CHAPTER X
On the far side of the highroad Westways slumbered. Only in the rector'ssmall house were lights burning. The town was in absolute darkness.Westways went to bed early. A pleased sense of the responsibility of hiserrand went with John as he came near to where Josiah's humble two-storeyhouse stood back from the street line, marked by the well-known stripedpole of the barber, of which Josiah was professionally proud. John pausedin front of the door. He knew that he must awaken no one but Josiah.After a moment's thought he went along the side of the house to the smallgarden behind it where Josiah grew the melons no one else could grow, andwhich he delighted to take to Miss Leila or Mrs. Penhallow. In the novelthe heroes threw pebbles at the window to call up fair damsels. Johngrinned; he might break a pane, but the noise--He was needlesslycautious. Josiah had built a trellis against the back of the house forgrapevines which had not prospered. John began to climb up it with careand easily got within reach of the second-storey window. He tappedsharply on the glass, but getting no reply hesitated a moment. He couldhear from within the sonorous assurance of deep slumber. Somehow he mustwaken him. He lifted the sash and called over and over in a low voice,"Josiah!" The snoring ceased, but not the sleep. The lad was resolute andstill fearful of making a noise. He climbed with care into the dark roomupsetting a little table. Instantly Josiah bounded out of bed and caughthim in his strong grip, as John gasped, "Josiah!"
"My God!" cried the black in alarm, "anything wrong at the house?"
"No, sit down--I've got to tell you something. Your old master, Woodburn,is coming to catch you--he will be here soon--I know he won't be here fora day or two--"
"Is that so, Master John? It's awful--I've got to run. I always knowedsometime I'd have to run." He sat down on the bed; he was appalled. "Godhelp me!--where can I go? I've got two hundred dollars and seventy-fivecents saved up in the county bank, and I've not got fifty cents in thehouse. I can't get the money out--I'd be afraid to go there Monday. Oh,Lord!"
He began to dress in wild haste. John tried in vain to assure him that hewould be safe on Sunday and Monday, or even later, but was in fact notsure, and the man was wailing like a child in distress, thinking over hiseasy, upright life and his little treasure, which seemed to him lost. Heasked no questions; all other emotion was lost in one over-masteringterror.
John said at last, "If I write a cheque for you, can you sign your nameto it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I will write a cheque for all of it and I'll get it out for you."
A candle was lighted and the cheque written. "Now write your name here,Josiah--so--that's right." He obeyed like a child, and John who had oftencollected cheques for his aunt of late, knew well enough how to word itto be paid to bearer. He put it in his pocket.
"But how will I ever get it?" said Josiah, "and where must I go? I'll getaway Monday afternoon."
John was troubled, and then said, "I'll tell you. Go to the old cabin inthe wood. That will be safe. I will bring you your money Mondayafternoon."
The black reflected in silence and then said, "That will do--no man willtake me alive, I know--my God, I know! Who set them on me? Who told? Itwas that drunken rascal, Peter. He told me he'd tell if I didn't get himwhisky. How did he know--Oh, Lord! He set 'em on me--I'd like to killhim."
John was alarmed at the fierceness of the threat. "Oh! but youwon't--promise me. I've helped you, Josiah."
"I promise, Master John. I'm a Christian man, thank the Lord. I'd liketo, but I won't--I won't."
"Now, that's right," said John much relieved. "You'll go to the cabinMonday--for sure."
"Yes--who told you to tell me?"
John, prudently cautious, refused to answer. "Now, let me out, I must go.I can't tell you how sorry I will be--" and he was tempted to add hisaunt, but was wise in time. He had done his errand well, and was pleasedwith the success of his adventure and the flavour of peril in what he haddone. He let himself into Grey Pine and went noiselessly upstairs. Thena window was closed and a waiting, anxious woman went to bed and lay longawake thinking.
John understood the unusual affection of his aunt's greeting when beforebreakfast she kissed him and started George Grey on his easyconversational trot. She had compromised with her political conscienceand, notwithstanding, was strangely satisfied and a trifle ashamed thatshe had not been more distinctly courageous.
