Westways: A Village Chronicle

by S. Weir Mitchell

  CHAPTER VIII

  Penhallow had gravely told John that in his absence he must look afterthe stables and the farm, so that now he had for the first time in hislife responsibilities. The horses and the stables were to be looked overevery day. Of course, too, he must ride to the Squire's farm, which wastwo miles away, and which was considered a model of all that a farmshould be. The crop yield to the acre was most satisfactory, but whensome one of the old Quaker farmers, whose apple-orchards the Squire hadplundered when young, walked over it and asked, "Well, James, how muchdid thee clear this last year?" the owner would honestly confess thatMrs. Ann's kitchen-garden paid better; but then she gave away what thehouse did not use.

  Very many years before slavery had become by tacit consent avoided as asubject for discussion, Mrs. Ann critical of what his farm cost, beingherself country-bred, had said that if it were worked with Marylandblacks it would pay and pay well.

  "You mean, dear, that if I owned the labour, it would pay."

  "Yes," she returned gaily, "and with me for your farmeress."

  "You are, you are!" he laughed, "and you have cultivated me. I am wellbroken to your satisfaction, I trust; but to me, Ann, the unpaid labourof the slave seems impossible."

  "Oh, James, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what forall concerned is best."

  "Well, well," he laughed, "the vegetable garden seems to be run at aprofit without them--ah! Ann, how about that?"

  The talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemedto any one who might have chanced to be present. The tact born of perfectlove has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even totenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of anotherdoes much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love. Here withthese two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what wasto be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment Northand South became sharply defined. Westways and the mills understood her,and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guardedsilence of the much loved and usually outspoken Squire, who now and thenrelieved his mind by talking political history to John or Rivers.

  The stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressedconcerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms. He presidedin Penhallow's place at table with some sense of newly acquiredimportance, and on the fourth day of his uncle's absence, at MarkRivers's request, asked Mr. Grace to join them. The good Baptist wasthe more pleased to come in the absence of Mrs. Penhallow, who likingneither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life ofself-denial, which, as his friend Rivers knew, really left him withhardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive.

  "Grace is late, as usual," said Rivers to John. "He has, I believe, noacquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels.Ah! I see him. His table-manners really distress your aunt; but mannersare--well, we will leave that to another time. Good evening, Grace."

  "Glad to see you, sir," said John.

  On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazedJohn by its elaborate repetitions.

  The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his papershirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration ofhis thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest theobvious animal satisfaction of the man. John with more amusement saw thesilver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife.Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted atumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, "I never take spirits, Rivers,but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage."

  Rivers smiled. "It will do you no harm."

  "It occurs to me, Rivers," said Grace, "that although wine is mentionedin the Bible, cider is not. There is no warning against its use."

  It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack. "Quiteright," he said. "You make me think of that scamp, Lamb. McGregor tellsme that he is very ill."

  "A pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetlytaken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed hisunaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.

  "You should not desire the death of any man, John," said Grace, "least ofall the death of a sinner like Lamb."

  "Really," said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "myphrase did not admit of your construction."

  "No," laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it isa pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitableinterpretation."

  "He is quite unprepared to die," insisted Grace, with the clericalintonation which Rivers disliked.

  "How do you know that?" asked Rivers.

  "I know," said John confidently. "He told me he was a born thief andloved to lie. He was pretty drunk at the time."

  "That is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked Rivers, "'_in vinoveritas_.' The man is a very strange nature. I think he never forgives abenefit. I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference betweenright and wrong--an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace,even if he ever gave us a chance."

  "I think he is a cruel beast," said John. "I saw him once--"

  Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "Suppose we smoke."

  With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, Johnsaid, "We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine."

  Rivers said, "Certainly, Squire," not altogether amused as John, a littleembarrassed, said quickly, "I should have said cider."

  "Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarkedGrace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeablecomment.

  "You will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and Iwill join you in a moment." So saying he detained John by a hand on hisarm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.

  "You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. You had better go to bed. Ishould have warned you."

