Penhallow had gravely told John that in his absence he must look after
the stables and the farm, so that now he had for the first time in his
life responsibilities. The horses and the stables were to be looked over
every day. Of course, too, he must ride to the Squire's farm, which was
two miles away, and which was considered a model of all that a farm
should be. The crop yield to the acre was most satisfactory, but when
some one of the old Quaker farmers, whose apple-orchards the Squire had
plundered when young, walked over it and asked, "Well, James, how much
did thee clear this last year?" the owner would honestly confess that
Mrs. Ann's kitchen-garden paid better; but then she gave away what the
house did not use.
Very many years before slavery had become by tacit consent avoided as a
subject for discussion, Mrs. Ann critical of what his farm cost, being
herself country-bred, had said that if it were worked with Maryland
blacks it would pay and pay well.
"You mean, dear, that if I owned the labour, it would pay."
"Yes," she returned gaily, "and with me for your farmeress."
"You are, you are!" he laughed, "and you have cultivated me. I am well
broken to your satisfaction, I trust; but to me, Ann, the unpaid labour
of the slave seems impossible."
"Oh, James, it is not only possible, but right for us who know what for
all concerned is best."
"Well, well," he laughed, "the vegetable garden seems to be run at a
profit without them--ah! Ann, how about that?"
The talk was, as they both knew, more serious than it would have seemed
to any one who might have chanced to be present. The tact born of perfect
love has the certainty of instinct, and to be sensitive even to
tenderness in regard to the prejudices or the fixed opinions of another
does much to insure happiness both in friendship and in love. Here with
these two people was a radical difference of belief concerning what was
to be more and more a hard subject as the differences of sentiment North
and South became sharply defined. Westways and the mills understood her,
and what were her political beliefs, but not the laughingly guarded
silence of the much loved and usually outspoken Squire, who now and then
relieved his mind by talking political history to John or Rivers.
The stables and farm were seriously inspected and opinions expressed
concerning colts and horses to the amusement of the grooms. He presided
in Penhallow's place at table with some sense of newly acquired
importance, and on the fourth day of his uncle's absence, at Mark
Rivers's request, asked Mr. Grace to join them. The good Baptist was
the more pleased to come in the absence of Mrs. Penhallow, who liking
neither his creed nor his manners, respected the goodness of a life of
self-denial, which, as his friend Rivers knew, really left him with
hardly enough to keep his preaching soul alive.
"Grace is late, as usual," said Rivers to John. "He has, I believe, no
acquaintance with minutes and no more conception of time than the angels.
Ah! I see him. His table-manners really distress your aunt; but manners
are--well, we will leave that to another time. Good evening, Grace."
"Glad to see you, sir," said John.
On a word from Rivers, the guest offered thanks, which somewhat amazed
John by its elaborate repetitions.
The stout little preacher, carefully tucking his napkin between his paper
shirt-collar and his neck, addressed himself to material illustration of
his thankfulness, while the rector observed with a pitiful interest the
obvious animal satisfaction of the man. John with more amusement saw the
silver fork used for a time and at last abandoned for use of the knife.
Unconsciously happier for an unusually good dinner, Grace accepted a
tumbler of the Penhallow cider, remarking, "I never take spirits, Rivers,
but I suppose cider to be a quite innocent beverage."
Rivers smiled. "It will do you no harm."
"It occurs to me, Rivers," said Grace, "that although wine is mentioned
in the Bible, cider is not. There is no warning against its use."
It also occurred to Rivers that there was none against applejack. "Quite
right," he said. "You make me think of that scamp, Lamb. McGregor tells
me that he is very ill."
"A pity he wouldn't die," remarked the young host, who had indiscreetly
taken two full tumblers of old hard cider before Rivers had noticed his
unaccustomed use of this rather potent drink.
"You should not desire the death of any man, John," said Grace, "least of
all the death of a sinner like Lamb."
"Really," said John with the dignity of just a trifle too much cider, "my
phrase did not admit of your construction."
"No," laughed Rivers, seeing it well to intervene, "and yet to say it is
a pity may be a kindly wish and leaves it open to charitable
interpretation."
"He is quite unprepared to die," insisted Grace, with the clerical
intonation which Rivers disliked.
"How do you know that?" asked Rivers.