At church they had as usual a good congregation of the village folk andmen from the mills, for Rivers was eminently a man's preacher and wasmuch liked. John observed, however, that Josiah, who took care of thechurch, was not in his usual seat near the door. He was at home terriblyalarmed and making ready for his departure on Monday. The rector missinghim called after church, but his knock was not answered.
When Mr. Grey in the afternoon declared he would take a walk and mailsome letters, Mrs. Ann called John into the library. "Well," she said,"did you see Josiah?"
"Yes, aunt." It was characteristic of John Penhallow even thus early inlife that he was modest and direct in statement. He said nothing of hismode of reaching Josiah. "I told him of his risk. He will hide in--"
"Do not tell me where," said Ann quickly; "I do not want to know."
He wondered why she desired to hear no more. He went on--"He has money inthe county bank--two hundred dollars."
"He must have been saving--poor fellow!"
"I wrote a cheque for him, to bearer. I am to draw it tomorrow and takeit to him in the afternoon. Then he will be able to get away."
Here indeed was something for Ann to think about. When Josiah was missedand legal measures taken, a pursuit organized, John having drawn hismoney might be questioned. This would never do--never. Oddly enough shehad the thought, "Who will now shave James?" She smiled and said, "I mustkeep you out of the case--give me the cheque. Oh, I see it is drawn tobearer. I wonder if his owner could claim it. He may--he might--if it isleft there."
"That would be mean," said John.
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Yes--I could give him the money. Let methink about it. Of course, I could draw on my account and leave Josiah'salone. But he has a right to his own money. I will keep the cheque, John.I will draw out his money and give it to you. Good gracious, boy! you arelike James Penhallow."
"That's praise for a fellow!" said John.
Ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thingthrough at all costs. The man had made his money and should have it. Shewas now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she hadstarted; and after all she was the wife of James Penhallow of Grey Pine;who would dare to question her? As to George Grey, she dismissed him witha low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect toleave Grey Pine.
At ten on Monday Billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at themills. The young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rathersurprised as he took the cheque inquired, "How will you have it, ma'am?Josiah must be getting an investment."
"One hundred in fifties and the rest--oh, fifty in fives, the rest inones."
She drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to John in an envelope,asking no questions. He set off in the afternoon to give Josiah hismoney.
Meanwhile on this Monday morning a strange scene in this drama was beingacted in Josiah's little shop. He was at the door watchful and thinkingof his past and too doubtful future, when he saw Peter Lamb pause nearby. The man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used thegift of Grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slightalcoholic excitement and good-humour.
"Halloa!" cried Peter. "How are you? I'm going to the mills to see mygirl--want you to shave me--got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?"
A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber--somelong-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.
"Don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said Peter. "I'll pay--gotmoney--now."
"Come in," said Josiah. "Set down. I'll shut the door--it's a coldmorning."
He spread the lath
er over the red face. "Head back a bit--that's rightcomfortable now, isn't it?"
"All right--go ahead."
Josiah took his razor. "Now, then," he said, as he set a big stronghand on the man's forehead, "if you move, I'll cut your throat--keepquiet--don't you move. You told I was a slave--you ruined my life--Inever did you no harm--I'd kill you just as easy as that--" and hedrew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.
"My God!--I--" The man shuddered.
"Keep still--or you are a dead man."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Lamb.
"I would kill you, but I don't want to be hanged. God will take careof you--He is sure. Some day you will do some wickedness worse thanthis--you just look at me."
There was for Peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man whostood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, theeyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion.
"Answer me now--and by God, if you lie, I will kill you. You set some oneon me? Quick now!"
"I did."
"Who was it? No lies, now!"
"Mr. George Grey." Then Josiah fully realized his danger.
"Why did you?"
"You wouldn't help me to get whisky."
"Well, was that all?"
"You went and got the preacher to set Mr. Penhallow on me. He gave me thedevil."
"My God, was that all? You've ruined me for a drink of whisky--you've gotyour revenge. I'm lost--lost. Your day will come--I'll be there. Now goand repent if you can--you've been near to death. Go!" he cried.
He seized the terrified man with one strong hand, lifted him from thechair, cast open the door and hurled him out into the street. A littlecrowd gathered around Lamb as he rose on one elbow, dazed.
"Drunk!" said Pole, the butcher. "Drunk again!"
