On the far side of the highroad Westways slumbered. Only in the rector's
small house were lights burning. The town was in absolute darkness.
Westways went to bed early. A pleased sense of the responsibility of his
errand went with John as he came near to where Josiah's humble two-storey
house stood back from the street line, marked by the well-known striped
pole of the barber, of which Josiah was professionally proud. John paused
in front of the door. He knew that he must awaken no one but Josiah.
After a moment's thought he went along the side of the house to the small
garden behind it where Josiah grew the melons no one else could grow, and
which he delighted to take to Miss Leila or Mrs. Penhallow. In the novel
the heroes threw pebbles at the window to call up fair damsels. John
grinned; he might break a pane, but the noise--He was needlessly
cautious. Josiah had built a trellis against the back of the house for
grapevines which had not prospered. John began to climb up it with care
and easily got within reach of the second-storey window. He tapped
sharply on the glass, but getting no reply hesitated a moment. He could
hear from within the sonorous assurance of deep slumber. Somehow he must
waken him. He lifted the sash and called over and over in a low voice,
"Josiah!" The snoring ceased, but not the sleep. The lad was resolute and
still fearful of making a noise. He climbed with care into the dark room
upsetting a little table. Instantly Josiah bounded out of bed and caught
him in his strong grip, as John gasped, "Josiah!"
"My God!" cried the black in alarm, "anything wrong at the house?"
"No, sit down--I've got to tell you something. Your old master, Woodburn,
is coming to catch you--he will be here soon--I know he won't be here for
a day or two--"
"Is that so, Master John? It's awful--I've got to run. I always knowed
sometime I'd have to run." He sat down on the bed; he was appalled. "God
help me!--where can I go? I've got two hundred dollars and seventy-five
cents saved up in the county bank, and I've not got fifty cents in the
house. I can't get the money out--I'd be afraid to go there Monday. Oh,
Lord!"
He began to dress in wild haste. John tried in vain to assure him that he
would be safe on Sunday and Monday, or even later, but was in fact not
sure, and the man was wailing like a child in distress, thinking over his
easy, upright life and his little treasure, which seemed to him lost. He
asked no questions; all other emotion was lost in one over-mastering
terror.
John said at last, "If I write a cheque for you, can you sign your name
to it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I will write a cheque for all of it and I'll get it out for you."
A candle was lighted and the cheque written. "Now write your name here,
Josiah--so--that's right." He obeyed like a child, and John who had often
collected cheques for his aunt of late, knew well enough how to word it
to be paid to bearer. He put it in his pocket.
"But how will I ever get it?" said Josiah, "and where must I go? I'll get
away Monday afternoon."
John was troubled, and then said, "I'll tell you. Go to the old cabin in
the wood. That will be safe. I will bring you your money Monday
afternoon."
The black reflected in silence and then said, "That will do--no man will
take me alive, I know--my God, I know! Who set them on me? Who told? It
was that drunken rascal, Peter. He told me he'd tell if I didn't get him
whisky. How did he know--Oh, Lord! He set 'em on me--I'd like to kill
him."
John was alarmed at the fierceness of the threat. "Oh! but you
won't--promise me. I've helped you, Josiah."
"I promise, Master John. I'm a Christian man, thank the Lord. I'd like
to, but I won't--I won't."
"Now, that's right," said John much relieved. "You'll go to the cabin
Monday--for sure."
"Yes--who told you to tell me?"
John, prudently cautious, refused to answer. "Now, let me out, I must go.
I can't tell you how sorry I will be--" and he was tempted to add his
aunt, but was wise in time. He had done his errand well, and was pleased
with the success of his adventure and the flavour of peril in what he had
done. He let himself into Grey Pine and went noiselessly upstairs. Then
a window was closed and a waiting, anxious woman went to bed and lay long
awake thinking.
John understood the unusual affection of his aunt's greeting when before
breakfast she kissed him and started George Grey on his easy
conversational trot. She had compromised with her political conscience
and, notwithstanding, was strangely satisfied and a trifle ashamed that
she had not been more distinctly courageous.
At church they had as usual a good congregation of the village folk and
men from the mills, for Rivers was eminently a man's preacher and was
much liked. John observed, however, that Josiah, who took care of the
church, was not in his usual seat near the door. He was at home terribly
alarmed and making ready for his departure on Monday. The rector missing
him called after church, but his knock was not answered.
When Mr. Grey in the afternoon declared he would take a walk and mail
some letters, Mrs. Ann called John into the library. "Well," she said,
"did you see Josiah?"
"Yes, aunt." It was characteristic of John Penhallow even thus early in
life that he was modest and direct in statement. He said nothing of his
mode of reaching Josiah. "I told him of his risk. He will hide in--"
"Do not tell me where," said Ann quickly; "I do not want to know."