"I know," said John confidently. "He told me he was a born thief and
loved to lie. He was pretty drunk at the time."
"That is too nearly true to be pleasant," remarked Rivers, "'_in vino
veritas_.' The man is a very strange nature. I think he never forgives a
benefit. I sometimes think he has no sense of the difference between
right and wrong--an unmoral nature, beyond your preaching or mine, Grace,
even if he ever gave us a chance."
"I think he is a cruel beast," said John. "I saw him once--"
Rivers interrupted him saying, as he rose, "Suppose we smoke."
With unconscious imitation of the courteous Squire he represented, John
said, "We will smoke in the library if you have had enough wine."
Rivers said, "Certainly, Squire," not altogether amused as John, a little
embarrassed, said quickly, "I should have said cider."
"Of course, we have had no wine, quite a natural mistake," remarked
Grace, which the representative squire felt to be a very disagreeable
comment.
"You will find cigars and pipes on the table," said the rector, "and I
will join you in a moment." So saying he detained John by a hand on his
arm and led him aside as they crossed the hall.
"You are feeling that old hard cider, my boy. You had better go to bed. I
should have warned you."
"Yes, sir--I--did not--I mean--I--"
"_C'est une diablesse_--a little devil. There are others, and worse ones,
John. Good-night."
On the stairs the young fellow felt a deepening sense of humiliation
and surprise as he became aware of the value of the banister-rail.
Rivers went into the library blaming his want of care, and a little sorry
for the lad's evident distress. "What, not smoking, Grace?"
"No, I have given it up."
"But, why?"
"Well, I can't smoke cheap strong tobacco, and I can't afford better
stuff."
"Then, be at ease, my friend. The Squire has sent me a large supply. I am
to divide with you," which was as near to a fib as the young clergyman
ever got in his blameless life.
"I shall thank him," returned Grace simply, "and return to my pipe, but I
do sometimes think it is too weak an indulgence of a slavish habit."
"Hardly worth while to thank Penhallow; he will have forgotten all about
it."
"But I shall not."
They smoked and talked politics, and the village and their work, until at
last, after one of the pipe-filling pauses, Grace said, "I ought not to
have taken that cider, but it singularly refreshed me. You did not
partake."
"No, it disagrees with me."
"I feel it, Brother Rivers. I feel it slightly, and--I--a man who
preaches temperance, total abstinence--"
"My dear Grace, that is not temperance. There may be intemperance in
the way a man puts his opinions before others--a man may hurt his own
cause--"
Grace returned quickly, "You were in our church Wednesday night--I saw
you. You think I was intemperate?"
"Frankly, yes. You were abusive. You are too well self-governed to
understand the working-man's temptations. You preached from the heart as
you felt, without the charity of the head."
"Perhaps--perhaps," he returned humbly; and then with a quite gentle
retort, "Don't you sometimes preach too much from the head, Brother
Rivers?"
"Yes, that may be the case. I am conscious sometimes that I lack your
power of direct appeal--your personal application of the truth. I ought
to preach the first half of the sermon--the appeal to the reason, the
head part--and ask you to conclude with the heart share--the personal
application of my cold logic."
"Let us try it," said Grace rising and much amused; "cold, Rivers! your
cold logic! There is nothing cold in all your nature. Let us go home; we
have had a good talk."
As they walked down the avenue Grace said, "What are you doing about
Lamb? Is it really wise to talk to him?"
"Just now," said the rector, "he has acquired a temporary conscience in
the shape of a congested stomach. I talked to him a little. He is
penitent, or says he is, and as his mother is sometimes absent, I have
set Billy to care for him; some one must. I have found that to keep Billy
on a job you must give him a daily allowance of chewing tobacco; that
answers."
"Bad company, Brother Rivers."
"Oh, there is no guile in Billy."
They parted at the Grey Pine gate. Rivers had innocently prepared remote
mischief, which by no possible human foresight could he have anticipated.
When, walking in the quiet of a lonely wood, a man sets his foot on a
dead branch, the far end stirs another, and the motion so transmitted
agitates a half dozen feet away the leaves of a group of ferns. The man
stops and suspects some little woodland citizen as the cause of the
unexplained movement; thus it is in the affairs of life. We do some
innocent thing and are puzzled to explain how it brings about remote
mischief.