Josiah shut and locked the door. Then he tied up his bundle of clothes,filled a basket with food, and went out into his garden. He cast a lookback at the neatly kept home he had recently made fresh with paint. Hepaused to pick a chilled rosebud and set it in his button-hole--a fashioncopied from his adored captain. He glanced tearfully at the glass-framedcovers of the yellowing melon vines. He had made money out of his melons,and next year would have been able to send a good many to Pittsburgh. Ashe turned to leave the little garden in which he took such pride, heheard an old rooster's challenge in his chicken-yard, which had beenanother means of money-making. He went back and opened the door, leavingthe fowl their liberty. When in the lane behind his house, he walkedalong in the rear of the houses, and making sure that he was unobserved,crossed the road and entered the thick Penhallow forest. He walkedrapidly for half an hour, and leaving the wood road found his way to thecabin the first Penhallow built. It was about half after one o'clock whenthe fugitive lay down on the earth of the cabin with his hands claspedbehind his head. He stared upward, wondering where he could go to besafe. He would have to spend some of the carefully saved money. Thatseemed to him of all things the most cruel. He was not trained toconsecutive thinking; memories old or new flitted through his mind. Nowand then he said to himself that perhaps he had had no right to runaway--and perhaps this was punishment. He had fled from the comforts ofan easy life, where he had been fed, clothed and trusted. Not for amoment would he have gone back--but why had he run away? What messagethat soaring hawk had sent to him from his swift circling sweep overheadhe was not able to put in words even if he had so desired. "That wickedhawk done it!" he said aloud.
At last, hearing steps outside, he bounded to his feet, a hand on theknife in his belt. He stood still waiting, ready as a crouching tiger,resolute, a man at bay with an unsated appetite for freedom. The dooropened and John entered.
"You sort of scared me, Master John."
"You are safe here, Josiah, and here is your money."
He took it without a word, except, "I reckon, Master John, you know I'mthankful. Was there any one missing me?"
"No, no one."
"I'll get away to-night. I'll go down through Lonesome Man's Swamp andtake my old bateau and run down the river. You might look after mymuskrat traps. I was meaning to make a purse for the little missy. Now doyou just go away, and may the Lord bless you. I guess we won't ever meetno more. You'll be mighty careful, Master John?"
"But you'll write, Josiah."
"I wouldn't dare to write--I'd be takin' risks. Think I'm safe here? Oh,Lord!"
"No one knows where you are--you'll go to-night?"
"Yes, after dark." He seemed more at ease as he said, "It was Peter Lambset Mr. Grey on me. He must have seen me after that. I told you it wasPeter."
"Yes,"--and then with the hopefulness of youth--"but you will come back,I am sure."
"No, sir--never no more--and the captain and Miss Leila--it'sawful--where can I go?"
John could not help him further. "God bless you, Master John." Theyparted at length at the door of the cabin which had seen no other partingas sad.
The black lay down again. Now and then he swept his sleeve across tearfuleyes. Then he stowed his money under his shirt in a linen bag hung to hisneck, keeping out a few dollars, and at last fell sound asleep exhaustedby emotion,
Josiah's customers were few in number. Westways was too poor to be ableto afford a barber more than once a week, and then it was always inmid-morning when work ceased for an hour. Sometimes the Squire on his wayto the mills came to town early, but as a rule Josiah went to Grey Pineand shaved him while they talked about colts and their training. As hewas rarely needed in the afternoon, Josiah often closed his shop abouttwo o'clock and went a-fishing or set traps on the river bank. Hisabsence on this Monday afternoon gave rise, therefore, to no surprise,but when his little shop remained closed on Tuesday, his neighbours beganto wonder. Peter Lamb wandering by rather more drunken than on Monday,stood a while looking at the shut door, then went on his devious way,thinking of the fierce eyes and the curse. Next came Swallow for hisdaily shave. He knocked at the door and tried to enter. It was locked. Heheard no answer to his louder knock. He at once suspected that his preyhad escaped him, and that the large fee he had counted on was to say theleast doubtful. But who could have warned the black? Had Mr. Grey beenimprudent? Lamb had been the person who had led Grey, as Swallow knewfrom that gentleman, to suspect Josiah as a runaway; but now as he sawPeter reeling up the street, he was aware that he was in no state to bequestioned. He went away disappointed and found that no one he met knewwhither Josiah had gone.