  "Yes, sir--I--did not--I mean--I--"

  "_C'est une diablesse_--a little devil. There are others, and worse ones,John. Good-night."

  On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliationand surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.

  Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorryfor the lad's evident distress. "What, not smoking, Grace?"

  "No, I have given it up."

  "But, why?"

  "Well, I can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can't afford betterstuff."

  "Then, be at ease, my friend. The Squire has sent me a large supply. I amto divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergymanever got in his blameless life.

  "I shall thank him," returned Grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but Ido sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit."

  "Hardly worth while to thank Penhallow; he will have forgotten all aboutit."

  "But I shall not."

  They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until atlast, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not tohave taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did notpartake."

  "No, it disagrees with me."

  "I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and--I--a man whopreaches temperance, total abstinence--"

  "My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance inthe way a man puts his opinions before others--a man may hurt his owncause--"

  Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night--I sawyou. You think I was intemperate?"

  "Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed tounderstand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart asyou felt, without the charity of the head."

  "Perhaps--perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentleretort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, BrotherRivers?"

  "Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I l
ack yourpower of direct appeal--your personal application of the truth. I oughtto preach the first half of the sermon--the appeal to the reason, thehead part--and ask you to conclude with the heart share--the personalapplication of my cold logic."

  "Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! yourcold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; wehave had a good talk."

  As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing aboutLamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"

  "Just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience inthe shape of a congested stomach. I talked to him a little. He ispenitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, I haveset Billy to care for him; some one must. I have found that to keep Billyon a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; thatanswers."

  "Bad company, Brother Rivers."

  "Oh, there is no guile in Billy."

  They parted at the Grey Pine gate. Rivers had innocently prepared remotemischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated.When, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on adead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmittedagitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. The manstops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of theunexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. We do someinnocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remotemischief.

  Meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man Lamb, who wasthe prey of slowly lessening delusions. Guardian Billy chewed his dailysupply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey roomfeeding Lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street.

  "Oh! there go Squire's horses for exercise; Joe's on Lucy."

  "Damn Lucy! Do you go to mother's room--"

  "What for?"

  "Oh, she keeps her money in it, and Mrs. Penhallow paid her in advancethe day she left."

  "Can't do it," said Billy, who had strict orders not to leave Lamb alone.

  "Oh, just look in the top drawer. She keeps a bit of money rolled up inone of her stockings. That will get me a little whisky and you lots oftobacco."

  "Can't do it," said Billy. "Want me to steal? Won't do it."

  "Then I'll get even with you some day."

  Billy laughed. "Why I could lick you--like Mr. John licked the doctor'sson. Gosh! there goes Pole's wagon."

  Lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. The ingenuity of the manwho craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the mostexperienced doctor. The immorality of the means of attainment is neverconsidered. If, as with Lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is acertain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor.

  On the day after the two clergymen had heard John's final opinion ofLamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritualphysician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of thebody. "I suppose," said McGregor, "that you and I as concerns thisinfernal rascal are under orders from Penhallow and his wife. I at leasthave the satisfaction of being paid--"

  "Oh, I am paid, Doctor," the clergyman smiled.

  "Of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient andpositive saint, Mrs. Penhallow, is paid. She's too terrifyingly good. Itmust be--well, inconvenient at times. Now she wants this animal lookedafter because of Mrs. Lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd beliefthat because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he mustbefriend the fellow--and he does. Truth is, Rivers, that man's father wasa sodden drunkard but, I am told, not otherwise bad. It's a pretty suredoom for the child. This man's body has damned his soul, and now the soulis paying it back in kind."

  "The damnation will be settled elsewhere," said Rivers gravely. "You arepleading for him when you say he had a father who drank."

  "Well, yes, yes. That is true, but I do confoundedly mistrust him. Henever remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. Butwhen Mrs. Penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you justgo and do what she wants done. Oh, me too! Let's get out of thisunreasonable sun and see this fellow."

  Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patientin bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recoveringfrom an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.

