Westways: A Village Chronicle

by S. Weir Mitchell

  CHAPTER XI

  Penhallow himself drove his guest to meet the night express to the East,and well pleased with his day returned to find his wife talking withRivers and John. He sat down with them at the fire in the hall, saying,"I wanted to keep Woodburn longer, but he was wise not to stay. What areyou two talking over--you were laughing?"

  "I," said Rivers, "was hearing how that very courteous gentleman chancedto dine with these mortal enemies who stole his property. I kept quiet,Mrs. Penhallow said nothing, John ate his dinner, and no one quarrelled.I longed for Mr. Grey--"

  "For shame," said Mrs. Ann. "Tell him why we were laughing--it was atnothing particular."

  "It was about poor old Mrs. Burton."

  "What about her? If you can make that widow interesting in any way, Ishall be grateful."

  "It was about her dead husband--"

  "Am I to hear it or not?" said Penhallow. "What is it?"

  "Why, what she said was that she was more than ever confirmed in herbelief in special Providences, because Malcolm was so fond of tomatoes,and this year of his death not one of their tomatoes ripened."

  The Squire's range of enjoyment of the comic had limitations, but thisstory was immensely enjoyed and to his taste. He laughed in his heartyway. "Did she tell you that, Mark, or has it improved in your hands?"

  "No--no, I got it from Grace, and he had it from the widow. I do notthink it seemed the least bit funny to Grace."

  "But after all," said Mrs. Ann, "is it so very comic?"

  "Oh, now," said Penhallow, "we are in for a discussion on specialProvidences. I can't stand it to-night; I want something more definite.My manager says sometimes, 'I want to close out this-here business.' NowI want to close out this abominable business about my poor Josiah. Youand your aunt, John, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of yourcountry--"

  Rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one toanother.

  "Oh, James!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased.

  "Wait a little, my dear Ann. Now, John, I want to hear precisely how yougave Josiah a warning and--well--all the rest. You ought to know that mylittle lady did as usual the right thing. The risks and whatever theremight have been of danger were ours by right--a debt paid to a poorrunaway who had made us his friends. Now, John!"

  Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. John stood up a littleexcited by this unexpected need to confess. He leaned against the side ofthe mantel and said, "Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back--"

  "I don't see at all. I want to be made to see--I want the whole story."

  John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relateit as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles withApaches. But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some goodreason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. Standing by thefire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by theCaptain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, JohnPenhallow told of his entrance to Josiah's room and of his thought ofthe cabin as a hiding-place. When he hesitated, Penhallow said, "Oh,don't leave out, John Penhallow, I want all the details. I have myreasons, John."

  Flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure whichwas to have his uncle's athletic build, he related his story to theclose. As he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and thehunted man's last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at thetime. "That's all, Uncle Jim. It was too bad--and he will never comeback."

  "He could," said Rivers.

  "Yes--but he will not. I know the man," said Penhallow. "He has thecourage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave. We shall see him nomore, I fear."

  The little group around the fire fell to silence, and John sat down. Hewanted a word of approval, and got it. "I want you to know, John," saidPenhallow, "that I think you behaved with courage and discretion. It wasnot an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunthad no one else. I am glad she had not."

  Then John Penhallow felt that he was shaky and that his eyes wereuncomfortably filling. With a boy's dislike of showing emotion, hemastered his feelings and said, "Thank you, Uncle Jim."

  "That is all," said the Squire, who too saw and comprehended what he saw,"go to bed, you breaker of the law--"

  "And I," said Ann, "a wicked partner. Come, John."

  They left the master of the house with the rector. Rivers looked at theclock, "I think I must go. I do not stand late hours. If I let the daycapture the night, the day after is apt to find me dull."

  "Well, stand it this once, Mark. I hate councils of war or peace withoutthe pipe, and now, imagine it, my dear wife wanted me to smoke, and thatwas all along of that terrible spittoon and the long-expected cousin ofwhom I have heard from time to time. _Les absens n'out pas toujourstort_. Now smoke and don't watch the clock. I said this abominablebusiness was to be closed out--"

  "And is it not?" asked Rivers.