At Grey Pine Mrs. Ann, uneasily conscious of her share in the matter,asked John if he had given the money to Josiah. He said yes, and that theman was safe and by this time far away. Meanwhile, the little town buzzedwith unwonted excitement and politics gave place about the grocer's doorat evening to animated discussion, which was even more interesting whenon Wednesday there was still no news and the town lamented the need to gounshaven.
On Thursday morning Billy was sent with a led horse to meet Penhallow atWestways Crossing. Penhallow had written that he must go on to a meetingof the directors of the bank at the mills and would not be at home untildinner-time. The afternoon train brought Mr. Woodburn, who as advised byGrey went at once to Swallow's house, where Mrs. Swallow gave him a notefrom her husband asking that if he came he would await the lawyer'sreturn.
"Well, Billy, glad to see you," said Penhallow, as he settled himself inthe saddle. "All well at Grey Pine?"
"Yes, sir."
The Squire was in high good-humour on having made two good contracts foriron rails. "How are politics, Billy?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Anything new at Westways?"
"Yes, sir," replied Billy with emphasis.
"Well, what is it?"
"Josiah's run away."
"Run away! Why?"
"Don't know--he's gone."
Penhallow was troubled, but asked no other questions, as he was late. Hemight learn more at home. He rode through the town and on to the mills.There he transacted some business and went thence to the bank. The boardof wel
l-to-do farmers was already in session, and Swallow--a member--wastalking.
"What is that?" said Penhallow as he entered, hearing Josiah mentioned.
Some one said, "He has been missing since Monday." "He drew out all hismoney that morning," said Swallow, "all of it."
"Indeed," said Penhallow. "Did _he_ draw it--I mean in person?"
"No," said the lawyer, who was well pleased to make mischief and hatedPenhallow.
Penhallow was uneasily curious. "Who drew it?" he asked. "Josiah couldhardly have known how to draw a cheque; I had once to help him writeone."
"It was a cheque to bearer, I hear," said Swallow smiling. "Mrs.Penhallow drew the money. No doubt Josiah got it before he left."
Penhallow said, "You are insolent."
"You asked a question," returned Swallow, "and I answered it."
"And with a comment I permit no man to make. You said, 'no doubt he gotit.' I want an apology at once." He went around the table to whereSwallow sat.
The lawyer rose, saying, "Every one will know to-day that Josiah was arunaway slave. His master will be here this evening. Whoever warned himis liable under the Fugitive-Slave Act--Mrs. Penhallow drew the moneyand--"
"One word more, sir, of my wife, and I will thrash you. It is clearthat you know all about the matter and connect my wife with this man'sescape--you have insulted her."
"Oh, Mr. Penhallow," said the old farmer who presided, "I beg of you--"
"Keep quiet," said the Squire, "this is my business."
"I did not mean to insult Mrs. Penhallow," said Swallow; "Iapologize--I--"
"You miserable dog," said Penhallow, "you are both a coward and a lying,usurious plunderer of hard-working men. You may be thankful that I am agood-tempered man--but take care."
"I shall ask this board to remember what has been said of me," saidSwallow. "The law--"
"Law! The law of the cowhide is what you will get if I hear again thatyou have used my wife's name. Good-day, gentlemen."
He went our furious and rode homeward at speed. Before the Squire reachedGrey Pine he had recovered his temper and his habitual capacity to meetthe difficulties of life with judicial calmness. He had long been surethat Josiah had been a slave and had run away. But after these years,that he should have been discovered in this remote little town seemed tohim singular. The man was useful to him in several ways and had won hisentire respect and liking, so that he felt personal annoyance becauseof this valuable servant having been scared away. That Ann had been inany way concerned in aiding his escape perplexed him, as he rememberedhow entire was her belief in the creed of the masters of slaves who withtheir Northern allies had so long been the controlling legislative powerof the country.
"I am glad to be at home, my dear Ann," he said, as they met on theporch. "Ah! Grey, so you are come at last. It is not too late to say howvery welcome you are; and John, I believe you have grown an inch since Ileft."
