While the two maids from Westways waited on the family at breakfast, the
guest was pleased to express himself favourably in regard to the coffee
and the corn bread. John being left alone in care of the guest after the
meal proposed a visit to the stables. Mr. Grey preferred for a time the
fire, and later would like to walk to the village. Somewhat relieved,
John found for him the Baltimore paper, which Mrs. Penhallow read daily.
Mr. Grey would not smoke, but before John went away remarked, "I
perceive, my boy, no spittoon." He was chewing tobacco vigorously and
using the fireplace for his frequent expectoration. John, a little
embarrassed, thought of his Aunt Ann. The habit of chewing was strange to
the boy's home experience. Certainly, Billy chewed, and others in the
town, nor was it at that time uncommon at the North. He confided his
difficulty to the groom, his boxing-master, who having in his room the
needed utensil placed it beside the hall-fire, to Mr. Grey's
satisfaction--a square tray of wood filled with sawdust.
"Not ornamental, but useful, John, in fact essential," said Mr. Grey, as
John excused himself with the statement that he had to go to school. When
he returned through the woods, about noon, to his relief he saw far down
the avenue Mr. Grey and the gold-headed, tasselled cane he carried.
A little later Mr. Grey in the sun of a cool day early in October was
walking along the village street in keen search of news of politics. He
talked first to Pole, the butcher, who hearing that he was a cousin of
Mrs. Penhallow assured him that the town would go solid for Buchanan.
Then he met Billy, who was going a-fishing, having refused a wood-cutting
job the rector offered.
"A nice fishing-rod that," said Grey.
Billy who was bird-witted and short of memory replied, "Mrs. Penhallow
she gave me a dollar to pay pole-tax if I vote for--I guess it was
Buchanan. I bought a nice fishing-pole."
Grey was much amused and agreeably instructed in regard to Mrs. Ann's
sentiments, as he realized the simple fellow's mental condition. "A
fishing-pole-tax--well--well--" and would tell John of his joke. "Any
barber in this town?" he asked.
"Yes, there's Josiah," and Billy was no longer to be detained.
Mr. Grey mailed a letter, but the post-mistress would not talk politics
and was busy. At last, wandering eastward, he came upon the only
unoccupied person in Westways. Peter Lamb, slowly recovering strength,
was seated on his mother's doorstep. His search for money had been
defeated by the widow's caution, and the whisky craving was being felt
anew.
"Good morning," said Grey. "You seem to be the only man here with nothing
to do."
"Yes, sir. I've been sick, and am not quite fit to work. Sickness is hard
on a working man, sir."
Grey, a kindly person, put his hand in his pocket, "Quite right, it is
hard. How are the people here going to vote? I hope the good old ticket."
"Oh! Buchanan and Breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey
barber. He's a runaway--I guess. Been here these three or four years.
Squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts."
"Indeed!"
"He's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs."
"What is his name? I suppose he can shave me."
"Calls himself Josiah," said Peter. "Mighty poor barber--cut my face last
time he shaved me. You see, he's lost two fingers--makes him awkwarder."
"What! what!" said Grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers--"
"Know him?" said Lamb quickly.
"I--no--Do you suppose I know every runaway nigger?"
"Oh, of course not. Might I ask your name, sir?"
"I am a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow. My name is Grey." Peter became cautious
and silent. "Here is a little help, my man, until you get work. Stick to
the good old Party." He left two dollars in Lamb's eager hands.
Surprised at this unusual bounty, Peter said, "Thank you, sir. God bless
you. It'll be a great help." It meant for the hapless drinker whisky, and
he was quick to note the way in which Grey became interested in the man
who had lost fingers.
Grey lingered. "I must risk your barber's awkwardness," he said.
"Oh, he can shave pretty well when he's sober. He's our only darkey, sir.
You can't miss him. I might show you his shop." This Grey declined.
"I suppose, sir," said Peter, curious, "all darkies look so much alike
that it is hard to tell them apart."
"Oh, not for us--not for us."