Meanwhile an unendurable craving for drink beset the man Lamb, who was
the prey of slowly lessening delusions. Guardian Billy chewed his daily
supply of tobacco and sat at the window in the hot second-storey room
feeding Lamb with brief phrases concerning what he saw on the street.
"Oh! there go Squire's horses for exercise; Joe's on Lucy."
"Damn Lucy! Do you go to mother's room--"
"What for?"
"Oh, she keeps her money in it, and Mrs. Penhallow paid her in advance
the day she left."
"Can't do it," said Billy, who had strict orders not to leave Lamb alone.
"Oh, just look in the top drawer. She keeps a bit of money rolled up in
one of her stockings. That will get me a little whisky and you lots of
tobacco."
"Can't do it," said Billy. "Want me to steal? Won't do it."
"Then I'll get even with you some day."
Billy laughed. "Why I could lick you--like Mr. John licked the doctor's
son. Gosh! there goes Pole's wagon."
Lamb fell to thought of how to get that whisky. The ingenuity of the man
who craves alcohol or morphia is sometimes surprising even to the most
experienced doctor. The immorality of the means of attainment is never
considered. If, as with Lamb, a lie or worse be needed, there is a
certain satisfaction in having outwitted nurse and doctor.
On the day after the two clergymen had heard John's final opinion of
Lamb, the bed-fast man received his daily visit from his spiritual
physician, and the clergyman met at the house door the doctor of the
body. "I suppose," said McGregor, "that you and I as concerns this
infernal rascal are under orders from Penhallow and his wife. I at least
have the satisfaction of being paid--"
"Oh, I am paid, Doctor," the clergyman smiled.
"Of course, any one and every one who serves that very efficient and
positive saint, Mrs. Penhallow, is paid. She's too terrifyingly good. It
must be--well, inconvenient at times. Now she wants this animal looked
after because of Mrs. Lamb; and the squire has some sort of absurd belief
that because the same breasts that nursed him nursed our patient, he must
befriend the fellow--and he does. Truth is, Rivers, that man's father was
a sodden drunkard but, I am told, not otherwise bad. It's a pretty sure
doom for the child. This man's body has damned his soul, and now the soul
is paying it back in kind."
"The damnation will be settled elsewhere," said Rivers gravely. "You are
pleading for him when you say he had a father who drank."
"Well, yes, yes. That is true, but I do confoundedly mistrust him. He
never remembers a kindness and never forgets the smallest injury. But
when Mrs. Penhallow puts a hand on your arm and you look at her, you just
go and do what she wants done. Oh, me too! Let's get out of this
unreasonable sun and see this fellow."
Billy was chasing blue-bottle flies on the window panes, and the patient
in bed was lying still, flushed, with red eyes. He was slowly recovering
from an attack of delirium tremens and reassembling his scattered wits.
"Well," said McGregor, "better, I see. Bugs gone?"
"Yes, sir; but if I had a little, just a nip of whisky to taper off on,
I'd be all right."
"Not a drop, Peter."
"I'll die if I don't get it."
"Then die sober."
Peter made no reply. McGregor felt his pulse, made his usual careful
examination, and said at last, "Now keep quiet, and in a few days you'll
be well."
"For God's sake, give me whisky--a little. I'm so weak I can't stand up."
"No," said McGregor, "it will pass. Now I must go. A word with you, Mr.
Rivers." When outside of the room he said, "We must trust Billy, I
suppose?"
"Yes, there is no one else."
"That man is giving his whole mind to thinking how he can get whisky. He
will lie, cheat, steal, do anything to get it."
"How can he? Neither Billy nor his old mother will help him. He will get
well, Doctor, I suppose?"
"Yes, I told him he would. More's the pity. He is a permanent nuisance,
up to any wickedness, a hopelessly ruined wild beast."
"Perhaps," said Rivers; "perhaps. Who can be sure of that?" He despaired
of no one.
The sadly experienced doctor shook his head. "He will live to do much
mischief. The good die young; you may be sure the wicked do not. In some
ways the man's case has its droll side. Queer case! in some ways
interesting."
"How is it interesting?" said Rivers.
"Oh, what he saw--his delusions when he was at his worst."
"What did he see?"