  "No. I do not talk about Peter Lamb to my wife, because she thinks myhelping him so often has done the man more harm than good. It was notGrey alone who was responsible. He told Mrs. Penhallow that Peter hadsent him to Josiah's shop. He told Grey too that Josiah must be a runawayslave and that any one would know him by his having lost two fingers.That at once set Grey on this mischievous track."

  "I am only too sure that you are right," returned Rivers. "Peter tried avery futile blackmailing trick on Josiah. He wanted to get whisky, andtold the poor negro that he must get it for him or he would let hismaster know where he was. Of course, the scamp knew what we all knew andno more, but it alarmed Josiah, who came to me at once. He was like ascared child. I told him to go home and that Peter had lied. He went awaylooking as if the old savagery in his blood might become practicallyactive."

  "I don't wonder," said Penhallow. "Did it end there?"

  "No, I saw Peter next day, and he of course lied to me very cleverly,said it was only a joke on Josiah, and so on. I think, sir, and you willI hope excuse me--I do think that the man were better let alone. Everytime you help him, he gets worse. When he was arrested and suspected ofburning Robert's hayrick, you pleaded with the old farmer and got the manoff. He boasted of it the next time he got drunk."

  "I know--I know." The Squire had paid Robert's loss, and aware of his ownfolly was of no mind to confess to any one. "I have no wish or will tohelp him. I mean now to drop him altogether, and I must tell him so. Butwhat a pity it is! He is intelligent, and was a good carpenter until hebegan to drink. I must talk to him."

  "You will only make him more revengeful. He has what he calls 'got even'with Josiah, and he is capable of doing it with you or me. Let himalone."

  "Not I," said the Squire; "if only for his mother's sake, I must see whatI can do."

  "Useless--quite useless," said Rivers. "You may think that strange advicefor a clergyman, but I do sometimes despair of others and occasionally ofMark Rivers. Goodnight."

  During these days the fugitive floated down the swift little river atnight, and at dawn hid his frail boat and himself in the forests of athinly settled land. He was brave enough, but his ignorance of geographyadded to his persistent terror. On the third day the broader watersbrought him to farms and houses. Then he left his boat and struck outacross the country until he came to a railway. In the station he made outthat it led to Philadelphia. Knowing that he would be safe there, hebought a ticket and arrived in the city the next day--a free man withmoney, intelligence, and an honest liking for steady work.

  The Squire had the good habit of second thought. His wife knew it welland had often found it valuable and to be trusted. At present he wasthoroughly disgusted with the consequences of what he knew to be in somedegree the result of his own feeling that he was bound to care for theman whose tie to him was one few men would have considered as in anyserious degree obligatory. The night brought good counsel, and he madeup his mind next morning simply to let the foster-brother alone. Fatedecreed otherwise. In the morning he was asked by
his wife to go with herto the village; she wanted some advice. He did not ask what, but said,"Of course. I am to try the barber's assistant I have brought from themills to shave me, and what is more important--Westways. I have put himin our poor old Josiah's shop."

  They went together to Pole's, and returning she stopped before thebarn-like building where Grace gathered on Sundays a scant audience tohear the sermons which Rivers had told him had too much heart and toolittle head.

  "What is it?" asked Penhallow.

  "I have heard, James, that their chapel (she never called it church) isleaking--the roof, I mean. Could not you pay for a new roof?"

  "Of course, my dear--of course. It can't cost much. I will see Graceabout it."

  "Thank you, James." On no account would she now have done this herself.She was out of touch for the time with the whole business of politics,and to have indulged her usual gentle desire to help others would haveimplied obligation on the part of the Baptist to accept her wish that heshould vote and use his influence for Buchanan. Now the thing would bedone without her aid. In time her desire to see the Democrats win in theinterest of her dear South would revive, but at present what with Greyand the threat of the practical application of the Fugitive-Slave Act andher husband's disgust, she was disposed to let politics alone.

