CHAPTER XII
When John was eager to hear what Leila wrote, his aunt laughed and said,"As you know, there is always a word of remembrance for you, but herletters would hardly interest you. They are about the girls and theteachers and new gowns. Write to her--I will enclose it, but you needexpect no answer."
That Leila should have acquired interest in gowns seemed to him unlikethat fearless playmate. He learned that the rules of the school forbadethe writing of letters except to parents and near relatives. He was nowto write to Leila the first letter he had written since his laboriousepistles to his mother when at school. His compositions seemed to Riverschildlike long after he showed notable competence in speech.
"DEAR LEILA: It is very hard that you cannot write to me. We are all wellhere except Lucy, who is lame. It isn't very much.
"Of course you have heard about our good old Josiah. Isn't that slave lawwicked? Westways is angry and all turned round for Fremont. Mr. Grace hasbeen ill, and Uncle Jim is putting a roof on his chapel. Josiah left mehis traps when he ran away. He meant to make you a muskrat skin bag. Ifound four in his traps, and I have caught four more, and when Mrs. Lambmakes a bag of them, I am to have for it a silver clasp which belongedto Great-grandmother Penhallow. No girl will have one like that. It wason account of Josiah the town will not vote for Buchanan.
"I wish I had asked you for a lock of your hair. I remember how it lookedon the snow when Billy upset us."--
He had found his letter-writing hard work, and let it alone for a time.Before he finished it, he had more serious news to add.
The autumnal sunset of the year, the red and gold of maple, oak andsassafras, was new to the boy who had spent so many years in Europe, andmore wonderful was it when in this late October on the uplands there fellsoftly upon the glowing colours of the woods a light covering of earlysnow. Once seen it is a spectacle never to be forgotten, and he had thegift of being charmed by the scenic ingenuities of nature.
The scripture reading was over and he was thinking late in the evening ofwhat he had seen, when his aunt said, "Goodnight, John--bed-time," andwent up the stairway. John lay quiet, with closed eyes, seeing the sunlitsnow lightly dusted on the red and yellows of the forest.
About eleven his uncle came from the library. "What, you scamp!--up solate! I meant to mail this letter to-day; run down and mail it. It oughtto go when Billy takes the letters to Westways Crossing early to-morrow.I will wait up for you. Now use those long legs and hurry."
John took his cap and set off, liking the run over the snow, which waslight and no longer falling. He raced down the avenue and climbed thegate, thinking of Leila. He dropped the letter into the post-office box,and decided to return by a short way through the Penhallow woods whichfaced the town. He moved eastward, climbed the fence, and stood still. Hewas some two hundred yards from the parsonage. His attention was arrestedby a dull glow behind the house. He ran towards it as it flared upward abroad rush of flame, brilliantly lighting the expanse of snow and sendinglong prancing shafts of shadow through the woods as it struck on the tallspruces. Shouting, "Fire! Fire!" John came nearer.
The large store of dry pine and birch for winter-use piled in a shedagainst the back of Rivers's house was burning fiercely, with that lookof ungoverned fury which gives such an expression of merciless, personalrage to a great fire. The terror of it at first possessed the lad, whowas shouting himself hoarse. The flame was already running up and overthe outer planking and curling down upon the thin snow of the shingledroof as he ran around the small garden and saw the front door open andRivers come out. The rector said, "It is gone, John; I will go for youruncle. Run over to the Wayne and call up the men. Tell them to get out mybooks and what they can, but to run no risks. Quick, now! Wake up thetown."
There was little need, for some one at the inn had heard John's cries. Ina few minutes the village was awake and out of doors before Penhallowarriving took charge and scattered men through the easily lighted pines,in some dread of a forest fire. The snow on the floor of pine-needles andon the laden trees was, however, as he soon saw, an insurance against theperil from far-scattered sparks, and happily there was no wind. Littleof what was of any value was saved, and in the absence of water there wasnothing to do but to watch the fire complete its destructive work.
"There is nothing more we can do, Rivers," said Penhallow. "John was thefirst to see it. We will talk about it to-morrow--not now--not here."