  "Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"

  "Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on,I'd be all right."

  "Not a drop, Peter."

  "I'll die if I don't get it."

  "Then die sober."

  Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual carefulexamination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'llbe well."

  "For God's sake, give me whisky--a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."

  "No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr.Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, Isuppose?"

  "Yes, there is no one else."

  "That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. Hewill lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."

  "How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will getwell, Doctor, I suppose?"

  "Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance,up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."

  "Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despairedof no one.

  The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do muchmischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In someways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some waysinteresting."

  "How is it interesting?" said Rivers.

  "Oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst."

  "What did he see?"

  "Oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.'Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man inthe moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"

  "I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talkof the town."

  "Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.'A 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but I must go."

  Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and waitdownstairs; don't go away."

  The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'mbad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"

  Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face inhis hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose tohis feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don'talways know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquordoes help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside.I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"

  This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy,obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; whatshould he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his oneconstant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? Hestood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that theman's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, andhe said, "Now you will, I know."

  Rivers made no direct answer. Was it hopeless? He tried to read theface--the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, theprojecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, andeagerly attentive. This was not the time for reason. He said, "I shouldbe your worst enemy, Peter. Every one has been good to you; over and overthe Squire has saved you from jail. Mrs. Penhallow asked me to help you.Try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. Pray God forhelp to bear it patiently."

  "I'm in hell. What's the use of praying in hell? Get me whisky and I'llpray."

  Rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that theenfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appe
al to head or heart."I will come again," he said. "Good-bye."

  "Oh, damn everybody," muttered Peter.

  Rivers went out and sent Billy up to take charge. Lamb was still sittingup in bed when Billy returned. The simple fellow poured out in briefsentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door.

  "Oh, shut up," said Peter. "The doctor says I'll feel better if I'mshaved--ain't been shaved these three weeks. Doctor wants you to go andget Josiah to come and fix me up to-night. You tell him it's the doctor'sorders. Don't you be gone long. I'm kind of lonely."

  "All right," said Billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favouritedespite his disinclination for steady work.

  "Now, don't be gone long. I need a good shave, Billy."

  "Guess you do--way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of themrummage-sales. Ain't had but one in four years."

  "Oh, get out, Billy." Once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand upand fell back cursing.

  The order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "Guess he's too shaky toshave himself," said Josiah. "I'll come about half-past eight."

  As Josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simpleway of his last three years. After much wandering and fear of beingtraced, he had been used at the stables by Penhallow. That he had been aslave was suspected, but that troubled no one in Westways. He had longfelt at ease and safe. He lived alone, a man of some forty years, cookedfor himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully savedearnings. He had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guardedtongue of servitude. Long before John Penhallow had understood better thetall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, hesaw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called Mr.Josiah. It sounded queer, as Pole remarked, to call a runaway darkeyMister, but this in no way disturbed John. The friendly feeling for theblack grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trappedmuskrats, or dug up hellbenders. The barber had one half-concealeddislike. The man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "Couldn'ttell you why, Master John. It's like the way Crocker's wife's 'feared ofcats. They ain't never hurt her none."

  "Well," he said, "here I am," and in unusual silence set about his workby dim candlelight. The patient was as silent. When Josiah had finished,he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.

  "Guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was aboutto leave. "I'll send up Billy." The uneasy guardian had seized on thechance to get a little relief.

  "No, don't go," said Lamb. "I'm in a hell of thirst. I want you to get mesome whisky. I'll pay you when I get work."

  Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any beliefin future repayment. "Couldn't do that--doctor wouldn't like it."

  "What, you won't do it?"

  "No, I can't do it."

  "If you don't, I'll tell what I know about you."

  "What do you know?" The long lost terror returned--but what could heknow?

  "Oh, you ran away--I know all about it. You help me now and I'll keepquiet--you'd better."

  A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the rascal, and then,by long habit prudent, he said, "I'll have to think about it." But whatcould this man know?

  "Best to think damn quick, or you'll have your old master down on you. Igive you till to-morrow morning early. Do you hear? It's just a nip ofwhisky I want."