"Oh, bugs--snakes--the common symptoms, and at last the 'Wilmot Proviso.'
Imagine it. He knew no more of that than of the physiology of the man in
the moon. He described it as a 'plucked chicken.'"
"I suppose that was a wild contribution from the endless political talk
of the town."
"Well, a 'plucked chicken' was not so bad. He saw also 'Bleeding Kansas.'
A 'stuck pig' that was; and more--more, but I must go."
Rivers went back to the room. "Here is your tobacco, Billy, and wait
downstairs; don't go away."
The big man turned over in bed as the clergyman entered. "Mr. Rivers. I'm
bad. I might have died. Won't you pray for me?"
Rivers hesitated, and then fell on his knees at the bedside, his face in
his hands. Peter lay still smiling, grimly attentive. As Rivers rose to
his feet, Lamb said, "Couldn't I have just a little whisky? Doctors don't
always know. I've been in this scrape before, and just a little liquor
does help and it don't do any harm. I can't think, I'm so harried inside.
I can't even pray, and I want to pray. Now, you will, sir, won't you?"
This mingling of low cunning, of childlike appeal and of hypocrisy,
obviously suggested anything but the Christian charity of reply; what
should he say? Putting aside angry comment, he fell back upon his one
constant resource, What would Christ have said to this sinful man? He
stood so long silent by the bed, which creaked as Lamb sat up, that the
man's agony of morbid thirst caught from his silence a little hope, and
he said, "Now you will, I know."
Rivers made no direct answer. Was it hopeless? He tried to read the
face--the too thin straight nose, white between dusky red cheeks, the
projecting lower lip, and the lip above it long, the eyes small, red, and
eagerly attentive. This was not the time for reason. He said, "I should
be your worst enemy, Peter. Every one has been good to you; over and over
the Squire has saved you from jail. Mrs. Penhallow asked me to help you.
Try to bear what your sin has brought on you, oh! do try. Pray God for
help to bear it patiently."
"I'm in hell. What's the use of praying in hell? Get me whisky and I'll
pray."
Rivers felt himself to be at the end of his resources, and that the
enfeebled mind was incapable of response to any appeal to head or heart.
"I will come again," he said. "Good-bye."
"Oh, damn everybody," muttered Peter.
Rivers went out and sent Billy up to take charge. Lamb was still sitting
up in bed when Billy returned. The simple fellow poured out in brief
sentences small bits of what he had seen at the street door.
"Oh, shut up," said Peter. "The doctor says I'll feel better if I'm
shaved--ain't been shaved these three weeks. Doctor wants you to go and
get Josiah to come and fix me up to-night. You tell him it's the doctor's
orders. Don't you be gone long. I'm kind of lonely."
"All right," said Billy, in the cheerful way which made him a favourite
despite his disinclination for steady work.
"Now, don't be gone long. I need a good shave, Billy."
"Guess you do--way you look you wouldn't fetch five cents at one of them
rummage-sales. Ain't had but one in four years."
"Oh, get out, Billy." Once rid of his guard he tried in vain to stand up
and fell back cursing.
The order from the doctor was to be obeyed. "Guess he's too shaky to
shave himself," said Josiah. "I'll come about half-past eight."
As Josiah walked to the far end of the village, he thought in his simple
way of his last three years. After much wandering and fear of being
traced, he had been used at the stables by Penhallow. That he had been a
slave was suspected, but that troubled no one in Westways. He had long
felt at ease and safe. He lived alone, a man of some forty years, cooked
for himself, and had in the county bank a small amount of carefully saved
earnings. He had his likes and dislikes, but he had the prudently guarded
tongue of servitude. Long before John Penhallow had understood better the
tall black man's position and won the confidence of a friendly hour, he
saw with his well-bred courtesy how pleased was the man to be called Mr.
Josiah. It sounded queer, as Pole remarked, to call a runaway darkey
Mister, but this in no way disturbed John. The friendly feeling for the
black grew as they fished together in the summer afternoons, or trapped
muskrats, or dug up hellbenders. The barber had one half-concealed
dislike. The man he was now to shave he both feared and hated. "Couldn't
tell you why, Master John. It's like the way Crocker's wife's 'feared of
cats. They ain't never hurt her none."