The three Grey Pine people stood apart while books and clothes and littleelse were carried across the road and stored in the village houses. Atlast the flames rose high in the air and for a few minutes as the rooffell in, the beauty of the illumination was what impressed John andRivers. The Squire now and then gave quick orders or stood still inthought. At last he said to the rector, "I want you to go to Grey Pine,call up Mrs. Penhallow and tell her, and then go to bed. You will liketo stay here with me, John?"
"Yes, sir." The Squire walked away as Rivers left them.
"Fine sight, ain't it, Mr. John," said Billy, the one person who enjoyedthe fire.
"Yes," said John, absently intent on the red-lighted snow spaces and thegigantic shadows of the thinly timbered verge of the forest as they wereand were not. Then there was a moment of alarm. An old birch, looselyclad with dry, ragged bark stood near to the house. A flake of fallingfire fell on it. Instantly the whole trunk-cover blazed up with a roarlike that of a great beast in pain. It was sudden and for the instantterrible, but the snow-laden leaves still left on it failed to take fire,and what in summer would have been a calamity was at an end.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Billy, "didn't he howl?" John made no reply.
"Couldn't wake Peter. I was out first." He had liked the fun of bangingat the doors. "Old Woman Lamb said she couldn't wake him."
"Drunk, I suppose," said John absently, stamping out a spark among thepine-needles at his feet, now freed from snow by the heat.
The night passed, and when the dawning came, the Squire leaving someorders went homeward with John, saying only, "Go to bed at once, we willtalk about it later. I don't like it, John. You saw it first--where didit begin?"
"Outside, sir, in the wood-shed."
"Indeed! There has been some foul play. Who could it have been?" He saidno more.
It was far into the morning when John awaking found that he had beenallowed to make up for the lost sleep of the past night. His aunt smilinggreeted him with a kiss, concerning which there is something to be saidin regard to what commentary the assistant features make upon the kiss."I would not have you called earlier," she said; "but now, here is yourbreakfast, you have earned it." She sat down and watched thedisappearance of a meal which would have filled his mother with anxiety.Ann was really enjoying the young fellow's wholesome appetite andcontrasting it with the apprehensive care concerning food he had shownwhen long before he had seemed to her husband and herself a human problemhard to solve. James Penhallow had been wise, and Leila a rough andefficient schoolmistress. "Do not hurry, John; have another cup?"
"Yes, please."
"Have you written that letter? I mean to be naughty enough to enclose itto Leila. I told you so."
"Yes, but it is not quite done, and now I must tell her about the fire. Iwrote her that Josiah had gone away."
"The less of it the better. I mean about--well, about your warninghim--and the rest--your share and mine."
"Of course not, Aunt Ann. I would not talk about myself. I mean, I couldnot write about it."
"You would talk of it if she were here--you would, I am sure."
"Yes, that's different--I suppose, I would," he returned. She was struckwith this as being like what James Penhallow would have said and have, ornot have, done.
"If you have finished, John, I think your uncle wants you."
"Why didn't you tell me, aunt?" he said, as he got up in haste.
"Oh, boys must be fed," she cried. She too rose from her seat, and wentaround the table and kissed him again, saying, "You are more and morelike my
captain, John."
Being a woman, as John was well aware, not given to express approval ofwhat were merely acts of duty, he was surprised at what was, for her,excess of praise; nor was she as much given to kissing, as are manywomen. The lad felt, therefore, that what she thus said and did wasunusual, and was what his Uncle Jim called one of Ann's rarely conferredbrevets of affection.
"Yes," she repeated, "you are like him."
"What! I like Uncle Jim! I wish I were."
"Now go," she said, giving him a gentle push. She was shyly aware of alapse into unhabitual emotion and of some closer approach to the maternalrelation fostered by his growing resemblance to James Penhallow.
"So," laughed his uncle as John entered the library, "you have burneddown the school and are on a holiday--you and Rivers."
John grinned. "Yes, sir."
"Sit down. We are discussing that fire. You were the first to see it,John. It was about eleven--"
"Yes, uncle, it struck as I left the hall."
"No one else was in sight, and in fact, Rivers, no one in Westways is outof bed at ten. Both you and John are sure the fire began outside wherethe wood was piled under a shed."
