Before the period of which I write, the county and town had unfailingly
voted the Democratic ticket. But for half a decade the unrest of the
cities reflected in the journals had been disturbing the minds of country
communities in the Middle States. In the rural districts of Pennsylvania
there had been very little actively hostile sentiment about slavery, but
the never ending disputes over Kansas had at last begun to weaken party
ties, and more and more to direct opinion on to the originating cause of
trouble.
The small voting population of Westways had begun to suspect of late that
James Penhallow's unwillingness to discuss politics meant some change in
his fidelity to the party of which Buchanan was the candidate. What Mrs.
Ann felt she had rather freely allowed to be known. The little groups
which were apt to gather about the grocer's barrels at evening discussed
the grave question of the day with an interest no previous presidential
canvass had caused, and this side eddy of quiet village life was now
agreeably disturbed by the great currents of national politics. Westways
began to take itself seriously, as little towns will at times, and to ask
how this man or that would vote at the coming election in November. The
old farmers who from his youth still called the Squire "James" were
Democrats. Swallow, the only lawyer the town possessed, was silent, which
was felt as remarkable in a man who usually talked much more than
occasion demanded and wore a habit-mask of good-fellowship, which had
served to deceive many a blunt old farmer, but not James Penhallow.
At Grey Pine there was a sense of tension. Penhallow was a man slow in
thinking out conclusions, but in times demanding action swiftly decisive.
He had at last settled in his mind that he must leave his party and
follow a leader he had known in the army and never entirely trusted.
Whether he should take an active share in the politics of the county
troubled him, as he had told Rivers. He must, of course, tell his wife
how he had resolved to vote. To speak here and there at meetings, to
throw himself into the contest, was quite another matter. His wife would
feel deeply grieved. Between the two influential feelings the resolution
of forces, as he put it to himself with a sad smile, decided him to hold
his tongue so far as the outer world was concerned, to vote for the
principles unfortunately represented by Fremont, but to have one frank
talk with Ann Penhallow. There was no need to do this as yet, and he
smiled again at the thought that Mrs. Ann was, as he pretty well knew,
playing the game of politics at Westways. He might stop her. He could ask
her to hold her hand, but to let her continue on her way and to openly
make war against her, that he could not do. It did not matter much as the
State in any case would go for Buchanan. He hesitated, and had better
have been plain with her. She knew that he had been long in doubt, but
did not as yet suspect how complete was his desertion of opinions she
held to as she did to her religious creed. He found relief in his
decision, and too in freedom of talk with Rivers, who looked upon slavery
as simply wicked and had no charity for the section so little responsible
for an inherited curse they were now driven by opponent criticism to
consider a blessing for all concerned.
John too was asking questions and beginning now and then to wonder more
and more that what Westways discussed should never be mentioned at Grey
Pine. He rode Dixy early in the mornings with Leila at his side, fished
or swam in the afternoons, and so the days ran on. On September 30th, Ann
was to take Leila to the school in Maryland. Three days before this
terrible exile was to begin, as they turned in at the gate of the
stable-yard, Leila said, "I have only three days. I want to go and see
the Indian graves and the spring, and all the dear places I feel as if I
shall never see again."
"What nonsense, Leila. What do you mean?"
"Oh, Aunt Ann says I will be so changed in a year, I won't know myself."
"You mean, you won't see things then as they are seen now."
"Yes, that's what I wanted to say, but you always know how to find the
right words."
"Perhaps," he said. "Things never look just the same tomorrow, but they
may look--well, nicer--or--I can't always find the right word. Suppose we
walk to the graves after lunch and have a good talk." It was so agreed.
They were never quite free from the chance of being sent on errands, and
as Aunt Ann showed signs they well knew, they slipped away quietly and
were gone before the ever-busy lady had ready a basket of contributions
to the comfort of a sick woman in the village. They crossed the garden
and were lost to view in the woods before Leila spoke. "We just did it.
Billy will have to go." They laughed merrily at their escape.
