she said, "and Mr. Penhallow goes toPittsburgh. We shall leave John to you for at least a week. He will giveyou no trouble. He has quite lost his foreign boyish ways, and don't youthink he is like my husband?"

  "He is in some ways very like the Squire."

  "Yes, in some things--I so rarely leave home that this journey toBaltimore with Leila seems to me like foreign travel."

  "Does Leila like it?"

  "No, but it is time she was thrown among girls. She is less than she wasa mere wild boy. It is strange, Mark, that ever since John came she hasbeen less of a hoyden--and more of a simple girl."

  "It is," he said, "a fine young nature in a strong body. She has thepromise of beauty--whatever that may be worth."

  "Worth! It is worth a great deal," said Mrs. Ann. "It helps. The moralvalue of beauty! Ah, Mark Rivers, I should like to discuss that with you.She is at the ugly duck age. Now I must go home. I want you to look aftersome things while I am away, and Mr. Penhallow is troubled about his petscamp, Lamb."

  She went on with her details of what he was to do, until he saidlaughing, "Please to put it on paper."

  "I will. Not to leave John quite alone, I have arranged for you to dinewith him, and I suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessonsas usual."

  "Oh, yes, of course. I enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are Johnand Tom McGregor. Tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out allright. I shall lose him in a year. He is over seventeen and is to studymedicine. But what about Lamb?"

  "I am wicked enough to wish he were really ill. It is only the usualdrunken bout, but he is a sort of Frankenstein to the Squire because ofthat absurd foster-brother feeling. He is still in bed, I presume."

  "As you ask it," said Rivers, "I will see him, but if he belongs to anyflock, he is a black sheep of Grace's fold. Anything else, Mrs.Penhallow?" he asked smiling--"but don't trust my memory."

  "If I think of anything more, I shall make a note of it and, of course,you will see us at the station--the ten o'clock train--and give me a listof the books you wanted. I may find them in Philadelphia."

  "Thank you."

  "Oh," she said, turning back, "I forgot. My cousin, George Grey, iscoming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in tendays, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all."

  "Very good. If he comes, we will try to make Grey Pine agreeable."

  "That is really all, Mark, I think," and the little lady went away, witha pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by.

  In the afternoon Leila saw the Squire ride to the mills with John, andwent herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with Lucy. Itwas as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy untildinner-time. The girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe ofunrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflictswhich at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to troublethe more sensitive sex. A good hard gallop would have cured heranticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed thatkeeps its seat behind the rider.

  The next morning the rector and John were at the station of WestwaysCrossroads when the Grey Pine carriage drove up. Mrs. Ann and Leila werea half hour too early, as was Mrs. Penhallow's habit. Billy was on thecart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance.

  "Well, Billy," said Leila, talking to every one to conceal herchild-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energeticyoung life. "Well, Billy, it's good-bye for a year."

  "Won't have no more fun, Miss Leila--and nobody to snowball Billy, thiswinter."

  "No, not this winter."

  "Found another ground-hog yesterday. I'll let her alone till you comeback."

  John laughed. "Miss Leila will have long skirts and--hoops, Billy.There will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging upground-hogs."

  "Hoops--what for?" said Billy. John laughed.

  "Please don't, John," she said, "it's too dreadful. Oh! I hear thewhistle."

  "Mark," said Mrs. Ann, "if George Grey comes--James, did you leave thewine-closet key?"

  "Yes, my dear."

&n
bsp; He turned to Leila, and kissing her said, "A year is soon over. Be a goodgirl, my child. It is about as bad for me as for you. God bless you.There, get on, Ann. Yes, the trunks are all right. Good-bye."

  He stood a moment with John looking after the vanishing train. Then, hesaid, "No need to stay here with me, Mark," and the rector understandinghim left him waiting for the westbound train and walked home across thefields with John Penhallow.

  John was long silent, but at last said, "It will be pretty lonesomewithout Leila."

  "Nice word, lonesome, John. Old English, I believe--has had itsadventures like some other words. Lonely doesn't express as well the ideaof being alone and sorrowful. We must do our best for your uncle andaunt. Your turn to leave us will come, and then Leila will be lonesome."

  "I don't think she will care as much."

  Rivers glanced at the strong young face. "Why do you say that?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Rivers. I--she is more of a child than I am."

  "That hardly answers my question. But I must leave you. I am goingto see that scamp misnamed Lamb. See you at dinner. Don't cultivatelonesomeness, John. No one is ever really alone."

  Leaving his pupil to consider what John thought rather too much of anenigma, the young clergyman took to the dusty highway which led toWestways. John watched the tall figure awkwardly climbing a snake fence,and keeping in mind for explanation the clergyman's last remark he wentaway through the woods.