  Presently, as they walked on, Peter Lamb stopped them. "I'd like to speakto you for a moment, Mr. Penhallow." Mrs. Penhallow walked on.

  "What is it?" said the Squire.

  "I'm all right now--I'll never drink again. I want some work--andmother's sick."

  "We will see to her, but you get no more work from me."

  "Why, what's the matter, sir?"

  "Matter! You might ask Josiah if he were here. You know well enough whatyou did--and now I am done with you."

  "So help me God, I never--"

  "Oh! get out of my way. You are a miserable, lying, ungrateful man, and Ihave done with you."

  He walked away conscious of having again lost his temper, which was rare.The red-faced man he left stood still, his lips parted, the large yellowteeth showing. "It's that damned parson," he said.

  Penhallow rejoined his wife. "What did he want?" she asked.

  "Oh, work," he said. "I told him he could get no more from me."

  "Well, James," she said, "that is the first sensible thing you have everdone about that man. You have thoroughly spoiled him, and now it is verylikely too late to discipline him."

  "Yes--perhaps--you may be right." He knew her to be right, but he did notlike her agreement with his decision to be connected with even her mildstatement that it had been better if long before he had been morereasonably severe and treated Lamb as others would have treated him. Inthe minor affairs of life Ann Penhallow used the quick perception of awoman, and now and then brought the Squire's kindly excesses to the barof common sense. Sometimes the sentence was never announced, but now andthen annoyed at his over-indulgent charity she allowed her impatience theprivilege of speech, and then, as on this occasion, was sorry to havespoken.

  Dismissing his slight vexation, Penhallow said presently, "He told me hismother was sick."

  "She was not yesterday. I took her our monthly allowance and some towelsI wanted hemmed and marked. He lied to you, James. Did you believe himeven for a moment?"

  "But she might be sick, Ann. I meant you to stop and ask."

  "I will, of course." This time she held her tongue, and left him atGrace's door.

  The perfect sweetness of her husband's generous temperament was sometimestrying to Ann in its results, but now it had helped her out of an awkwardposition, and with pride and affection she watched his soldierly figurefor a moment and then went on her way.

  Intent with gladness on fulfilling his wife's errand, he went up thesteps of the small two-storey house of the Baptist preacher. He haddifficulty in making any one hear where there was no one to hear. If atWestways the use of the rare bells or more common knockers brought no oneto the door, you were free to walk in and cry, "Where are you, AmandaJane, and shall I come right up?" Penhallow had never set foot in thehouse, but had no hesitation in entering the front room close to thenarrow hall which was known as the front entry. The details of men'ssurroundings did not usually interest Penhallow, but in the mills or thefar past days of military service nothing escaped him that could be ofuse in the work of the hour. The stout little Baptist preacher, with hisconstant every-day jollity and violent sermons, of which he had heardfrom Rivers, in no way interested Penhallow. When he once said to Ann,"The man is unneat and common," she replied, "No, he is homely, butneither vulgar nor common. I hate his emotional performances, but the manis good, James." "Then I do wish, Ann, he would button his waistcoat andpull up his socks."

  Now he looked about him with some unusual attention. There was no carpet.A set of oddly coloured chairs and settees which would have pleased Ann,a square mahogany table set on elephantine legs, completed thefurnishings of a whitewashed room, where the flies, driven indoors bycool weather, buzzed on window glasses dull with dust. The back room hadonly a writing-table, a small case of theological books, and two orthree much used volumes of American history. Penhallow looked around himwith unusually awakened pity. The gathered dust, the battered chairs, thespider-webs in the darker corners, would have variously annoyed anddisgusted Ann Penhallow. A well-worn Bible lay on the table, with aragged volume of "Hiawatha" and "Bunyan's Holy War." There were no otherbooks. This form of poverty piteously appealed to him.

  "By George!" he exclaimed, "that is sad. The man is book-poor. Ann musthave that library. I will ask him to use mine." As he stood still inthought, he heard steps, and turned to meet Dr. McGregor.