"Just think, John, how long it is since you came. It seems years. Oh, you
_were_ a queer boy! I just hated you."
"I do suppose, Leila, I must have looked odd with that funny cap and the
cane--"
"And the way you looked when I told you about swinging on the gate. I
hadn't done that for--oh, two years. What did you think of me?"
"I thought you were very rude, and then--oh, Leila! when you came up out
of the drift--" He hesitated.
"Oh, go on; I don't mind--not now."
"I thought you beautiful with all that splendid hair on the snow."
"Oh, John! How silly!" Whether or not she was unusually good to look at
had hardly ever before occurred to her. She flushed slightly, pleased and
wondering, with a new seed of gentle vanity planted in her simple nature,
a child on the threshold of the womanly inheritance of maidenhood.
Then he said gravely, "It is wonderful to me how we have changed. I shall
miss you. To think you are the only girl I ever played with, and now when
you come back at Christmas--"
"I am not to come back then, John. I am to stay with my uncles in
Baltimore and not come home until next June."
"You will be a young lady in long skirts and your hair tucked up. It's
dreadful."
"Can't be helped, John. You will look after Lucy, and write to me."
"And you will write to me, Leila?"
"If I may. Aunt says they are very strict. But I shall write to Aunt Ann,
of course."
"That won't be the same."
"No."
They walked on in silence for a little while, the girl gazing idly at
the tall trees, the lad feeling strangely aware, freshly aware, as
they moved, of the great blue eyes and of the sun-shafts falling on
the abundant hair she swept back from time to time with a careless
hand. Presently she stood still, and sat down without a word on the
moss-cushioned trunk of a great spruce, fallen perhaps a century ago.
She was passing through momentary moods of depression or of pleasure as
she thought of change and travel, or nourishing little jealous desires
that her serious-minded cousin should miss her.
The cousin turned back. "You might have invited me to sit down, Miss
Grey." He laughed, and then as he fell on the brown pine-needles at her
feet and looked up, he saw that her usual quick response to his challenge
of mirth was wanting.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Oh, about Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim, and--and--Lucy, and who will ride
her--"
"You can trust Uncle Jim about Lucy."
"I suppose so," said the girl rather dolefully and too near to the tears
she had been sternly taught to suppress.
"Isn't it queer," he said, "how people think about the same things? I was
just going to speak of Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim. Uncle Jim often talks to
me and to Mr. Rivers about the election, but if I say a word or ask a
question at table, Aunt Ann says, 'we don't talk politics.'"
"But once, John, I heard Mr. Rivers say that slavery was a curse and
wicked. Uncle Jim, he said Aunt Ann's people held slaves, and he didn't
want to talk about it. I couldn't hear the rest. I told you once about
this."
"How you hear things, Leila. Prince Fine Ear was a trifle to you."
"Who was Prince Fine Ear?" she asked.
"Oh, he was the fairy prince who could hear the grass grow and the roses
talk. It's a pretty French fairy tale."
"What a gabble there must be in the garden, John."
"It doesn't need Prince Fine Ear to hear. Don't these big pines talk to
you sometimes, and the wind in the pines--the winds--?"
"No, they don't, but Lucy does."
Something like a feeling of disappointment faintly disturbed the play of
his fancies. "Let us go to the graves."
"Yes, all right, come."
They got no further than the cabin and again sat down near by, Leila
carelessly gathering the early golden-rod in her lap as they sat leaning
against the cabin logs.
"This is our last walk," she said, arranging the golden plumes. "There is
a white golden-rod; find me another, John."
He went away to the back of the cabin and returning threw in her lap a
half dozen. "Old Josiah says the blacks in the South think it is good
luck to find the first white golden-rod. Then, he says, you must have a
luck-wish. What shall it be? Come--quick now."
"Oh, I--don't know. Yes, I wish to have Lucy at that terrible
boarding-school."
John laughed. "Oh, Leila, is that the best you can do?"
"Yes, wish a wish for me, if mine doesn't suit."