Then Peter was still more sure that the gentleman with the gold-headed
cane was from the South. As Grey lingered thoughtful, Lamb was
maliciously inspired by the size of Grey's donation and the prospect it
offered. He studied the face of the Southern gentleman and ventured to
say, "Excuse me, sir, but if you want to get that man back--"
"I want him! Good gracious! I did not own him. My inquiries were, I might
say, casual, purely casual."
Lamb, thanks to the Penhallows, had had some education at the school for
the mill children, but what was meant by "purely casual" he did not know.
If it implied lack of interest, that was not the case, or why the
questions and this gift, large for Westways. But if the gentleman did not
own Josiah's years of lost labour, some one else did, and who was it?
As Grey turned away, he said, "I may see you again. I am with my cousin
at Grey Pine. By the bye, how will the county vote?"
Peter assured him that the Democratic Party would carry the county. "I am
glad," said Grey, "that the people, the real backbone of the country,
desire to do justice to the South." He felt himself on the way to another
exposition of constitutional rights, but realising that it was unwise
checked the outflow of eloquence. He could not, however, refrain from
adding, "Your people then are a law-abiding community."
"Yes, sir," said the lover of law, "we are just that, and good sound
Democrats."
Grey, curious and mildly interested, determined to be reassured in regard
to this black barber's former status. He walked slowly by Josiah's shop
followed at a distance by Peter. The barber was shaving Mr. Pole, and
intent on his task. Grey caught sight of the black's face. One look was
enough--it was familiar--unmistakable. In place of going in to be shaved
he turned away and quickened his steps. Peter grinned and went home. "The
darn nigger horse-thief," murmured Grey. "I'll write to Woodburn." Then
he concluded that first it would be well without committing himself to
know more surely how far this Democratic community would go in support of
the fugitive-slave law. He applauded his cautiousness.
A moment later Pole, well shaven, overtook him. Grey stopped him, chatted
as they went on, and at last asked if there was in Westways a good
Democratic lawyer. Pole was confident that Mr. Swallow would be all that
he could desire, and pointed out his house.
Meanwhile Peter Lamb began to suspect that there was mischief brewing for
the man who had brought down on him the anger of Mark Rivers, and like
enough worse things as soon as Penhallow came home.
As Pole turned into his shop-door, Mr. Grey went westward in deep
thought. He was sure of the barber's identity. If Josiah had been his own
property, he would with no hesitation have taken the steps needful to
reclaim the fugitive, but it was Mr. Woodburn who had lost Josiah's years
of service and it was desirable not hastily to commit his friend. He knew
with what trouble the fugitive-slave law had been obeyed or not obeyed at
the North. He was not aware that men who cared little about slavery were
indignant at a law which set aside every safeguard with which the growth
of civilization had surrounded the trial of even the worst criminal. As
he considered the situation, he walked more and more slowly until he
paused in front of Swallow's house. Every one had assured him that since
General Jackson's time the town and county had changelessly voted the
good old Democratic ticket. Here at least the rights of property would be
respected, and there would be no lawless city mobs to make the
restoration of a slave difficult. The brick house and ill-kept garden
before which he paused looked unattractive. Beside the house a one-storey
wooden office bore the name "Henry W. Swallow, Attorney-at-law." There
was neither bell nor knocker. Mr. Grey rapped on the office door with his
cane, and after waiting a moment without hearing any one, he entered a
front room and looked about him.
Swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small
Pennsylvania villages. The only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer,
he found himself on his father's death more than sufficiently well-off to
go to college and later to study law. He was careful and penurious, but
failing of success in Philadelphia returned to Westways when about thirty
years old, bought a piece of land in the town, built a house, married a
pretty, commonplace young woman, and began to look for business. There
was little to be had. The Squire drew his own leases and sold lands to
farmers unaided. Then Swallow began to take interest in politics and to
lend money to the small farmers, taking mortgages at carefully guarded,
usurious interest. Merciless foreclosures resulted, and as by degrees his
operations enlarged, he grew richer and became feared and important in a
county community where money was scarce. Some of his victims went in
despair to the much loved Squire for help, and got, over and over,
relief, which disappointed Swallow who disliked him as he did no other
man in the county. The Squire returned his enmity with contemptuous
bitterness and entire distrust of the man and all his ways.