"Well," he said, "here I am," and in unusual silence set about his work
by dim candlelight. The patient was as silent. When Josiah had finished,
he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.
"Guess you do look the better for a shave," he remarked, as he was about
to leave. "I'll send up Billy." The uneasy guardian had seized on the
chance to get a little relief.
"No, don't go," said Lamb. "I'm in a hell of thirst. I want you to get me
some whisky. I'll pay you when I get work."
Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief
in future repayment. "Couldn't do that--doctor wouldn't like it."
"What, you won't do it?"
"No, I can't do it."
"If you don't, I'll tell what I know about you."
"What do you know?" The long lost terror returned--but what could he
know?
"Oh, you ran away--I know all about it. You help me now and I'll keep
quiet--you'd better."
A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the rascal, and then,
by long habit prudent, he said, "I'll have to think about it." But what
could this man know?
"Best to think damn quick, or you'll have your old master down on you. I
give you till to-morrow morning early. Do you hear? It's just a nip of
whisky I want."
"Yes, I hear--got to think about it." He went out into the night, a soul
in fear. No one knew his former master's name. Then his very good
intelligence resumed control. No one really knew--only John--and he very
little. He put it aside, confident in the young fellow's discretion. Of
course, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody cared
or seemed to care. And yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happy
years of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he read
much, he had disturbing hours. He stood still a moment and crossed the
road. The Episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was on
Penhallow's land, and near by was the rectory where Mark lived with an
old woman cook and some help from Mrs. Lamb. The night was warm, the
windows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing. Josiah at the
window spoke.
"Excuse me, sir, could I talk to you? I am in a heap of trouble."
"In trouble, Josiah? Come in, the front door is open."
As he entered the rector's study, Rivers said, "Sit down."
Something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals. "No
one else is in the house. What is it?" The black poured out his story.
"So then," said Rivers, "he lied to you about the doctor and threatened
you with a lie. Why, Josiah, if he had known who was your master, he
would have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is none
of his business. Mr. Penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, but
no one cares. You are liked and you have the respect of the town. There
would be trouble if any man tried to claim you."
"I'd like to tell you all about it, sir."
"No--no--on no account. Tell no one. Now go home. I will settle with that
drunken liar."
"Thank you. May God bless--and thank you."
The clergyman sat in thought a while, and the more he considered the
matter which he had made light of to the scared black, the less he liked
it. He dismissed it for a time as a lie told to secure whisky, but the
fear Josiah showed was something pitiful in this strong black giant. He
knew Lamb well enough to feel sure that Josiah would now have in him an
enemy who was sure in some way to get what he called "even" with the
barber, and was a man known and spoken of in Westways as "real spiteful."
When next day Rivers entered the room where Lamb lay abed, he saw at once
that he was better. He meant to make plain to a revengeful man that
Josiah had friends and that the attempt to blackmail him would be
dangerous. Lamb was sitting up in bed apparently relieved, and was
reading a newspaper. The moment he spoke Rivers knew that he was a far
more intelligent person than the man of yesterday.
Lamb said, "Billy, set a chair for Mr. Rivers. The heat's awful for
October." Billy obeyed and stepped out glad to escape.
Rivers said, "No, I won't sit down. I have something to say to you, and I
advise you to listen. You lied to Billy about the doctor yesterday, and
you tried to frighten Josiah into getting you whisky--you lied to him."
Josiah had not returned, and now it was plain that he had told the
clergyman of the threat. Lamb was quick to understand the situation, and
the cleverness of his defence interested and for a moment half deceived
the rector.
"Who says I lied? Maybe I did. I don't remember. It's just like a
dream--I don't feel nowise accountable. If--I--abused Josiah, I'm sorry.
He did shave me. Let me think--what was it scared Josiah?" He had the
slight frown of a man pursuing a lost memory.
"It is hardly worth while, Peter, to go into the matter if you don't
recall what you said." He realized that the defence was perfect. Its too
ready arguments added to his disbelief in its truth.
Lamb was now enjoying the game. "Was Josiah really here, sir? But, of
course, he was, for he shaved me. I do remember that. Won't you sit down,
sir?"
"No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."
"Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a week
or so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"
This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said had
better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious
trouble with Mr. Penhallow."
"Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but how
could I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"
"Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done my
duty in warning you."