He wondered why she desired to hear no more. He went on--"He has money in
the county bank--two hundred dollars."
"He must have been saving--poor fellow!"
"I wrote a cheque for him, to bearer. I am to draw it tomorrow and take
it to him in the afternoon. Then he will be able to get away."
Here indeed was something for Ann to think about. When Josiah was missed
and legal measures taken, a pursuit organized, John having drawn his
money might be questioned. This would never do--never. Oddly enough she
had the thought, "Who will now shave James?" She smiled and said, "I must
keep you out of the case--give me the cheque. Oh, I see it is drawn to
bearer. I wonder if his owner could claim it. He may--he might--if it is
left there."
"That would be mean," said John.
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Yes--I could give him the money. Let me
think about it. Of course, I could draw on my account and leave Josiah's
alone. But he has a right to his own money. I will keep the cheque, John.
I will draw out his money and give it to you. Good gracious, boy! you are
like James Penhallow."
"That's praise for a fellow!" said John.
Ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thing
through at all costs. The man had made his money and should have it. She
was now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she had
started; and after all she was the wife of James Penhallow of Grey Pine;
who would dare to question her? As to George Grey, she dismissed him with
a low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect to
leave Grey Pine.
At ten on Monday Billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at the
mills. The young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rather
surprised as he took the cheque inquired, "How will you have it, ma'am?
Josiah must be getting an investment."
"One hundred in fifties and the rest--oh, fifty in fives, the rest in
ones."
She drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to John in an envelope,
asking no questions. He set off in the afternoon to give Josiah his
money.
Meanwhile on this Monday morning a strange scene in this drama was being
acted in Josiah's little shop. He was at the door watchful and thinking
of his past and too doubtful future, when he saw Peter Lamb pause near
by. The man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used the
gift of Grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slight
alcoholic excitement and good-humour.
"Halloa!" cried Peter. "How are you? I'm going to the mills to see my
girl--want you to shave me--got over my joke; funny, wasn't it?"
A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber--some
long-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.
"Don't like to kiss with a rough beard," said Peter. "I'll pay--got
money--now."
"Come in," said Josiah. "Set down. I'll shut the door--it's a cold
morning."
He spread the lather over the red face. "Head back a bit--that's right
comfortable now, isn't it?"
"All right--go ahead."
Josiah took his razor. "Now, then," he said, as he set a big strong
hand on the man's forehead, "if you move, I'll cut your throat--keep
quiet--don't you move. You told I was a slave--you ruined my life--I
never did you no harm--I'd kill you just as easy as that--" and he
drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.
"My God!--I--" The man shuddered.
"Keep still--or you are a dead man."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned Lamb.
"I would kill you, but I don't want to be hanged. God will take care
of you--He is sure. Some day you will do some wickedness worse than
this--you just look at me."
There was for Peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man who
stood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, the
eyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion.
"Answer me now--and by God, if you lie, I will kill you. You set some one
on me? Quick now!"
"I did."
"Who was it? No lies, now!"
"Mr. George Grey." Then Josiah fully realized his danger.
"Why did you?"
"You wouldn't help me to get whisky."
"Well, was that all?"
"You went and got the preacher to set Mr. Penhallow on me. He gave me the
devil."
"My God, was that all? You've ruined me for a drink of whisky--you've got
your revenge. I'm lost--lost. Your day will come--I'll be there. Now go
and repent if you can--you've been near to death. Go!" he cried.
He seized the terrified man with one strong hand, lifted him from the
chair, cast open the door and hurled him out into the street. A little
crowd gathered around Lamb as he rose on one elbow, dazed.
"Drunk!" said Pole, the butcher. "Drunk again!"
Josiah shut and locked the door. Then he tied up his bundle of clothes,
filled a basket with food, and went out into his garden. He cast a look
back at the neatly kept home he had recently made fresh with paint. He
paused to pick a chilled rosebud and set it in his button-hole--a fashion
copied from his adored captain. He glanced tearfully at the glass-framed
covers of the yellowing melon vines. He had made money out of his melons,
and next year would have been able to send a good many to Pittsburgh. As
he turned to leave the little garden in which he took such pride, he
heard an old rooster's challenge in his chicken-yard, which had been
another means of money-making. He went back and opened the door, leaving
the fowl their liberty. When in the lane behind his house, he walked
along in the rear of the houses, and making sure that he was unobserved,
crossed the road and entered the thick Penhallow forest. He walked
rapidly for half an hour, and leaving the wood road found his way to the
cabin the first Penhallow built. It was about half after one o'clock when
the fugitive lay down on the earth of the cabin with his hands clasped
behind his head. He stared upward, wondering where he could go to be
safe. He would have to spend some of the carefully saved money. That
seemed to him of all things the most cruel. He was not trained to
consecutive thinking; memories old or new flitted through his mind. Now
and then he said to himself that perhaps he had had no right to run
away--and perhaps this was punishment. He had fled from the comforts of
an easy life, where he had been fed, clothed and trusted. Not for a
moment would he have gone back--but why had he run away? What message
that soaring hawk had sent to him from his swift circling sweep overhead
he was not able to put in words even if he had so desired. "That wicked
hawk done it!" he said aloud.