Mr. Grey saw in the further room the back of a thin figure in a white
jacket seated at a desk. The man thus occupied on hearing his entrance
said, without looking back, "Sit down, and in a moment I'll attend to
you."
Grey replied, "In a moment you won't see me;" and, his voice rising, "I
am accustomed to be treated with civility."
Swallow rose at once, and seeing a well-dressed stranger said, "Excuse
me, I was drawing a mortgage for a farmer I expected. Take a seat. I am
at your service."
Somewhat mollified, Grey sat down. As he took his seat he was not at all
sure of what he was really willing to say or do. He was not an indecisive
person at home, but here in a Northern State, on what might be hostile
ground, he was in doubt concerning that which he felt he honourably owed
as a duty to his neighbour. The word had for him limiting definitions,
as indeed it has for most of us. Resolving to be cautious, he said with
deliberate emphasis, "I should like what I have to say to be considered,
sir, as George Washington used to remark, as 'under the rose'--a strictly
professional confidence."
"Of course," said Swallow.
"My name is George Grey. I am at Grey Pine on a visit to my cousin, Mrs.
Penhallow."
"A most admirable lady," said the lawyer; "absent just now, I hear." He
too determined on caution.
"I have been wandering about your quiet little town this morning and made
some odd acquaintances. One Billy, he called himself, most amusing--most
amusing. It seems that my cousin gave him money to pay his poll-tax. The
poor simple fellow bought a fishing-pole and line. He was, I fancy, to
vote for Buchanan. My cousin, I infer, must be like all our people a
sound Democrat."
"I have heard as much," returned Swallow. "I am doing what I can for the
party, but the people here are sadly misled and our own party is slowly
losing ground."
"Indeed! I talked a little with a poor fellow named Lamb, out-of-work and
sick. He assured me that the town was solid for Buchanan, and also the
county."
Swallow laughed heartily. "What! Peter Lamb. He is our prize drunkard,
sir, and would have been in jail long ago but for Penhallow. They are
foster-brothers."
"Indeed!" Mr. Grey felt that his knowledge of character had been sadly
at fault and that he had been wise in not having said more to the man
out-of-work.
"Do you think, Mr. Swallow, that if a master reclaimed a slave in this
county that there would be any trouble in carrying out the law?"
"No, sir," said Swallow. "The county authorities are all Democrats and
would obey the law. Suppose, sir, that you were frankly to put before me
the whole case, relying on my secrecy. Where is the man?"
"Let me then tell you my story. As a sound Democrat it will at least have
your sympathy."
"Certainly, I am all attention."
"About the tenth of June over four years ago I rode with my friend
Woodburn into our county-town. At the bank we left our horses with his
groom Caesar, an excellent servant, much trusted; used to ride quarter
races for my father when a boy. When we came out, Woodburn's horse was
hitched to a post and mine was gone, and that infernal nigger on him. He
was traced to the border, but my mare had no match in the county."
"So he stole the horse; that makes it an easy case."
"No, sir. To be precise, he left the horse at a tavern in this State,
with my name and address. Some Quakers helped him on his way."
"And he is in this county?" asked Swallow.
"Yes, sir. His name here is Josiah--seems to be known by that name
alone."
"Josiah!" gasped Swallow. "A special favourite of Penhallow. A case to be
gravely considered--most gravely. The Squire--"
"But surely he will obey the law."
"Yes--probably--but who can say? He was at one time a Democrat, but now
is, I hear, likely to vote for Fremont."
"That seems incredible."
"And yet true. I should like, sir, to think the matter over for a day or
two. Did the man see you--I mean, recognize you?"
"No, but as I went by his shop, I at once recognized him; and he has lost
two fingers. Oh! I know the fellow. I can swear to him, and it is easy to
bring his master Woodburn here."
"I see. Well, let me think it over for a day or two."
"Very good," returned Grey, "and pray consider yourself as in my debt for
your services."
"All right, Mr. Grey."