"Yes," said Rivers. "It was a well dried winter supply, birch and pine.The shed, as you know, was alongside of the kitchen door. I went over thehouse as usual about nine, after old Susan, the maid, had gone home. Icovered the kitchen fire with ashes--a thing she is apt to neglect. Iwent to bed at ten and wakened to hear the glass crack and to smellsmoke. The kitchen lay under my bedroom. I fear it was a deliberate actof wickedness."
"That is certain," said Penhallow, "but who could have wanted to do it.You and I, Rivers, know every one in Westways. Can you think of any onewith malice enough to make him want to bum a house and risk thepossibility of murder?"
Rivers turned his lean pale face toward the Squire, unwilling to speakout what was in the minds of both men. John listened, looking from oneserious face to the other.
"It seems to me quite incredible," said Penhallow, and then Rivers knewsurely that the older man had a pretty definite belief in regard to theperson who had been concerned. He knew too why the Squire was unwillingto accuse him, and waited to hear what next Penhallow would say.
"It makes one feel uncomfortable," said Penhallow, and turning to John,"Who was first there after you came?"
"Billy, sir, I think, even before the men from the Wayne, but I am notsure. I told him to pound on the doors and wake up the town."
"Did he say anything?"
"Oh, just his usual silliness."
"Was Peter Lamb at the fire?"
"I think not. His mother opened a window and said that she could notwaken Peter. It was Billy told me that. I told Billy, I supposed Peterwas drunk. But he wasn't yesterday afternoon--I saw him."
"Oh, there was time enough for that," remarked Rivers.
Then the two men smoked and were silent, until at last the Squire said,"Of course, you must stay here, Rivers, and you know how glad we shallbe--oh, don't protest. It is the only pleasant thing which comes out ofthis abominable matter. Ann will like it."
"Thank you," returned Rivers, "I too like it."
John went away to look at the ruin left by the fire, and the Squire saidto his friend, "As I am absent in the mornings at the mills, you may keepschool here, Rivers," and it was so settled.
Before going out Penhallow went to his wife's little room on the fartherside of the hall. He had no desire to hide his conclusions from her. Shesaw how grave he looked. "What is it, James?" she asked, looking up fromher desk.
"I am as sure as a man can be that Peter Lamb set fire to the parsonage.He has always been revengeful and he owed our friend, the Rector, agrudge. I have no direct evidence of his guilt, and what am I to do? Youknow why I have always stood by him. I suppose that I was wrong."
She knew only too well, but now his evident trouble troubled her and sheloved him too well to accept the temptation to use the exasperatingphrase, "I always told you so." "You can do nothing, James, without morecertainty. You will not question his mother?"
"No, I can't do that, Ann; and yet I cannot quite let this go by andsimply sit still."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I do not know," and with this he left her and rode to the mills. In theafternoon he called at Mrs. Lamb's and asked where he could find Peter.
She was evidently uneasy, as she said, "You gave him work on the new roofof the Baptist chapel with Boynton; he might be there."
He made no comment, and went on his way until reaching the chapel hecalled Peter down from the roof and said, "Come with me, I want to talkto you."
Peter was now sober and was sharply on guard. "Come away from the town,"added the Squire. He crossed the street, entered his own woods and walkedthrough them until he came in sight of the smoking relics of theparsonage, where at a distance some few persons were idly discussing whatwas also on Penhallow's mind. Here he turned on his foster-brother, andsaid, "You set that house on fire. I could get out of your mother enoughto make it right to arrest you, but I will not bring her into the matter.Others suspect you. Now, what have you to say?"
"Say! I didn't do it--that's all. I was in bed."
"Why did you not get up and help?"
"Wasn't any of my business," he replied sulkily. "Everybody in thistown's against me, and now when I've given up drinking, to say I set ahouse afire--"
"Well!" said Penhallow, "this is my last word, you may go. I shall nothave you arrested, but I cannot answer for what others may do."