  "Come to see Grace, sir?" said the doctor.

  "Yes, I came about a little business, but there seems to be no one in."

  "Grace is in bed and pretty sick too."

  "What is the matter?"

  "Oh, had a baptism in the river--stood too long in the water and gotchilled. It has happened before. Come up and see him--he'll like it."

  The Squire hesitated and then followed the doctor. "Who cares for him?"he asked as they moved up the stairs.

  "Oh, his son. Rather a dull lad, but not a bad fellow. He has noservant--cooks for himself. Ever try it, Squire?"

  "I--often. But what a life!"

  The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of oldmahogany, which seemed to hint of better days. The ragged patch-workquilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead. The windows wereclosed, the air was sick (as McGregor said later), and there was theindescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of povertyknows. The boy, glad to escape, went out as they entered.

  Grace sat up. "Now," he said cheerfully, "this is real good of you tocome and see me! Take a seat, sir."

  The chairs were what the doctor once described as non-sitable, andwabbled as they sat down.

  "You are better, I see, Grace," said the doctor. "I fetched up the Squirefor a consultation."

  "Yes, I'm near about right." He had none of the common feeling of thepoor that he must excuse his surroundings to these richer visitors, norany least embarrassment. "It's good to see some one, Mr. Penhallow."

  "I come on a pleasant errand," said Penhallow. "We will talk it over andthen leave you to the doctor. Mrs. Penhallow wants me to roof yourchurch. I came to say to you that I shall do it with pleasure. You willlose the use of it for one Sunday at least."

  "Thank you, Squire," said Grace simply. "That's real good medicine."

  "I will see to it at once."

  The doctor opened a window, and Penhallow drew a grateful breath of freshair.

  "Don't go, sir," said Grace. The Squire sat down again while McGregorwent through his examination of the sick man. Then he too rose to leave.

  "Must you go?" said Grace. "It is such a pleasure to see some one fromthe outside." The doctor smiled and lingered.

  "I suppose, Squire, you'll get Joe Boynton, the carpenter, to put on theroof? He's one of my flock
."

  "Yes," said Penhallow, "but he will want to put his old workman, PeterLamb, on the job, and I have no desire to help that man any further. Hegives his mother nothing, and every cent he makes goes for drink."

  McGregor nodded approval, but wondered why at last the Squire's unfailinggood-nature had struck for higher wages of virtue in the man he hadruined by kindness.

  "I try to keep work in Westways," said Penhallow. "Joe Shall roof thechapel, and like as not Peter will be too drunk to help. I can't quitemake it a condition with Joe that he shall not employ Peter, but I shouldlike to." McGregor's face grew smiling at Penhallow's conclusion when headded, "I hope he may get work elsewhere." Then the Squire wentdownstairs with the doctor, exchanging brevities of talk.

  "Are you aware, Penhallow, that this wicked business about Josiah hasbeaten Buchanan in Westways? Come to apply the Fugitive-Slave Act andpeople won't stand it. As long as it was just a matter of newspaperdiscussion Westways didn't feel it, but when it drove away our barber,Westways's conscience woke up to feel how wicked it was."

  The Squire had had an illustration nearer home and kept thinking of it ashe murmured monosyllabic contributions while the doctor went on--"My ownbelief is that if the November election were delayed six months, Fremontwould carry Pennsylvania."

  Penhallow recovered fuller consciousness and returned, "I distrustFremont. I knew him in the West. But he represents, or rather he standsfor, a party, and it is mine."

  "I am glad to know that," said McGregor. "I am really glad. It is arelief to be sure about a man like you, Penhallow. I suppose you knowthat you are loved in the county as no one else is."

  "Nonsense," exclaimed the Squire, laughing, but not ill-pleased.

  "No, I am serious; but it leads up to this: Am I free to say you willvote the Republican ticket?"

  "Yes--yes--you may say so."

  "It will be of use, but couldn't I persuade you to speak at the meetingnext week at the mills?"