With this Mr. Grey went away a thoughtful man. He attracted some
attention as he moved along the fronts of the houses. Strangers were
rare. Being careful not to go near Josiah's little shop, he crossed the
road and climbing the fence went through the wood, reflecting that until
this matter was settled he would feel that his movements must be
unpleasantly governed by the need to avoid Josiah. He felt this to be
humiliating. Other considerations presented themselves in turn. This
ungrateful black had run away with his, George Grey's, horse--a personal
wrong. His duty to Woodburn was plain. Then, if this black fellow was as
Swallow said, a favourite of Captain Penhallow, to plan his capture while
himself a guest in Penhallow's house was rather an awkward business.
However, he felt that he must inform his friend Woodburn, after which he
would turn him over to Swallow and not appear in the business at all. It
did not, however, present itself to the Maryland gentleman as a nice
situation. If his cousin Ann were, as he easily learned, a strong
Democrat, it might be well to sound her on the general situation. She had
lived half her life among slaves and those who owned them. She would know
how far Penhallow was to be considered as a law-abiding citizen, or
whether he might be offended, for after all, as George Grey knew, his own
share in the matter would be certain to become known. "A damned
unpleasant affair," he said aloud as he walked up the avenue, "but we as
Southern gentlemen have got to stand by one another. I must let Woodburn
know, and decide for himself."
Neither was the lawyer Swallow altogether easy about the matter on which
he had desired time for thought. It would be the first case in the county
under the fugitive-slave act. If the man were reclaimed, he, Swallow,
would be heard of all through the State; but would that help him before
the people in a canvass for the House? He could not answer, for the old
political parties were going to pieces and new ones were forming.
Moreover, Josiah was much liked and much respected. Then, too, there was
the fee. He walked about the room singularly disturbed. Some prenatal
fate had decreed that he should be old-aged at forty. He had begun to be
aware that his legs were aging faster than his mind. Except the pleasure
of accumulating money, which brought no enjoyment, he had thus far no
games in life which interested him; but now the shifting politics of the
time had tempted him, and possibly this case might be used to his
advantage. The black eyebrows under fast whitening hair grew together in
a frown, while below slowly gathered the long smile of satisfaction. "How
Penhallow will hate it." This thought was for him what the stolen mare
was for George Grey. He must look up the law.
Meanwhile George Grey, under the necessity of avoiding the village for a
time, was rather bored. He had criticized the stables and the horses, and
had been told that the Squire relied with good reason on the judgment of
Josiah in regard to the promise of good qualities in colts. Then, used to
easy roadsters, he had been put on the Squire's rough trotter and led by
the tireless lad had come back weary from long rides across rough country
fields and over fences. The clergyman would talk no more politics, John
pleaded lessons, and it was on the whole dull, so that Mr. Grey was
pleased to hear of the early return of his cousin. A letter to John
desired him to meet his aunt on the 8th, and accordingly he drove to the
station at Westways Crossing, picking up Billy on the way. Mrs. Ann got
out of the car followed by the conductor and brakeman carrying boxes and
bundles, which Billy, greatly excited, stowed away under the seats of the
Jersey wagon. Mrs. Penhallow distributed smiles and thanks to the men who
made haste to assist, being one of the women who have no need to ask help
from any man in sight.
"Now, Billy," she said, "be careful with those horses. When you attend,
you drive very well."
She settled herself on the back seat with John, delighted to be again
where her tireless sense of duty kept her busy--quite too busy at times,
thought some of the village dames. "Your Uncle James will soon be at
home. Is his pet scamp any better?"
John did not know, but Josiah's rheumatism was quite well.
"Sister-in-law has a baby. Six trout I ketched; they're at the house for
you--weighs seven pounds," said Billy without turning round.
"Trout or baby?" said Ann, laughing.
"Baby, ma'am."
"Thanks, but don't talk any more."
"Yes, ma'am."
"How is Leila?" asked John. "Does she like it at school?"
"No, not at all; but she will."
"I don't, Aunt Ann."
"I suppose not."
"Am I to be allowed to write to her?"
"I think not. There is some rule that letters, but--" and she laughed
merrily. The rector, who worshipped her, said once that her laugh was
like the spring song of birds. "But sometimes I may be naughty enough to
let you slip a few lines into my letters."
"That is more than I hoped for. I am--I was so glad to get you back, Aunt
Ann, that I forgot to tell you, Mr. George Grey has come."