Peter walked away. He had been for several days enough under theinfluence of whisky to intensify what were for him normal or at leasthabitually indulged characteristics. For them he was only in partresponsible. His mother had spoiled him. He had been as a child theplaymate of his breast-brother until time and change had left him only insuch a relation to Penhallow as would have meant little or nothing tomost men. As a result, out of the Squire's long and indulgent care of alad who grew up a very competent carpenter, and gradually more and morean idle drunkard, Peter had come to overestimate the power of his claimon Penhallow. What share in his evil qualities his father's drunkennesshad, is in no man's power to say. His desire to revenge the slightestill-treatment or the abuse his evil ways earned had the impelling forceof a brute instinct. What he called "getting even" kept him indifficulties, and when he made things unpleasant or worse for theoffenders, his constant state of induced indifference to consequencesleft him careless and satisfied. When there was not enough whisky to behad, his wild acts of revengeful malice were succeeded by such childliketerror as Penhallow's words produced. 'The preacher would have himarrested; the Squire would not interfere. Some day he would get even withhim too!' There was now, however, no recourse but flight. He hastenedhome and finding his mother absent searched roughly until by accident ashe let fall her Bible, a bank note dropped out. There were others, somesixty dollars or more, her meagre savings. He took it all without theleast indecision. At dark after her return he ate the supper sheprovided. When she had gone to bed, he packed some clothes in a canvasbag and went quietly out upon the highway. Opposite to the smoking ruinof the rectory he halted. He muttered, "I've got even with him anyhow!"
As he murmured his satisfaction, a man left on guard crossed the road."Halloa! Where are you bound, Peter?"
"Goin' after a job. Bad fire, wasn't it--hard on the preacher!"
"Hard. He's well lodged at the Squire's, and I do hear it was insured.Nobody's much the worse, and it will make a fine bit of work for some ofus. Who done it, I wonder?"
"How should I know! Good-night."
When out of sight, he turned and said, "I ain't got even yet. Them richpeople's hard to beat. Damn the Squire! I'll get even with him some day."He was bitterly disappointed. "Gosh! I ran that nigger out, and now I'm arunaway too. It's queer."
At Westways Crossing he waited until an empty freight train was switchedoff to let the night express go by. Then he stowed himself away in anopen box-car and had
a comfortable sense of relief as it rolled eastward.He felt sure that the Squire's last words meant that he might be arrestedand that immediate flight was his only chance of escape.
He thus passes, like Josiah, for some years out of my story. He hadmoney, was when sober a clever carpenter, and felt, therefore, no fear ofhis future. He had the shrewd conviction that the Squire at least wouldnot be displeased to get rid of him, and would not be very eager to havehim pursued.
James Penhallow was disagreeably aware that it was his duty to bringabout the punishment of his drunken foster-brother, but he did not likeit. When the next morning he was about to mount his horse, he saw Mrs.Lamb, now an aged woman, coming slowly up the avenue. As she came to thesteps of the porch, Penhallow went to meet her, giving the help of hishand.
"Good-morning, Ellen," he said, "what brings you here over the snow thisfrosty day? Do you want to see Mrs. Penhallow?"
For a moment she was too breathless to answer. The withered leanness ofthe weary old face moved in an effort to speak, but was defeated byemotion. She gasped, "Let me set down."
He led her into the hall and gave her a chair. Then he called his wifefrom her library-room. Ann at once knew that something more than theeffect of exertion was to be read in the moving face. The dull grey eyesof age stared at James Penhallow and then at her, and again at him, as inthe vigour of perfect health they looked down at his old nurse and withkindly patience waited. "Don't hurry, Ellen," said Mrs. Ann. "You are outof breath."
She seemed to Ann like some dumb animal that had no language but a lookto tell the story of despair or pain. At last she found her voice andgasped out, "I came to tell you he has run away. He went last night. I'dlike to be able to say, James Penhallow, that I don't know why he wentaway--"
"We will not talk of it, Ellen," said the Squire, with some sense ofrelief at the loss of need to do what he had felt to be a duty. "Comenear to the fire," he added.
"No, I want to go home. I had to tell you. I just want to be alone.I'd have given it to him if he had asked me. I don't mind his takingthe money, but he took it out of my Bible. I kept it there. It waslike stealing from the Lord. It'll bring him bad luck. Mostly it wasin the Gospels--just a bank-note here and there--sixty-one dollars andseventy-three cents it was." She seemed to be talking to herself ratherthan to the man and woman at her side. She went on--sometimes a babblethey could not comprehend, as in pity and wonder they stood over her.Then again her voice rose, "He took it from the book of God. Oh, my son,my son! I must go."