  "Yes, I hear--got to think about it." He went out into the night, a soulin fear. No one knew his former master's name. Then his very goodintelligence resumed control. No one really knew--only John--and he verylittle. He put it aside, confident in the young fellow's discretion. Ofcourse, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody caredor seemed to care. And yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happyyears of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he readmuch, he had disturbing hours. He stood still a moment and crossed theroad. The Episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was onPenhallow's land, and near by was the rectory where Mark lived with anold woman cook and some help from Mrs. Lamb. The night was warm, thewindows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing. Josiah at thewindow spoke.

  "Excuse me, sir, could I talk to you? I am in a heap of trouble."

  "In trouble, Josiah? Come in, the front door is open."

  As he entered the rector's study, Rivers said, "Sit down."

  Something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals. "Noone else is in the house. What is it?" The black poured out his story.

  "So then," said Rivers, "he lied to you about the doctor and threatenedyou with a lie. Why, Josiah, if he had known who was your master, hewould have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is noneof his business. Mr. Penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, butno one cares. You are liked and you have the respect of the town. Therewould be trouble if any man tried to claim you."

  "I'd like to tell you all about it, sir."

  "No--no--on no account. Tell no one. Now go home. I will settle with thatdrunken liar."

  "Thank you. May God bless--and thank you."

  The clergyman sat in thought a while, and the more he considered thematter which he had made light of to the scared black, the less he likedit. He dismissed it for a time as a lie told to secure whisky, but thefear Josiah showed was something pitiful in this strong black giant. Heknew Lamb well enough to feel sure that Josiah would now have in him anenemy who was sure in some way to get what he called "even" with thebarber, and was a man known and spoken of in Westways as "real spiteful."

  When next day Rivers entered the room where Lamb lay abed, he saw at oncethat he was better. He meant to make plain to a revengeful man thatJosiah had friends and that the attempt to blackmail him would bedangerous. Lamb was sitting up in bed apparently relieved, and wasreading a newspaper. The moment he spoke Rivers knew that he was a farmore intelligent person than the man of yesterday.

  Lamb said, "Billy, set a chair for Mr. Rivers. The heat's awful forOctober." Billy obeyed and stepped out glad to escape.

  Rivers said, "No, I won't sit down. I have something to say to you, and Iadvise you to listen. You lied to Billy about the doctor yesterday, andyou tried to frighten Josiah into getting you whisky--you lied to him."

  Josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told theclergyman of the threat. Lamb was quick to understand the situation, andthe cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceivedthe rector.

  "Who says I lied? Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's just like adream--I don't feel nowise accountable. If--I--abused Josiah, I'm sorry.He did shave me. Let me think--what was it scared Josiah?" He had theslight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory.

  "It is hardly worth while, Peter, to go into the matter if you don'trecall what you said." He realized that the defence was perfect. Its tooready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth.

  Lamb was now enjoying the game. "Was Josiah really here, sir? But, ofcourse, he was, for he shaved me. I do remember that. Won't you sit down,sir?"

  "No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."

  "Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a weekor so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"

  This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said hadbetter never be said again or you will find yourself in very serioustrouble with Mr. Penhallow."

  "Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but howcould I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"

  "Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done myduty in warning you."

  "I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent anduplift of lids over watchful eyes--"Oh, I want you to know how much Ithank you, sir, for all your kind--"

  "You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.

  Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the gam
ewere with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as hefell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "Damn that black cuss," hemuttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."

  At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat fromhis forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spirituallyminded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods ofprofane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for hesmiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himselfto task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and wasthere not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spiritin prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs todespair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home tohis uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that wouldbe advisable.

  The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, andthe pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of theyoung thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers ofbooks and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left Johnfell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail heforwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not returnuntil mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leilawas now at her school. The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and mostof all the absence of Leila. One letter for his aunt lay on the halltable. It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to haveletters forwarded.

  Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came downdressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire,which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable. Therector was smiling.