They went in, chatting and merry. The Squire cast an amused look at thebig spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.At the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned Josiah. Thetall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talkof politics which Grey desired. "Yes, Buchanan will carry the State,Grey, but by no large majority."
"And the general election?" asked the cousin.
"Yes, that is my fear. He will be elected."
Ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful politicalconscience. She glanced at her husband expecting him to defend hisbeliefs. He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, "Fear, sir--fear?You surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a blackRepublican would be desirable." He laid down his fork and was about tobecome untimely eloquent--Rivers smiled--watching the Squire and hiswife, as Penhallow said:
"Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected."
"Oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. Elect Fremont--and we secede. ElectBuchanan--and the Union is safe. There, sir, you have it in a nutshell."
"Ah, my dear Grey," said Penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of athreat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and I am notvery convincible. We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." He turnedto his wife, "Any news of Leila, Ann?"
"Yes, I had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "She seemsto be better satisfied."
Grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of theSquire's horses. After the wine Penhallow carried off his guest to thelibrary, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored bythe little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops,tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what didnot. At last, with some final whisky, Mr. Grey went to bed.
Ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk shedreaded, went at once into the library. Penhallow rising threw his cigarinto the fire. She laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried,"Do smoke, James, I shall not mind it; I am forever disciplined to anyfate. There is a spittoon in the hall--a spittoon!"
The Squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "I can wait for my pipe; wecan't have any lapse in domestic discipline." Then he added, "I hear thatmy good Josiah has gone away--I may as well say, run away."
"Yes--he has gone, James." She hesitated greatly troubled.
"And you helped him--a runaway slave--you--" He smiled. It had for him anoddly humorous aspect.
"I did--I did--" and the little lady began to sob like a child. "Itwas--was wrong--" There was nothing comic in it for Ann Penhallow.
"You angel of goodness," he cried, as he caught her in his arms and heldthe weeping face against his shoulder, "my brave little lady!"
"I ought not to have done it--but I did--I did--oh, James! To think thatmy cousin should have brought this trouble on us--But I did--oh, James!"
"Listen, my dear. If I had been here, I should have done it. See what youhave saved me. Now sit down and let us have it all out, my dear, all ofit."
"And you really mean that?" she wailed piteously. "You won't think I didwrong--you won't think I have made trouble for you--"
"You have not," he replied, "you have helped me. But, dear, do sit downand just merely, as in these many years, trust my love. Now quietyourself and let us talk it over calmly."
"Yes--yes." She wiped her eyes. "Do smoke, James--I like it."
"Oh, you dear liar," he said. "And so it was Grey?"
She looked up. "Yes, George Grey; but, James, he did not know how much weliked Josiah nor how good he had been to me, and how he got hurt when hestopped Leila's pony. He was sorry--but it was too late--oh, James!--youwill not--oh, you will not--"
"Will not what, dear?" Penhallow was disgusted. A guest entertained inhis own house to become a detective of an escaped slave in Westways, athis very gate! "My charity, Ann, hardly covers this kind of sin againstthe decencies of life. But I wish to hear all of it. Now, who betrayedthe man--who told Grey?"
"I am sorry to say that it was Peter Lamb who first mentioned Josiah toGeorge Grey as a runaway. When he spoke of his lost fingers, George wasled to suspect who Josiah really was. Then he saw him, and as soon as hewas sure, he wrote to a Mr. Woodburn, who was Josiah's old owner."
"I suppose he recognized Josiah readily?"
"Yes, he had been a servant of George's friend, Mr. Woodburn, and Georgesays he was a man indulgently treated and much trusted."
"I infer from what I learned to-day that George told you all this and hadalready seen Swallow, so that the trap was set and Mr. Woodburn was toarrive. Did George imagine you would warn my poor barber--"
"But I--I didn't--I mean--I let John hear about it--and he told Josiah."
He listened. Here was another Mrs. Ann. There was in Ann at times abewildering childlike simplicity with remarkable intelligence--acombination to be found in some of the nobler types of womanhood. He madeno remark upon her way of betraying the trust implied in George Grey'scommonplace confession.
"So, then, my
dear, John went and gave the man a warning?"
"Yes, I would have gone, but it was at night and I thought it better tolet John see him. How he did it I did not want to know--I preferred toknow nothing about it."