"How delightful! He has been promising a visit for years. How pleased
James will be! I wonder how the old bachelor ever made up his mind. I
hope you made it pleasant, John."
"I tried to, aunt." Whether James Penhallow would like it was for John
doubtful, but he said nothing further.
"The cities are wild about politics, and there is no end of trouble in
Philadelphia over the case of a fugitive slave. I was glad to get away to
Grey Pine."
John had never heard her mention this tender subject and was not
surprised when she added quickly, "But I never talk politics, John, and
you are too young to know anything about them." This was by no means
true, as she well knew. "How are my chickens?" She asked endless
questions of small moment.
"Got a new fishing-rod," said Billy, but to John's amusement did not
pursue the story concerning which George Grey had gleefully enlightened
him.
"Well, at last, Cousin George," she cried, as the cousin gave her his
hand on the porch. "Glad to see you--most glad. Come in when you have
finished your cigar."
She followed John into the hall. "Ah! the dear home." Then her eyes fell
on the much used spittoon by the fireside. "Good gracious, John, a--a
spittoon!"
"Yes, aunt. Mr. Grey chews."
"Indeed!" She looked at the box and went upstairs. For years to come and
in the most incongruous surroundings John Penhallow now and then laughed
as he saw again the look with which Mrs. Ann regarded the article so
essential to Mr. Grey's comfort. She disliked all forms of tobacco use,
and the law of the pipe had long ago been settled at Grey Pine as Mrs.
Penhallow decreed, because that was always what James Penhallow decided
to think desirable.
"But this! this!" murmured the little lady, as she came down the
staircase ready for dinner. She rang for the maid. "Take that thing away
and wash it well, and put in fresh sawdust twice a day."
"I hope John has been a good host," she said, as Grey entered the hall.
"Couldn't be better, and I have had some delightful rides. I found the
mills interesting--in fact, most instructive." He spoke in short
childlike sentences unless excited by politics.
Mrs. Ann noted without surprise the free use of whisky, and later the
appreciative frequency of resort to Penhallow's Madeira. A glass of wine
at lunch and after dinner were her husband's sole indulgence. The larger
potations of her cousin in no way affected him. He talked as usual to
Mark Rivers and John about horses, crops and the weather, while Mrs. Ann
listened to the flow of disconnected trifles in some wonder as to how
James Penhallow would endure it. Grey for the time kept off the danger
line of politics, having had of late such variously contributed knowledge
as made him careful.
When to Mrs. Ann's relief dinner was over, the rector said his sermon for
to-morrow must excuse him and went home. John decided that his role of
host was over and retired to his algebra and to questions more easy to
solve than of how to entertain Mr. George Grey. It was not difficult, as
Mrs. Penhallow saw, to make Grey feel at home; all he required was
whisky, cigars, and some mild appearance of interest in his talk. She had
long anticipated his visit with pleasure, thinking that James Penhallow
would be pleased and the better for some rational male society. Rivers
had now deserted her, and she really would not sit with her kinsman's
cigar a whole evening in the library. She said, "The night is warm for
October, come out onto the porch, George."
"With all the pleasure in the world," said Grey, as he followed her.
By habit and training hospitable and now resigned to her fate, Mrs. Ann
said, "Light your cigar, George; I do not mind it out-of-doors."
"I am greatly indebted--I was given to understand that it was
disagreeable to you--like--politics--ah! Cousin Ann."
"We are not much given to talking politics," she said rather sharply.
"Not talk politics!" exclaimed Grey. "What else is there to talk about
nowadays? But why not, Cousin Ann?"
"Well, merely because while I am Southern--and a Democrat, James has seen
fit to abandon our party and become a Republican."
"Incomprehensible!" said Grey. "Ours is the party of gentlemen--of old
traditions. I cannot understand it."
"Nor I," said she, "but now at least," and she laughed--"there will be
one Republican gentleman. However, George, as we are both much in
earnest, we keep politics out of the house."
"It must be rather awkward, Ann."
"What must be rather awkward?"
Did he really mean to discuss, to criticize her relations to James
Penhallow? The darkness was for a time the grateful screen.