  "No, McGregor. That is not in my line." He had other reasons for refusal."Let us drop politics. What is that boy of yours going to do?"

  "Study medicine," he says. "He has brains enough, and Mr. Rivers tells mehe is studious. Our two lads fell out, it seems, and my boy got the worstof it. What I don't like is that he has not made up with John."

  "No, that is bad; but boys get over their quarrels in time. However, Imust go. If I can be of any use to Tom, you know that I am at yourservice."

  "When were you not at everybody's service?" said the doctor, and theywent out through the hall.

  "Good-bye," said Penhallow, but the doctor stopped him.

  "Penhallow, may I take the liberty to bother you with a bit of unaskedadvice?"

  "A liberty, nonsense! What is it?"

  "Well, then--let that drunken brute Peter alone. You said that you wouldnot let the carpenter use him, but why not? Then you hoped he would getwork. Let him alone."

  "McGregor, I have a great charity for a drunkard's son--and the rest youknow."

  "Yes, too well."

  "I try to put myself in his place--with his inheritance--"

  "You can't. Nothing is more kind than that in some cases, and nothingmore foolish in others or in this--"

  "Perhaps. I will think it over, Doctor. Good-bye."

  Meanwhile Grace lay in bed thoughtfully considering the situation. Whileher husband seemed practically inactive in politics, Mrs. Penhallow hadbeen busy, and she had clearly hinted that the roofing of the chapelmight depend on how Grace used his large influence in the electoralcontest, but had said nothing very definite. He was well aware, however,that in his need for help he had bowed a little in the House of Rimmon.Then he had talked with Rivers and straightened up, and now did theSquire's offer imply any pledge on his own part? While he tried to solvethis problem, Penhallow reappeared.

  "I forgot something, Grace," he said. "Mrs. Penhallow will send Mrs. Lambhere for a few days, and some--oh, some little luxuries--ice and freshmilk."

  The Baptist did not like it. Was this to keep him in the way he hadresolved not to go. "Thank you and her," he returned, and then addedabruptly, "How are you meaning to vote, Squire?"

  "Oh, for Fremont," replied Penhallow, rather puzzled.

  "Well, that will be good news in Westways." It was to him, too, and hefelt himself free. "Isn't Mrs. Penhallow rather on the other side?"

  He had no least idea that the question might be regarded as impertinent.Penhallow said coldly, "My wife and I are rather averse to talkingpolitics. I came back to say that I want you to feel free to make use ofmy library--just as Rivers does."

  "Now that will be good. I am book-starved except for Rivers's help. Thankyou." He put out a fat hand and said, "God has been good to me this day;may He be as kind to you and yours."

  The Squire went his way wondering what the deuce the man had to do withAnn Penhallow's politics.

  Mrs. Lamb took charge of Grace, and Mrs. Penhallow saw that he was wellsupplied and gave no further thought to the incorrigible and changefulpolitical views of Westways.

  The excitement over the flight of Josiah lessened, and Westways settleddown to the ordinary dull routine of a little community dependent onsmall farmers and the mill-men who boarded at the old tavern or with someof the townspeople.

  * * * * *

  The forests were rapidly changing colour except where pine and sprucestood darkly green amid the growing magnificence of maple and oak. It wasthe intermediate season in which were neither winter nor summer sports,and John Penhallow enjoying the pageant of autumn rode daily or took longwalks, exploring the woods, missing Leila and giving free wing to a mindwhich felt the yearning, never to be satisfied, to translate into humanspeech its bird-song of enjoyment of nature.

  On an afternoon in mid-October he saw Mr. Rivers, to his surprise, faraway on the bank of the river. Well aware that the clergyman was rarelygiven to any form of exercise on foot, John was a little surprised whenhe came upon the tall, stooping, pallid man with what Ann Penhallowcalled the "eloquent" eyes. He was lying on the bank lazily throwingstones into the river. As John broke through the alders and red willowsabove him, he turned at the sound and cried, as John jumped down thebank, "Glad to see you, John! I have been trying to settle a question noone can settle to the satisfaction of others or even himself. You mightgive me your opinion as to who wrote the Epistle to the Hebrews. Origengave it up, and Philo had a theory about Apollos, and there isTertullian, that's all any fellow knows; and so now I await your opinion.What nobody knows about, anybody's opinion is good about."