This last sentence so appealed to Penhallow's not very ready sense ofhumour that he felt it needful to control his mirth as he saw herwatching earnestness. "Grey, I presume, called on that rascal Swallow,Mr. Woodburn is sent for, and meanwhile Josiah is told and wisely runsaway. He will never be caught. Anything else, my dear?"
"Yes, I said to George that we would buy Josiah's freedom--what amusesyou, James?" He was smiling.
"Oh, the idea of buying a man's power to go and come, when he hasbeen his own master for years. You were right, but it seems that youfailed--or, so I infer."
"Yes. He said Mr. Woodburn was still angry and always had consideredJosiah wickedly ungrateful." Penhallow looked at his wife. Her sense ofthe comedies of life was sometimes beyond his comprehension, but now--nowwas she not a little bit, half consciously, of the defrauded master'sopinion?
"And so, when that failed, you went to bank and drew out the poorfellow's savings?" He meant to hear the whole story. There was worse yet,and he was sure she would speak of it. But now she was her courageousself and desired to confess her share in the matter. "Of course, he hadto have money, Ann."
She wanted to get through with this, the most unpleasant part of thematter. "I want to tell you," she said. "I drew out his money with acheque John made out and Josiah signed. John took him his two hundreddollars, as he knew where Josiah would hide--I--I did not want to know."
Her large part in this perilous business began to trouble the Squire. Hisface had long been to her an open book, and she saw in his silence theman's annoyance. She added instantly, "I could not let John draw it--andJosiah would not--he was too scared. He had to have his money. Was Iwrong--was I foolish, James?"
"No--you were right. The cheque was in John's handwriting. You were theperson to draw it. I would have drawn the money for him. He had a man'sright to his honest savings. It will end here--so you may be quite atease." Of this he was not altogether certain. He understood now why shehad not given him of her own money, but Ann was clearly too agitated tomake it well or wise to question her methods further. "Go to bed, dear,and sleep the sleep of the just--you did the right thing." He kissed her."Good-night."
"One moment more, James. You know, of course--you know that all my life Ihave believed with my brothers that slavery was wise and right. I had tobelieve that--to think so might exact from me and others what I nevercould have anticipated. I came face to face with a test of my creed, andI failed. I am glad I failed."
"My dear Ann," he said, "I am supposed to be a Christian man--I go tochurch, I have a creed of conduct. To-day I lost my temper and told a manI would thrash him if he dared to say a word more."
"It was at the bank, James?"
"Yes. That fellow Swallow spoke of your having drawn Josiah's money. Hewas insolent. You need have no anxiety about it--it is all over. I onlymention it because I want you to feel that our creeds of conduct in lifeare not always our masters, and sometimes ought not to be. Let thatcomfort you a little. You know that to have been a silent looker-on atthe return to slavery of a man to whom we owed so much was impossible.My wonder is that for a moment you could have hesitated. It makes mecomprehend more charitably the attitude of the owners of men. Now, dear,we won't talk any more. Good-night--again--good-night."
He lighted a cigar and sat long in thought. He had meant not to speak toher of Swallow, but it had been, as he saw, of service. Then he wonderedhow long Mr. George Grey would remain and if he would not think itnecessary to speak of Josiah. As concerned John, he would be in no hurryto talk to him of the barber; and how the lad had grown in mind andbody!--a wonderful change and satisfactory.
When after breakfast Mr. Grey showed no desire to mention Josiah andprudently avoided talk about politics, Penhallow was greatly relieved.That his host did not open the question of Mr. Grey's conduct in thematter of the runaway was as satisfactory to the Maryland gentleman,whose sense of duty had created for him a situation which wasincreasingly disagreeable. He warmly welcomed Penhallow's invitation tolook at some newly purchased horses, and expressed the most cordialapproval of whatever he saw, somewhat to the amusement of Penhallow.
Penhallow left him when, declining to ride to the mills, Mr. Grey retiredto the library and read the _Tribune_, with internal comment on itseditorial columns. He laid the paper aside. Mr. Woodburn would probablyhave arrived in the afternoon, and would have arranged with Swallow for aconsultation in which Mr. Grey would be expected to take part. It wasplain that he really must talk to the Captain. He rose and went slowlydown the avenue. A half-hour in Westways singularly relieved him.Swallow was not at home, and Josiah, the cause of Mr. Grey'sperplexities, had certainly fled, nor did he learn that Mr. Woodburnhad already arrived.