Grey, a courteous man, felt the reproof in her question, and replied, "I
beg pardon, my dear Ann, I have heard of the captain's unfortunate change
of opinion. I shall hope, however, to be able to convince him that to
elect Fremont will be to break up the Union. I think I could put it so
clearly that--"
Ann laughed low laughter as vastly amused she laid a hand on her cousin's
arm. "You don't know James Penhallow. He has been from his youth a
Democrat. There never was any question about how he would vote. But now,
since 1850--" and she paused, "in fact, I do not care to discuss with you
what I will not with James." Her great love, her birth, training,
education and respect for the character of her husband, made this
discussion hateful. Her eyes filled, and, much troubled, she was glad of
the mask of night.
"But answer me one question, Ann. Why did he change?"
"He was becoming dissatisfied and losing faith in his own party, but it
was at last my own dear South and its friends at the North who drove him
out." Again she paused.
"What do you mean, Ann?" asked Grey, still persistent.
"It began long ago, George. He said to me one day, 'That fool Fillmore
has signed the Fugitive-Slave Act; it is hardly possible to obey it.'
Then I said, 'Would you not, James?' I can never forget it. He said,
'Yes, I obey the law, Ann, but this should be labelled 'an act to
exasperate the North.' I am done with the Democrat and all his ways. Obey
the law! Yes, I was a soldier.' Then he said, 'Ann, we must never talk
politics again.' We never do."
"And yet, Ann," said Grey, "that act was needed."
"Perhaps," she returned, and then followed a long silence, as with
thought of James Penhallow she sat smiling in the darkness and watched
the rare wandering lanterns of the belated fireflies.
The man at her side was troubled into unnatural silence. He had hoped to
find an ally in his cousin's husband, and now what should he do? He had
concluded that as an honest man he had done his duty when he had written
to Woodburn; but now as a man of honour what should he say to James
Penhallow? To conceal from his host what he had done was the obvious
business-like course. This troubled a man who was usually able to see his
way straight on all matters of social conduct and was sensitive on points
of honour. While Ann sat still and wondered that her guest was so long
silent, he was finding altogether unpleasant his conclusion that he must
be frank with Penhallow. He felt sure, however, that Ann would naturally
be on his side. He introduced the matter lightly with, "I chanced to see
in the village a black man who is said to be a vagabond scamp. He is
called Josiah--a runaway slave, I fancy."
Ann sat up in her chair. "Who said he was a scamp?"
"Oh, a man named Lamb." Then he suddenly remembered Mr. Swallow's
characterization, and added, "not a very trustworthy witness, I presume."
Ann laughed. "Peter Lamb! He is a drunken, loafing fellow, who to his
good fortune chances to have been James's foster-brother. As concerns
Josiah, he turned up here some years ago, got work in the stables, and
was set up by James as the village barber. No one knew whence he came. I
did, of course, suspect him to be a runaway. He is honest and
industrious. Last year I was ill when James was absent. We have only
maids in the house, and when I was recovering Josiah carried me up and
downstairs until James returned. A year after he came, Leila had an
accident. Josiah stopped her horse and got badly hurt--" Then with quick
insight, she added, "What interest have you in our barber, George? Is
it possible you know Josiah?"
Escape from truthful reply was impossible. "Yes, I do. He is the property
of my friend and neighbour Woodburn. I knew him at once--the man had lost
three fingers--he did not see me."
"Well!" she said coldly, "what next, George Grey?"
"I must inform his master. As a Southern woman you, of course, see that
no other course is possible. It is unpleasant, but your sense of right
must make you agree with me."
She returned, speaking slowly, "I do wish you would not do it, George."
Then she said quickly, "Have you taken any steps in this matter?"
He was fairly cornered. "Yes, I wrote to Woodburn. He will be here in a
couple of days. I am sure he will lose no time--and will take legal
measures at once to reclaim his property."
"I suppose it is all right," she said despairingly, "but I am more than
sorry--what James will say I do not know. I hope he will not be called on
to act--under the law he may."
"When does he return?" said Grey. "I shall, of course, be frank with
him."
"That will be advisable. He may be absent for a week longer, or so he
writes. I leave you to your cigar. I am tired, and to-morrow is Sunday.
Shall you go to church?"
"Certainly, Ann. Good-night."