Then he said, "I wish the school had small-pox and you had to stay at
Grey Pine."
"I didn't think you'd care as much as that. Aren't these flowers
beautiful? Wish me a real wish."
"Then, I wish that when we grow up you would marry me."
"Well, John, you are a silly." She took on an air of authoritative
reprimand. "Why, John, you are only a boy, but you ought to know better
than to talk such nonsense."
"And you," he said, "are just a little girl."
"Oh, I'm not so very little," returned Miss Grey.
"When I'm older, I shall ask you again; and if you say no, I'll ask
again--and--until--"
"What nonsense, John. Let's go home."
He rose flushed and troubled, and said, "Are you vexed, Leila?"
"No, of course not; but it was foolish of you."
He made no reply, in fact hardly heard her. He was for the moment older
in some ways than his years. What had strangely moved him disturbed Leila
not at all. She talked on lightly, laughing at times, and was answered
briefly; for although he had no desire to speak, the unfailing courteous
ways of his foreign education forced him to disregard his desire to say.
"Oh, do let me alone; you don't understand." He hardly understood himself
or the impulsive stir of emotion--a signal of coming manhood. Annoyed by
his unwillingness to talk, she too fell to silence, and they walked
homeward.
During the time left to them there was much to do in the way of visits to
the older village people and some of the farmer families who had been
here on the soil nearly as long as the Penhallows. There were no other
neighbours near enough for country intercourse, and the life at Grey Pine
offered few attractions to friends or relatives from the cities unless
they liked to tramp with the Squire in search of game. The life was,
therefore, lonely and would for some women have been unendurable; but as
the Baptist preacher said to Rivers, "Duties are enough to satisfy Mrs.
Penhallow, and I do guess she enjoys her own goodness like the angels
must do."
Mark Rivers answered, "That is pretty nearly true, but I wish she would
not invent duties which don't belong to women."
"About the election, you mean?"
"Yes. It troubles me, and I am sure it troubles the Squire. What about
yourself, Grace?" and a singularly sad smile went with the query and a
side glance at his friend's face. He had been uneasy about him since
Grace had bent a little in the House of Rimmon.
"Oh, Rivers, the roof has got to leak. I have kept away from Mrs.
Penhallow. I can't accept her help and then preach against her party,
and--I mean to do it. I've wrestled with this little sin and--I don't say
I wasn't tempted--I was. Now I am clear. We Baptists can stand what water
leaks down on us from Heaven."
"You mean to preach politics, Grace?"
"Yes, that's what I mean to do. Oh! here comes Mrs. Penhallow."
They had met in front of Josiah's shop. As Mrs. Penhallow approached, Mr.
Grace discovering a suddenly remembered engagement hurried away, and
Rivers went with her along the rough sidewalk of Westways.
"I go away to-morrow with Leila," she said, "and Mr. Penhallow goes to
Pittsburgh. We shall leave John to you for at least a week. He will give
you no trouble. He has quite lost his foreign boyish ways, and don't you
think he is like my husband?"
"He is in some ways very like the Squire."
"Yes, in some things--I so rarely leave home that this journey to
Baltimore with Leila seems to me like foreign travel."
"Does Leila like it?"
"No, but it is time she was thrown among girls. She is less than she was
a mere wild boy. It is strange, Mark, that ever since John came she has
been less of a hoyden--and more of a simple girl."
"It is," he said, "a fine young nature in a strong body. She has the
promise of beauty--whatever that may be worth."
"Worth! It is worth a great deal," said Mrs. Ann. "It helps. The moral
value of beauty! Ah, Mark Rivers, I should like to discuss that with you.
She is at the ugly duck age. Now I must go home. I want you to look after
some things while I am away, and Mr. Penhallow is troubled about his pet
scamp, Lamb."
She went on with her details of what he was to do, until he said
laughing, "Please to put it on paper."
"I will. Not to leave John quite alone, I have arranged for you to dine
with him, and I suppose he will go to you in the mornings for his lessons
as usual."