She rose feebly tottering, and added, "It will follow him like a curseout of the Bible. He took it out of the Bible. I must go."
"No," said Penhallow, "wait and I will send you home."
She sat down again. "Thank you." Then with renewed strength, she said,"You won't have them go after him?"
"No, I will not."
He went away to order the carriage, and returning said, "You know, Ellen,that you will always be taken care of."
"Yes, I know, sir--I know. But he took it out of my Bible--out of thebook of God." She was presently helped into the wagon and sent awaymurmuring incoherently.
"And so, James," said Ann, "she knew too much about the fire. What atragedy!"
"Yes, she knew. I am glad that he has gone. If he had faced it out andstayed, I must have done something. I suppose it is better for her on thewhole. When he was drunk, he was brutal; when he was sober, he kept herworried. I am glad he has gone."
"But," said Ann, "he was her son--"
"Yes, more's the pity."
In a day or two it was known that Peter had disappeared. The town knewvery well why and discussed it at evening, when as usual the men gatheredfor a talk. Pole expressed the general opinion when he said, "It's hardon the old woman, but I guess it's a riddance of bad rubbish." Then theyfell to talking politics, the roofing of the chapel and the price ofwheat and so Westways settled down again to its every-day quiet round ofduties.
The excitement of the fire and Lamb's flight had been unfavourable toliterary composition, but now John returned to his letter. He continued:
"The reticule will have to be finished in town. Uncle will take it afterthe election or send it to you. If you remember your Latin, you will knowthat reticule comes from _reticulus,_ a net. But this isn't really a net.
"We have had a big excitement. Some one set fire to the parsonage and itburnt down." [He did not tell her who set it on fire, although he knewvery well that it was Peter Lamb.] "Lamb has run away, and I think we arewell rid of him.
"I do miss you very much. Mr. Rivers says you will be a fashionable younglady when you come back and will never snowball any more. I don't believeit.
"Yours truly,
"JOHN PENHALLOW."
Mrs. Penhallow enclosed the letter in one of her own, and no answer cameuntil she gave him a note at the end of October. Leila wrote:
"DEAR JOHN: It is against the rules to write to any one but parents, andI am breaking the rules when I enclose this to you. I do not think Iought to do it, and I will not again.
"You would not know me in my long skirts, and I wear my hair in twoplaits. The girls are all from the South and are very angry when theytalk about the North. I cannot answer them and am sorry I do not knowmore about politics, but I do know that Uncle Jim would not agree withthem.
"I go on Saturdays and over Sundays to my cousins in Baltimore. They saythat the South will secede if Fremont should be elected. I just hold mytongue and listen.
"Yours sincerely,
"LEILA GREY.
"P.S. I shall be very proud of the bag. I hope you are studying hard."
"Indeed!" muttered John. "Thanks, Miss Grey." There was no more of it.
John Penhallow had come by degrees to value the rare privilege of awalk with the too easily wearied clergyman, who had avenues of readyintellectual approach which invited the adventurous mind of the lad andwere not in the mental topography of James Penhallow. The cool, hazy daysof late October had come with their splendour of colour-contrasts such asonly the artist nature could make acceptable, and this year the autumnwas unusually brilliant.
"Do you enjoy it?" asked Rivers.
"Oh, yes, sir. I suppose every one does."
"In a measure, as some people do the great music, and as the poetsusually do not. People presume that the ear for rhythm is the same asthat for music. They are things apart. A few poets have had both."
"That seems strange," said John. "I have neither," and he was lost inthought until Rivers, as usual easily tired, said, "Let us sit down. Howhazy the air is, John! It tenderly flatters these wild colour-contrasts.It is like a November day of the Indian summer."
"Why do they call it Indian summer?" asked John.
"I do not know. I tried in vain to run it down in the dictionaries. InCanada it is known as 'L'ete de St. Martin.'"
"It seems," said John, "as if the decay of the year had ceased, in pity.It is so beautiful and so new to me. I feel sometimes when I am alone inthese woods as if something was going to happen. Did you ever feel that,sir?"
Rivers was silent for a moment. The lad's power to state things in speechand his incapacity to put his thoughts in writing had often puzzled thetutor. "Why don't you put such reflections into verse, John? It's goodpractice in English."