  "Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs. It seems that hewrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. As no one met himat Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soakedbefore he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine. I think he feels ratherneglected."

  "Has he never been here before?" asked John, curious in regard to theguest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be aperson of importance.

  "No, not for a long while. He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow;but as all Greys are for her--well, _the_ Greys--we must do our best tomake it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return."

  "Of course," said John, with some faint feeling that it was needless toremind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. Riverssaid, smiling, "It may not be easy to amuse Mr. Grey. I did not tell youthat your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon trainon the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."

  John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in asuit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not muchof a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, whichwas sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyessmall and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame thethin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smilingface.

  John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow,sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."

  "It is all right--all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outsideand more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present,if I may take the liberty."

  Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "Ithink, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer himsome of your uncle's rye."

  "Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what theMaryland gentleman meant.

  Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand,"Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste. AsMr. Clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it."

  "Dinner is ready," said John.

  There was no necessity to entertain Mr. Grey. He talked at length, whatJames Penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." Horses, the crops,and at length the proper methods of fining wine--a word of encouragementfrom Rivers set him off again. Meanwhile the dinner grew cold on hisplate. At last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, Mr. Grey said,"This comes, sir, of being in too interesting society."

  Was this mere quaint humour, thought Rivers; but when Grey added, "Ishould have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at theself-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. At last,with "Your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's Madeira.

  Rivers, who sipped a single glass slowly, was about to rise when to hisamusement, using his uncle's phrase, John said, "My uncle thinks thatMadeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in thelibrary."

  Grey remarked, "Quite right, as Henry Clay once said, 'There is nothingas melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall pronounce itsepitaph?' That, sir, I call eloquence. No more wine, thank you." As hespoke, he drew a large Cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted itfrom one of the candles on the table.

  Rivers remarked, "We will find it warmer in the library."

  When the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, John,who had felt the role of host rather difficult, was eager to get a lookat the _Tribune_ which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caughtthe eye of Mr. Grey.

  "I see you have the _Tribune_" he said. "A mischief-makingpaper--devilish. I presume Penhallow takes it to see what the otherside has to say. Very wise, sir, that."

  Rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said,smiling, "I must leave Mr. Penhallow to account for that wicked journal."

  Grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakenedterrier on his thin face. "I presume the captain (he spoke of him usuallyas the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the villageand at the iron-works."

  "I rather fancy," said Rivers, "that he has taken no active part in thecoming election."

  "Unnecessary, perhaps. It is, I suppose, like my own county. We haven't adozen free-soil voters. 'Bleeding Kansas' is a dead issue with us. It isbled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried."

  "Not here," said John imprudently. "Uncle James says Buchanan will carrythe State by a small majority, but he may not carry this county."

  "Then he should see to it," said Grey. "Elect Fremont, my boy, and theUnion will go to pieces. Does the North suppose we will endure asectional President? No, sir, it would mean secession--the death-knell ofthe Union. Sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by thescurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. It is an attack on property, onthe ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. That isthe vital question."

  He spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting.Mark Rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box John's ears. Hetook advantage of the pause to say, "Would you like a little more rye,Mr. Grey?"

  "Why, yes, sir. I confess to being a trifle dry. But to resume ourdiscussion--"

  "Pardon me. John, ask for the whisky."

  To John this was interesting and astonishing. He had never heard talk aswild. The annoyance on Rivers's face was such as to be easily read by theleast observant. Elsewhere Mr. Rivers would have had a ready answer, butas Grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire andthe whisky, Rivers's slight negative hint informed John that he was tohold his tongue.

  As the clergyman turned to speak to Grey, the latter said, "I wish to adda word more, sir. You will find that the men at the South cling to Staterights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and theright, sir, to take my body-servant to Boston or Kansas, sure that hewill be as secure as my--my--shirt-studs, State rights are of nopractical use."

  "You make it very plain," said Rivers, feeling at last that he mustdefend his own opinions. "I have myself a few words to say--but, is thatall?"