He was now shamefully eager to escape that interview with the captain,and relieved to find that there was no need to wait for the friend he hadbrought to Westways on a vain errand. Returning to Grey Pine, heexplained to his cousin that letters from home made it necessary for himto leave on the mid-afternoon train. Never did Ann Penhallow moregratefully practise the virtue that speeds the parting guest. He wassorry to miss the captain and would have the pleasure of sending him abarrel of the best Maryland whisky; "and would you, my dear cousin, say,in your delightful way, to the good rector how much I enjoyed hisconversation?"
Ann saw that the lunch was of the best and that the wagon was ready inmore than ample season. As he left, she expressed all the regret sheought to have felt, and as the carriage disappeared at a turn of theavenue she sank down in a chair. Then she rang a bell. "Take away thatthing," she said,--"that spittoon."
"If James Penhallow were here," she murmured, "I should ask him tosay--damn! I wonder now if that man Woodburn will come, and if there willbe a difficulty with James on my account." She sat long in thought,waiting to greet her husband, while Mr. Grey was left impatient at thestation owing to the too hospitable desire of Ann to speed the partingguest.
When about dusk the Squire rode along the road through Westways, he cameon the rector and dismounted, leaving his horse to be led home by Pole'sboy. "Glad to see you, Mark. How goes it; and how did you like Mr. Grey?"
"To tell you the truth, Squire, I did not like him. I was forced into atalk about politics. We differed, as you may suppose. He was not quitepleasant. He seemed to have been so mixed up with this sad business aboutJosiah that I kept away at last, so that I might keep my temper. Billydrove him to the station after lunch."
"Indeed!" said Penhallow, pleased that Grey had gone. It was news to himand not unwelcome. Ann would no doubt explain. "What put Grey on thetrack of Josiah as a runaway? Was it a mere accidental encounter?" Hedesired to get some confirmatory information.
"No--I suspect not." Then he related what Josiah had told him of Peter'sthreats. "I may do that reprobate injustice, but--However, that is all Inow know or feel justified in suspecting."
"Well, come up and dine to-day; we can talk it out after dinner."
"With pleasure," said Rivers.
Penhallow moodily walking up the street, his head bent in thought, wasmade aware that he was almost in collision with Swallow and a large manwith a look of good-humoured amusement and the wide-open eyes and upliftof brow expressive of pleasure and surprise.
"By George, Woodburn!" said the Squire. "I heard some one of your namewas here, but did not connect the name with you. I last heard of you asin a wild mix-up with the Sioux, and I wished I was with you." AsPenhallow spoke the two men shook hands, Swallow meanwhile standing apartnot over-pleased as through the narrowed lids of near-sight he saw thatthe two men must have known one another well and even intimately, forWoodburn replied, "Thought you knew I'd left the army, Jim. The last fiveyears I've been running my wife's plantation in Maryland."
The Squire's pleasure at his encounter with an old West Point c
omrade fora moment caused him to forget that this was the master who had been seton Josiah's track by Grey. It was but for a moment. Then he drew up hissoldierly figure and said coldly, "I am sorry that you are here on whatcannot be a very agreeable errand."
"Oh!" said Woodburn cheerfully, "I came to get my old servant, Caesar. Itseems to have been a fool's errand. He has slipped away. I suppose thatGrey as usual talked too freely. But how the deuce does it concern you? Isee that it does."
Penhallow laughed. "He was my barber."
"And mine," said Woodburn. "If you have missed him, Jim, for a few days,I have missed him for three years and more." Then both men laughedheartily at their inequality of loss.
"I cannot understand why this fellow ran away. He was a man I trusted andindulged to such an extent that my wife says I spoiled him. She says heowned me quite as much as I owned him--a darned ungrateful cuss! I camehere pretty cross when I got George's letter, and now I hear of an amountof hostile feeling which rather surprised me."
"That you are surprised, Will, surprises me," said Penhallow. "TheFugitive-Slave Act will always meet with opposition at the North. Itseems made to create irritation even among people who really are notactively hostile to slavery. If it became necessary to enforce it, Ibelieve that I would obey it, because it is the law--but it is makingendless trouble. May I ask what you propose to do about this presentcase?"