"I can't--I've tried."
"Try again."
"No," said John decidedly. "Do look at those maples, Mr. Rivers--and theoaks--and the variety of colour in the sassafras. Did you ever notice howits leaves differ in shape?"
"I never did, but nothing is exactly the same as anything else. We talkedof that once."
"Then since the world began there never was another me or Leila?"
"Never. There is only one of anything."
John was silent--in thought of his unresemblance to any other John. "ButI am like Uncle Jim! Aunt says so."
"Yes, outwardly you are; but you have what he has not--imagination. Itis both friend and foe as may be. It may not be a good gift for asoldier--at least one
form of it. It may be the parent of fear--ofindecisions."
"But, Mr. Rivers, may it not work also for good and suggestpossibilities--let you into seeing what other men may do?"
The reflection seemed to Rivers not like the thought of so young a man.He returned, "But I said it might be a friend and have practical uses inlife. I have not found it that myself. But some men have morbidimagination. Let us walk." They went on again through the quiet splendourof the woodlands.
"Uncle Jim is going away after the election."
"Yes."
"He will see Leila. Don't you miss her?"
"Yes, but not as you do. However, she will grow up and go by you and be awoman while you are more slowly maturing. That is their way. And then shewill marry."
"Good gracious! Leila marry!"
"Yes--it is a way they have. Let us go home."
John was disinclined to talk. Marry--yes--when I am older, I shall askher until she does!
November came in churlish humour and raged in storms of wind and rain,until before their time to let fall their leaves the woods were strippedof their gay colours. On the fourth day of November the Squire voted theFremont electoral ticket, and understood that with the exception ofSwallow and Pole, Westways had followed the master of Grey Pine. Theother candidates did not trouble them. The sad case of Josiah and thethreat to capture their barber had lost Buchanan the twenty-seven votesof the little town. Mr. Boynton, the carpenter, fastening the lastshingles on the chapel roof remarked to a workman that it was an awfulpity Josiah couldn't know about it and that the new barber wasn't up toshaving a real stiff beard.
The Squire wrote to his wife from Philadelphia on the ninth:
"DEAR ANN: We never talk politics because you were born a Democrat andconsider Andrew Jackson a political saint. I begin to wish he might bereincarnated in the body of Buchanan. He will need backbone, I fear. Hehas carried our State by only three thousand majority in a vote of433,000. I am told that the excitement here was so great that thepeacemaking effect of a day of cold drizzle alone prevented riot andbloodshed. Mr. Buchanan said in October, 'We shall hear no more of"Bleeding Kansas."' Well, I hope so. Here we are at one. I should feelmore regret at the defeat of my party if I had more belief in Fremont,but your man is, I am sure, elected, and we must hope for the best andtry to think that hope reasonable.
"I have been fortunate in my contracts for rails with the two railroads.I shall finish this letter in Baltimore.--
"Baltimore.--I saw Leila, who has quite the air of a young lady and iswell, handsome and reasonably contented. Dined with your brother Henry;and really, Ann, the cold-blooded way the men talked of secession was alittle beyond endurance. I spoke my mind at last, and was heard withcourteous disapproval. My friend, Lt.-Colonel Robert Lee of the Army, wasthe only man who was silent about our troubles. Two men earnestlyadvocated the re-opening of the slave-trade, and if as they say slaveryis a blessing, the slave-trade is morally justified and logicallydesirable. I do want you to feel, my dear Ann, how extreme are the viewsof these pleasant gentlemen.
"The Madeira was good, and despite the half-hidden bitterness of opinion,I enjoyed my visit. Let John read this letter if you like to do so.
"Yours always and in all ways,
"JAMES PENHALLOW."
She did not like, but John heard all about this visit when the Squirecame home.
The winter of 1856-7 went by without other incident at Westways, withMrs. Ann's usual bountiful Christmas gifts to the children at the millsand Westways. Mr. Buchanan was inaugurated in March. The captain smiledgrimly as he read in the same paper the message of the Governor of SouthCarolina recommending the re-opening of the trade in slaves, and the newPresident's hopes "that the long agitation over slavery is approachingits end." Nor did Penhallow fancy the Cabinet appointments, but he saidnothing more of his opinions to Ann Penhallow.
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