"Oh, yes, of course. I enjoy these fellows, but the able ones are John
and Tom McGregor. Tom is in the rough as yet, but he will come out all
right. I shall lose him in a year. He is over seventeen and is to study
medicine. But what about Lamb?"
"I am wicked enough to wish he were really ill. It is only the usual
drunken bout, but he is a sort of Frankenstein to the Squire because of
that absurd foster-brother feeling. He is still in bed, I presume."
"As you ask it," said Rivers, "I will see him, but if he belongs to any
flock, he is a black sheep of Grace's fold. Anything else, Mrs.
Penhallow?" he asked smiling--"but don't trust my memory."
"If I think of anything more, I shall make a note of it and, of course,
you will see us at the station--the ten o'clock train--and give me a list
of the books you wanted. I may find them in Philadelphia."
"Thank you."
"Oh," she said, turning back, "I forgot. My cousin, George Grey, is
coming, but he is so uncertain that he may come as he advises me in ten
days, or as is quite possible to-morrow, or not at all."
"Very good. If he comes, we will try to make Grey Pine agreeable."
"That is really all, Mark, I think," and the little lady went away, with
a pleasant word for the long familiar people as she went by.
In the afternoon Leila saw the Squire ride to the mills with John, and
went herself to the stable for a last mournful interview with Lucy. It
was as well that her aunt with unconscious good sense kept her busy until
dinner-time. The girl was near to accepting the relieving bribe of
unrestrained tears, being sad and at the age of those internal conflicts
which at the time of incomplete formation of character are apt to trouble
the more sensitive sex. A good hard gallop would have cured her
anticipative homesickness, for it must be a very black care indeed that
keeps its seat behind the rider.
The next morning the rector and John were at the station of Westways
Crossroads when the Grey Pine carriage drove up. Mrs. Ann and Leila were
a half hour too early, as was Mrs. Penhallow's habit. Billy was on the
cart with the baggage, grinning as usual and full of self-importance.
"Well, Billy," said Leila, talking to every one to conceal her
child-grief at this parting with the joyous activities of her energetic
young life. "Well, Billy, it's good-bye for a year."
"Won't have no more fun, Miss Leila--and nobody to snowball Billy, this
winter."
"No, not this winter."
"Found another ground-hog yesterday. I'll let her alone till you come
back."
John laughed. "Miss Leila will have long skirts and--hoops, Billy.
There will be no more coasting and no more snowballing or digging up
ground-hogs."
"Hoops--what for?" said Billy. John laughed.
"Please don't, John," she said, "it's too dreadful. Oh! I hear the
whistle."
"Mark," said Mrs. Ann, "if George Grey comes--James, did you leave the
wine-closet key?"
"Yes, my dear."
He turned to Leila, and kissing her said, "A year is soon over. Be a good
girl, my child. It is about as bad for me as for you. God bless you.
There, get on, Ann. Yes, the trunks are all right. Good-bye."
He stood a moment with John looking after the vanishing train. Then, he
said, "No need to stay here with me, Mark," and the rector understanding
him left him waiting for the westbound train and walked home across the
fields with John Penhallow.
John was long silent, but at last said, "It will be pretty lonesome
without Leila."
"Nice word, lonesome, John. Old English, I believe--has had its
adventures like some other words. Lonely doesn't express as well the idea
of being alone and sorrowful. We must do our best for your uncle and
aunt. Your turn to leave us will come, and then Leila will be lonesome."
"I don't think she will care as much."
Rivers glanced at the strong young face. "Why do you say that?"
"I don't know, Mr. Rivers. I--she is more of a child than I am."
"That hardly answers my question. But I must leave you. I am going
to see that scamp misnamed Lamb. See you at dinner. Don't cultivate
lonesomeness, John. No one is ever really alone."
Leaving his pupil to consider what John thought rather too much of an
enigma, the young clergyman took to the dusty highway which led to
Westways. John watched the tall figure awkwardly climbing a snake fence,
and keeping in mind for explanation the clergyman's last remark he went
away through the woods.