_A STRANGE COAT FOR A QUAKER._
Now, Virginia Villars was the very last person by whom Penn would have
wished to be seen. He was well aware how utterly grotesque and ludicrous
he must appear. But he was not in a condition to be very fastidious on
this point. Stunned by blows, stripped of his clothing (which could not
be put on again, for reasons), cruelly suffering from the violence done
him, exposed to the cold, excluded from Mrs. Sprowl's virtuous abode, he
had no choice but to seek the protection of those whom he believed to be
his truest friends.
In the little sitting-room of the blind old minister he had always been
gladly welcomed. Such minds as his were rare in Curryville. His purity
of thought, his Christian charity, his ardent love of justice, and
(quite as much as any thing) his delight in the free and friendly
discussion of principles, whether moral, political, or theological, made
him a great favorite with the lonely old man. His coming made the winter
evenings bloom. Then the aged clergyman, deprived of sight, bereft of
the companionship of books, and of the varied consolations of an active
life, felt his heart warmed and his brain enlivened by the wine of
conversation. He and Penn, to be sure, did not always agree. Especially
on the subject of _non-resistance_ they had many warm and well-contested
arguments; the young Quaker manifesting, by his zeal in the controversy,
that he had an abundance of "fight" in him without knowing it.
Nor to Mr. Villars alone did Penn's visits bring pleasure. They
delighted equally young Carl and old Toby. And Virginia? Why, being
altogether devoted to her blind parent, for whose happiness she could
never do enough, she was, of course, enchanted with the attentions she
saw Penn pay _him_. That was all; at least, the dear girl thought that
was all.
As for Salina, forsaken spouse of the gay Lysander Sprowl, she too,
after sulkily brooding over her misfortunes all day, was glad enough to
have any intelligent person come in and break the monotony of her sad
life in the evening.
Such were Penn's relations with the family to whom alone he durst apply
for refuge in his distress. Others might indeed have ventured to shelter
him; but they, like Stackridge, were hated Unionists, and any mercy
shown to him would have brought evil upon themselves. Mr. Villars,
however, blind and venerated old man, had sufficient influence over the
people, Penn believed, to serve as a protection to his household even
with him in it.
So hither he came--how unwillingly let the proud and sensitive judge.
For Penn, though belonging to the meekest of sects, was of a soul by
nature aspiring and proud. He had the good sense to know that the
outrage committed on him was in reality no disgrace, except to those
guilty of perpetrating it. Yet no one likes to appear ridiculous. And
the man of elevated spirit instinctively shrinks from making known his
misfortunes even to his best friends; he is ashamed of that for which he
is in no sense to blame, and he would rather suffer heroically in
secret, than become an object of pity.
Most of all, as I have said, Penn dreaded the pure Virginia's eyes. Mr.
Villars could not see him, and for Salina he did not care
much--singularly enough, for she alone was of an acrid and sarcastic
temper. What he devoutly desired was, to creep quietly to the kitchen
door, call out Carl if he was there, or secretly make known his
condition to old Toby, and thus obtain admission to the house,
seclusion, and assistance, without letting Virginia, or her father even,
know of his presence.
How this honest wish was thwarted we have seen. When the door was first
opened, he had turned to fly. But that was cowardly; so he returned, and
knocked, and called the negro by name, to reassure him. And the door was
once more opened, and Virginia saw him--recognized him--knew in an
instant what brutal deed had been done, and covered her eyes
instinctively to shut out the hideous sight.
But it was no time to indulge in feelings of false modesty, if she felt
any. It was no time to be weak, or foolish, or frightened, or ashamed.
"It is Penn!" she exclaimed in a burst of indignation and grief. "Toby!
Toby! you great stupid----! what are you staring for? Take him in! why
don't you? O, father!" And she threw herself on the old man's bosom, and
hid her face.
"What has happened to Penn?" asked the old man.
"I have been tarred-and-feathered," answered Penn, entering, and closing
the door behind him. "And I have been shut out of Mrs. Sprowl's house.
This is my excuse for coming here. I must go somewhere, you know!"
"And where but here?" answered the old man. He had suppressed an
outburst of feeling, and now stood calm, compassionating, extending his
hands,--his staff fallen upon the floor. "I feared it might come to
this! Terrible times are upon us, and you are only one of the first to
suffer. You did well to come to us. Are you hurt?"
"I hardly know," replied Penn. "I beg of you, don't be alarmed or
troubled. I hope you will excuse me. I know I am a fearful object to
look at, and did not intend to be seen."
He stood holding the bed-tick over him, and his clothes before him, to
conceal as much as possible his hideous guise, suffering, in that moment
of pause, unutterable things. Was ever a hero of romance in such a
dismal plight? Surely no writer of fiction would venture to show his
hero in so ridiculous and damaging an aspect. But this is not altogether
a romance, and I must relate facts as they occurred.
"Do not be sorry that I have seen you," said Virginia, lifting her face
again, flashing with tears. "I see in this shameful disguise only the
shame of those who have so cruelly treated you! Toby will help you. And
there is Carl at last!"
She retreated from the room by one door just as Carl and Stackridge
entered by the other.
Poor Penn! gentle and shrinking Penn! it was painful enough for him to
meet even these coarser eyes, friendly though they were. The shock upon
his system had been terrible; and now, his strength and resolution
giving way, his bewildered senses began to reel, and he swooned in the
farmer's arms.