"Do--oh, nothing! I am advised to employ detectives and hunt the mandown. I will not; I shall go home. It is not Mr. Swallow's advice."
"No, it is not," said the lawyer, who stood aside waiting a chance tospeak. "Some one warned the man, and it is pretty generally suspected howhe came to be told."
Penhallow turned to Woodburn, "Has Mr. Swallow ventured to connect me orany of my family with this matter?"
"No," said Woodburn, which was true. Swallow meant to keep in reserveMrs. Penhallow's share in the escape until he learned how far an angryslave-owner was disposed to go. Woodburn had, however, let him understandthat he was not of a mind to go further, and had paid in good-humour abill he thought excessive. Grey had made it all seem easy, and then asSwallow now learned had gone away. He had also written to his ownoverseer, and thus among their neighbours a strong feeling prevailed thatthis was a case for prompt and easy action. The action had been promptand had failed. Woodburn was going home to add more bitterness to theSouthern sense of Northern injustice.
When Woodburn, much to Penhallow's relief, had said he was done with thecase, the Squire returned, "Then, as you are through with Mr. Swallow,come home and dine with me. Where are you staying?"
"At Mr. Swallow's, but I leave by the night train."
"So soon! But come and dine. I will send for your bag and see that youget to your train."
The prospect of Swallow and his feeble, overdressed wife, and hiscomrade's urgency, decided Woodburn. He said, "Yes, if Mr. Swallow willexcuse me."
Swallow said, "Oh, of course!" relieved to be rid of a dissatisfiedclient, and the two ex-soldiers went away together chatting of West Pointlife.
Half-way up the avenue Penhallow said, "Before we go in, a word or two--"
"What is it, Jim?"
"That fellow said nothing of Mrs. Penhallow, you are sure?"
"Yes," returned Woodburn, "not a word. I knew that you lived here, butneither of you nor of Mrs. Penhallow did he say a word in connection withthis business. I meant to look you up this afternoon. Why do you speak ofyour wife?"
"Because--well--I could not let you join us without an honest wordconcerning what I was sure you would have heard from Swallow. Now if youhad taken what I presume was his advice--to punish the people concernedin warning Josiah, you--indeed I--might hesitate--"
"What do you mean, Jim?" said his companion much amazed.
"I mean this: After our loose-tongued friend Grey told my wife thatJosiah was in danger, she sent him word of the risk he ran, and then drewout of our bank for him his savings and enabled him to get away. Nowdon't say a word until I have done. Listen! This man turned up here overthree years ago and was soon employed about my stables. He broke his legin stopping a runaway and saved my wife's young niece, our adopted child,Leila Grey. There was some other kind and efficient service. That's all.Now, can you dine with me?"
"With all my heart, Jim. Damn Grey! Did he talk much?"
"Did he? No, he gabbled. But are you satisfied?"
"Yes, Jim. I am sorry I drove off your barber--and I shall hold my tonguewhen I get home--as far as I can."
"Then come. I have some of my father's Madeira, if Grey has left any. Ishall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow. By George! I am glad to have you."
Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and evenelated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to getready to dine. He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease withthe new guest. Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who havingheard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of thecordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.
The dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed. The lad whom events hadsingularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk ofcadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguishedin our unrighteous war with Mexico. When now and then the talk becamequite calmly political, Ann listened to the good-natured debate and waslonging to speak her mind. She was, however, wisely silent, and reflectedhalf amused that she had lost the right to express herself on thequestion which was making politics ill-tempered but was now beingdiscussed at her table with such well-bred courtesy. John soon ceased tofollow the wandering talk, and feeling what for him had the charm ofromance in the flight of Josiah sat thinking over the scene of thewarning at night, the scared fugitive in the cabin, and the lonely voyagedown through the darkness of the rapids of the river. Where would the mango? Would they ever see him again? They were to meet in far-away days andin hours far more perilous. Then he was caught once more by gay storiesof adventures on the plains and memories of Indian battles, until thewine had been drunk and the Squire took his friend to the library for anhour.
Westways: A Village Chronicle Page 10