"I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and
uplift of lids over watchful eyes--"Oh, I want you to know how much I
thank you, sir, for all your kind--"
"You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.
Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game
were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he
fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "Damn that black cuss," he
muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."
At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from
his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually
minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the gods of
profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he
smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself
to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was
there not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spirit
in prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs to
despair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home to
his uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would
be advisable.
The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and
the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the
young thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers of
books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John
fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail he
forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return
until mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila
was now at her school. The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most
of all the absence of Leila. One letter for his aunt lay on the hall
table. It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have
letters forwarded.
Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came down
dressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire,
which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable. The
rector was smiling.
"Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs. It seems that he
wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. As no one met him
at Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked
before he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine. I think he feels rather
neglected."
"Has he never been here before?" asked John, curious in regard to the
guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a
person of importance.
"No, not for a long while. He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow;
but as all Greys are for her--well, _the_ Greys--we must do our best to
make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return."
"Of course," said John, with some faint feeling that it was needless to
remind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. Rivers
said, smiling, "It may not be easy to amuse Mr. Grey. I did not tell you
that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train
on the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."
John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a
suit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not much
of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which
was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes
small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the
thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling
face.
John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow,
sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."
"It is all right--all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outside
and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present,
if I may take the liberty."
Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I
think, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him
some of your uncle's rye."
"Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the
Maryland gentleman meant.
Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand,
"Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste. As
Mr. Clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it."
"Dinner is ready," said John.
There was no necessity to entertain Mr. Grey. He talked at length, what
James Penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." Horses, the crops,
and at length the proper methods of fining wine--a word of encouragement
from Rivers set him off again. Meanwhile the dinner grew cold on his
plate. At last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, Mr. Grey said,
"This comes, sir, of being in too interesting society."
Was this mere quaint humour, thought Rivers; but when Grey added, "I
should have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at the
self-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. At last,
with "Your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's Madeira.
Rivers, who sipped a single glass slowly, was about to rise when to his
amusement, using his uncle's phrase, John said, "My uncle thinks that
Madeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in the
library."
Grey remarked, "Quite right, as Henry Clay once said, 'There is nothing
as melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall pronounce its
epitaph?' That, sir, I call eloquence. No more wine, thank you." As he
spoke, he drew a large Cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted it
from one of the candles on the table.
Rivers remarked, "We will find it warmer in the library."
When the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, John,
who had felt the rôle of host rather difficult, was eager to get a look
at the _Tribune_ which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caught
the eye of Mr. Grey.
"I see you have the _Tribune_" he said. "A mischief-making
paper--devilish. I presume Penhallow takes it to see what the other
side has to say. Very wise, sir, that."
Rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said,
smiling, "I must leave Mr. Penhallow to account for that wicked journal."
Grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakened
terrier on his thin face. "I presume the captain (he spoke of him usually
as the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the village
and at the iron-works."
"I rather fancy," said Rivers, "that he has taken no active part in the
coming election."
"Unnecessary, perhaps. It is, I suppose, like my own county. We haven't a
dozen free-soil voters. 'Bleeding Kansas' is a dead issue with us. It is
bled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried."
"Not here," said John imprudently. "Uncle James says Buchanan will carry
the State by a small majority, but he may not carry this county."
"Then he should see to it," said Grey. "Elect Fremont, my boy, and the
Union will go to pieces. Does the North suppose we will endure a
sectional President? No, sir, it would mean secession--the death-knell of
the Union. Sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by the
scurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. It is an attack on property, on
the ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. That is
the vital question."
He spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting.
Mark Rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box John's ears. He
took advantage of the pause to say, "Would you like a little more rye,
Mr. Grey?"
"Why, yes, sir. I confess to being a trifle dry. But to resume our
discussion--"
"Pardon me. John, ask for the whisky."
To John this was interesting and astonishing. He had never heard talk as
wild. The annoyance on Rivers's face was such as to be easily read by the
least observant. Elsewhere Mr. Rivers would have had a ready answer, but
as Grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire and
the whisky, Rivers's slight negative hint informed John that he was to
hold his tongue.