  John laughed as he said, "I don't think I'll try."

  "Did you ever read Hebrews, John? The epistle I mean."

  "No."

  "Then don't or not yet. The Bible books ought to be read at differentages of a man's life. I could arrange them. Your aunt reads to you orwith you, I believe?"

  "Yes--Acts just now, sir. She makes it so clear and interesting that itseems as if all might have happened now to some missionaries somewhere."

  "That is an art. Some of the Bible stories require such help to make themseem real to modern folk. How does, or how did, Leila take Mrs. Ann'steachings?"

  "Oh, Leila," he replied, as he began to pitch pebbles in the littleriver, "Leila--wriggled. You know, she really can't keep quiet, Mr.Rivers."

  "Yes, I know well enough. But did what interested you interest Leila?"

  "No--no, indeed, sir. It troubled Aunt Ann because she could not make hersee things. Usually at night before bedtime we read some of the Gospels,and then once a week Acts. Every now and then Leila would sit still andask such queer questions--about people."

  "What kind of questions, John?" He was interested and curious.

  "Oh, about Peter's mother and--I forget--oh, yes, once--I remember thatbecause aunt did not like it and I really couldn't see why."

  "Well, what was it?"

  "She wanted to know if Christ's brothers ever were married and if theyhad children."

  "
Did she, indeed! Well--well!"

  "Aunt Ann asked her why she wanted to know that, and Leila said it wasbecause she was thinking how Christ must have loved them, and maybe thatwas why He was so fond of little children. Now, I couldn't have thoughtthat."

  "Nor I," said Rivers. "She will care more for people--oh, manypeople--and by and by for things, events and the large aspects of life,but she is as yet undeveloped."

  John was clear that he did not want her to like many people, but he wasinclined to keep this to himself and merely said, "I don't quiteunderstand."

  "No, perhaps I _was_ a little vague. Leila is at the puzzling age. Youwill find her much altered in a year."

  "I won't like that."

  "Well, perhaps not. But you too have changed a good deal since you came.You were a queer young prig."

  "I was--I was indeed."

  Then they were silent a while. John thought of his mother who had lefthim to the care of tutors and schools while she led a wandering, unhappy,invalid life. He remembered the Alps and the _spas_ and her fretful careof his very good health, and then the delight of being free andsurrounded with all a boy desires, and at last Leila and the wonderfulhair on the snow-drift.

  "Look at the leaves, John," said Rivers. "What fleets of red and gold!"

  "I wonder," said John, "how far they will drift, and if any of them willever float to the sea. It is a long way."

  "Yes," returned Rivers, "and so we too are drifting."

  "Oh, no, sir," said John, with the confidence of youth, "we are notdrifting, we are sailing--not just like the leaves anywhere the wavestake them."

  "More or less," added Rivers moodily, "more or less."

  He looked at the boy as he spoke, conscious of a nature unlike his own.Then he laughed outright. "You may be sure we are a good deal hustled bycircumstances--like the leaves."

  "I should prefer to hustle circumstances," replied John gaily, and againthe rector studied the young face and wondered what life had in store forthis resolute nature.

  "Come, let us go. I have walked too far for me, I am overtired, John."

  What it felt to be overtired, John hardly knew. He said, "I know a shortcut, cater-cornered across the new clearing."

  As they walked homeward, Rivers said, "What do you want to do, John? Youare more than fit for the university--you should be thinking about it."

  "I do not know."

  "Would you like to be a clergyman?"

  "No," said John decisively.

  "Or a lawyer, or a doctor like Tom McGregor?"

  "I do not know--I have not thought about it much, but I might like to goto West Point."

  "Indeed!"

  "Yes, but I am not sure."