At the door she turned back with a new and relieving thought. "Suppose
I--or we--buy this man's freedom."
"If I owned him that would not be required after what you have told me,
but Woodburn is an obstinate, rather stern man, and will refuse, I fear,
to sell--"
"What will he do with Josiah if he is returned to him as the Act orders?"
"Oh! once a runaway--and the man is no good?--he would probably sell him
to be sent South."
She rose and for a moment stood still in the darkness, and then crying,
"The pity of it, my God, the pity of it!" went away without the usual
courtesy of good-night.
George Grey, when left to his own company, somewhat amazed, began to wish
he had never had a hand in this business. Ann Penhallow went up to her
room, although it was as yet early, leaving John in the library and Grey
with a neglected cigar on the porch. In the bedroom over his shop the man
most concerned sat industriously reading the _Tribune_.
Ann sat down to think. The practical application of a creed to conduct is
not always easy. All her young life had been among kindly considered
slaves. Mr. Woodburn had a right to his property. The law provided for
the return of slaves if they ran away. She suddenly realized that this
man's future fate was in her power, and she both liked and respected him,
and he had been hurt in their service. Oh! why was not James at home?
Could she sit still and let things go their way while the mechanism of
the law worked. Between head and heart there was much argument. Her
imagination pictured Josiah's future. Had he deserved a fate so sad?
She fell on her knees and prayed for help. At last she rose and went down
to the library. John laid down his book and stood up. The young face
greeted her pleasantly, as she said, "Sit down, John, I want to talk to
you. Can you keep a secret?"
"Why--yes--Aunt Ann. What is it?"
"I mean, John, keep it so that no one will guess you have a secret."
"I think I can," he replied, much surprised and very curious.
"You are young, John, but in your uncle's absence there is no one else to
whom I can turn for help. Now, listen. Has Mr. Grey gone to bed?"
"Yes, aunt."
She leaned toward him, speaking low, almost in a whisper, "I do not want
to explain, I only want to tell you something. Josiah is a runaway slave,
John."
"Yes, aunt, he told me all about it."
"Did he, indeed!"
"Yes, we are great friends--I like him--and he trusted me. What's
the matter now?" He was quick to understand that Josiah was in some
danger. Naturally enough he remembered the man's talk and his one
fear--recapture.
"George Grey has recognised Josiah as a runaway slave of a Mr.
Woodburn--" She was most unwilling to say plainly, "Go and warn him."
He started up. "And they mean to take him back?"
She was silent. The indecisions of the habitually decisive are hard to
deal with. The lad was puzzled by her failure to say more.
"It is dreadful, Aunt Ann. I think I ought to go and tell
Josiah--now--to-night."
She made no comment except to say, "Arrest is not possible on Sunday--and
he is safe until Monday or Tuesday."
John Penhallow looked at her for a moment surprised that she did not say
go, or else forbid him to go; it was unlike her. He had no desire to wait
for Sunday and was filled with anxiety. "I think I must go now--now," he
said.
"Then I shall go to bed," she said, and kissing him went away slowly step
by step up the stairs.
Staircases are apt to suggest reflections, and there are various ways of
rendering the French phrase "_esprit de l'escalier_." Aware that want of
moral courage had made her uncertain what to do, or like the Indian,
having two hearts, Ann had been unable to accept bravely the counsel of
either. The loyal decisiveness of a lad of only sixteen years had settled
the matter and relieved her of any need to personally warn Josiah. Some
other influences aided to make her feel satisfied that there should be a
warning. She was resentful because George Grey had put her in a position
where she had been embarrassed by intense sectional sense of duty and by
kindly personal regard for a man who not being criminal was to be
deprived of all the safeguards against injustice provided by the common
law. There were other and minor causes which helped to content her with
what she well knew she had done to disappoint Mr. Woodburn of his prey.
George Grey was really a bore of capacity to wreck the social patience of
the most courteous. The rector fled from him, John always had lessons and
how would James endure his vacuous talk. It all helped her to be
comfortably angry, and there too was that horrible spittoon.
The young fellow who went with needless haste out of the house and down
the avenue about eleven o'clock had no indecisions. Josiah trusted him,
and he felt the compliment this implied.