As the clergyman turned to speak to Grey, the latter said, "I wish to add
a word more, sir. You will find that the men at the South cling to State
rights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and the
right, sir, to take my body-servant to Boston or Kansas, sure that he
will be as secure as my--my--shirt-studs, State rights are of no
practical use."
"You make it very plain," said Rivers, feeling at last that he must
defend his own opinions. "I have myself a few words to say--but, is that
all?"
"Not quite--not quite. I am of the belief that the wants of the Southern
States should be considered, and the demand for their only possible
labour considered. I would re-open the slave-trade. I may shock you,
reverend sir, but that is my opinion."
"And, as I observe," said Rivers, "that also of some governors of
States." He disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew how
Penhallow would smile when captained.
There was a brief silence, what Rivers used to call the punctuation value
of the pipe. The Maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statement
of his political creed, and Rivers felt some need to be amiable and
watchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. John listened,
amazed. He had had his lesson in our history from two competent masters
and was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed of
the owner of men.
Grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and let
go out as often. He set down his empty glass, and said with perfect
courtesy, "I may have been excessive in statement. I beg pardon for
having spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms.
That is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. I should like to hear how
this awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, I am glad
to know, my own church."
"Yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said Rivers. "There at least we
are on common ground. I dislike these discussions, Mr. Grey, but I cannot
leave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hint
to have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Grey. "At home we talk little else. I do believe the
watermelons and the pumpkins talk politics."
Rivers smiled. "I shall reply to you, of course. It will not be a full
answer. I want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel born
within the memory of any living man. The colonial life began with
colonial differences and aversions due to religion--Puritan, Quaker
and Church of England, intercolonial tariffs and what not. For the
planter-class we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightly
presumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking--a
life foreign to ours. The colonies were to one another like foreign
countries. In the Revolution you may read clearly the effect of these
opinions, when Washington expressed the wish that his officers would
forget that they came from Connecticut or Virginia, and remember only
they were Americans."
Grey said, "We did our share, sir."
"Yes, but all Washington's important generals were Northern men; but that
is not to the point. Washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with small
regard for State rights. The Constitution unhappily left those State
rights in a condition to keep up old differences. That is clear, I
regret to say. Then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension.
Slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not the
only cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is with
you, the largest. We have tried compromises. They are of the history of
our own time, familiar to all of us. Well, Mr. Grey, the question is
shall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and its
consequences?--one moment and I have done. I am filled with gloom when I
look forward. When nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, may
settle disputes; too often war. But, Mr. Grey, never are radical, civil
or religious differences settled without the sword, if I have read
history aright. You see," and he smiled, "I could not let pass your hint
without a word."
"If it comes to that--to war," said Grey, "we would win. In that belief
lies the certainty I dread."
"Ah! sir, in that Southern belief lies the certainty I too dread. You
think we live merely lives of commerce. You do not realise that there is
with us a profound sentiment of affection for the Union. No people
worth anything ever lived without the very human desire of national
self-preservation. It has the force of a man's personal desire for
self-preservation. Pardon me, I suppose that I have the habit of the
sermon."
Grey replied, "You are very interesting, but I am tired. A little more
rye, John. I must adjourn this discussion--we will talk again."
"Not if I can help it," laughed Rivers. "I ought to say that I shall vote
the Republican ticket."
"I regret it--I deeply regret it. Oh! thanks, John." He drank the whisky
and went upstairs to bed.
Rivers sat down. "This man is what I call a stateriot. I am or try to be
that larger thing, a patriot. I did not say all, it was useless. Your
uncle cares little--oh, too little--about slavery, and generally the
North cares as little; but the antislavery men are active and say, as did
Washington, that the Union of the States was or will be insecure until
slavery comes to an end. It may be so, John; it is the constant seed of
discord. I would say, let them go in peace, but that would be only to
postpone war to a future day. I rarely talk about this matter. What made
you start him? You ought to have held your tongue."
The young fellow smiled. "Yes, sir, I suppose so."
"However, we won't have it again if I can help it."
"It was very interesting."
"Quite too interesting, but will he try it on the Squire and your aunt?
Now I am going home. I hate these talks. Don't sit up and read the
_Tribune_."
"No, sir, and I will take Mr. Grey to ride to-morrow."
"Do, and send him home too tired to talk politics."
"I think if I put him on uncle's big John it will answer."