  "Not quite--not quite. I am of the belief that the wants of the SouthernStates should be considered, and the demand for their only
possiblelabour considered. I would re-open the slave-trade. I may shock you,reverend sir, but that is my opinion."

  "And, as I observe," said Rivers, "that also of some governors ofStates." He disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew howPenhallow would smile when captained.

  There was a brief silence, what Rivers used to call the punctuation valueof the pipe. The Maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statementof his political creed, and Rivers felt some need to be amiable andwatchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. John listened,amazed. He had had his lesson in our history from two competent mastersand was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed ofthe owner of men.

  Grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and letgo out as often. He set down his empty glass, and said with perfectcourtesy, "I may have been excessive in statement. I beg pardon forhaving spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms.That is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. I should like to hear howthis awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, I am gladto know, my own church."

  "Yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said Rivers. "There at least weare on common ground. I dislike these discussions, Mr. Grey, but I cannotleave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hintto have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed."

  "Indeed!" exclaimed Grey. "At home we talk little else. I do believe thewatermelons and the pumpkins talk politics."

  Rivers smiled. "I shall reply to you, of course. It will not be a fullanswer. I want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel bornwithin the memory of any living man. The colonial life began withcolonial differences and aversions due to religion--Puritan, Quakerand Church of England, intercolonial tariffs and what not. For theplanter-class we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightlypresumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking--alife foreign to ours. The colonies were to one another like foreigncountries. In the Revolution you may read clearly the effect of theseopinions, when Washington expressed the wish that his officers wouldforget that they came from Connecticut or Virginia, and remember onlythey were Americans."

  Grey said, "We did our share, sir."

  "Yes, but all Washington's important generals were Northern men; but thatis not to the point. Washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with smallregard for State rights. The Constitution unhappily left those Staterights in a condition to keep up old differences. That is clear, Iregret to say. Then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension.Slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not theonly cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is withyou, the largest. We have tried compromises. They are of the history ofour own time, familiar to all of us. Well, Mr. Grey, the question isshall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and itsconsequences?--one moment and I have done. I am filled with gloom when Ilook forward. When nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, maysettle disputes; too often war. But, Mr. Grey, never are radical, civilor religious differences settled without the sword, if I have readhistory aright. You see," and he smiled, "I could not let pass your hintwithout a word."

  "If it comes to that--to war," said Grey, "we would win. In that belieflies the certainty I dread."

  "Ah! sir, in that Southern belief lies the certainty I too dread. Youthink we live merely lives of commerce. You do not realise that there iswith us a profound sentiment of affection for the Union. No peopleworth anything ever lived without the very human desire of nationalself-preservation. It has the force of a man's personal desire forself-preservation. Pardon me, I suppose that I have the habit of thesermon."

  Grey replied, "You are very interesting, but I am tired. A little morerye, John. I must adjourn this discussion--we will talk again."

  "Not if I can help it," laughed Rivers. "I ought to say that I shall votethe Republican ticket."

  "I regret it--I deeply regret it. Oh! thanks, John." He drank the whiskyand went upstairs to bed.

  Rivers sat down. "This man is what I call a stateriot. I am or try to bethat larger thing, a patriot. I did not say all, it was useless. Youruncle cares little--oh, too little--about slavery, and generally theNorth cares as little; but the antislavery men are active and say, as didWashington, that the Union of the States was or will be insecure untilslavery comes to an end. It may be so, John; it is the constant seed ofdiscord. I would say, let them go in peace, but that would be only topostpone war to a future day. I rarely talk about this matter. What madeyou start him? You ought to have held your tongue."

  The young fellow smiled. "Yes, sir, I suppose so."

  "However, we won't have it again if I can help it."

  "It was very interesting."

  "Quite too interesting, but will he try it on the Squire and your aunt?Now I am going home. I hate these talks. Don't sit up and read the_Tribune_."

  "No, sir, and I will take Mr. Grey to ride to-morrow."

  "Do, and send him home too tired to talk politics."

  "I think if I put him on uncle's big John it will answer."