At last, hearing steps outside, he bounded to his feet, a hand on the
knife in his belt. He stood still waiting, ready as a crouching tiger,
resolute, a man at bay with an unsated appetite for freedom. The door
opened and John entered.
"You sort of scared me, Master John."
"You are safe here, Josiah, and here is your money."
He took it without a word, except, "I reckon, Master John, you know I'm
thankful. Was there any one missing me?"
"No, no one."
"I'll get away to-night. I'll go down through Lonesome Man's Swamp and
take my old bateau and run down the river. You might look after my
muskrat traps. I was meaning to make a purse for the little missy. Now do
you just go away, and may the Lord bless you. I guess we won't ever meet
no more. You'll be mighty careful, Master John?"
"But you'll write, Josiah."
"I wouldn't dare to write--I'd be takin' risks. Think I'm safe here? Oh,
Lord!"
"No one knows where you are--you'll go to-night?"
"Yes, after dark." He seemed more at ease as he said, "It was Peter Lamb
set Mr. Grey on me. He must have seen me after that. I told you it was
Peter."
"Yes,"--and then with the hopefulness of youth--"but you will come back,
I am sure."
"No, sir--never no more--and the captain and Miss Leila--it's
awful--where can I go?"
John could not help him further. "God bless you, Master John." They
parted at length at the door of the cabin which had seen no other parting
as sad.
The black lay down again. Now and then he swept his sleeve across tearful
eyes. Then he stowed his money under his shirt in a linen bag hung to his
neck, keeping out a few dollars, and at last fell sound asleep exhausted
by emotion,
Josiah's customers were few in number. Westways was too poor to be able
to afford a barber more than once a week, and then it was always in
mid-morning when work ceased for an hour. Sometimes the Squire on his way
to the mills came to town early, but as a rule Josiah went to Grey Pine
and shaved him while they talked about colts and their training. As he
was rarely needed in the afternoon, Josiah often closed his shop about
two o'clock and went a-fishing or set traps on the river bank. His
absence on this Monday afternoon gave rise, therefore, to no surprise,
but when his little shop remained closed on Tuesday, his neighbours began
to wonder. Peter Lamb wandering by rather more drunken than on Monday,
stood a while looking at the shut door, then went on his devious way,
thinking of the fierce eyes and the curse. Next came Swallow for his
daily shave. He knocked at the door and tried to enter. It was locked. He
heard no answer to his louder knock. He at once suspected that his prey
had escaped him, and that the large fee he had counted on was to say the
least doubtful. But who could have warned the black? Had Mr. Grey been
imprudent? Lamb had been the person who had led Grey, as Swallow knew
from that gentleman, to suspect Josiah as a runaway; but now as he saw
Peter reeling up the street, he was aware that he was in no state to be
questioned. He went away disappointed and found that no one he met knew
whither Josiah had gone.
At Grey Pine Mrs. Ann, uneasily conscious of her share in the matter,
asked John if he had given the money to Josiah. He said yes, and that the
man was safe and by this time far away. Meanwhile, the little town buzzed
with unwonted excitement and politics gave place about the grocer's door
at evening to animated discussion, which was even more interesting when
on Wednesday there was still no news and the town lamented the need to go
unshaven.
On Thursday morning Billy was sent with a led horse to meet Penhallow at
Westways Crossing. Penhallow had written that he must go on to a meeting
of the directors of the bank at the mills and would not be at home until
dinner-time. The afternoon train brought Mr. Woodburn, who as advised by
Grey went at once to Swallow's house, where Mrs. Swallow gave him a note
from her husband asking that if he came he would await the lawyer's
return.
"Well, Billy, glad to see you," said Penhallow, as he settled himself in
the saddle. "All well at Grey Pine?"
"Yes, sir."
The Squire was in high good-humour on having made two good contracts for
iron rails. "How are politics, Billy?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Anything new at Westways?"
"Yes, sir," replied Billy with emphasis.
"Well, what is it?"
"Josiah's run away."
"Run away! Why?"
"Don't know--he's gone."
Penhallow was troubled, but asked no other questions, as he was late. He
might learn more at home. He rode through the town and on to the mills.
There he transacted some business and went thence to the bank. The board
of well-to-do farmers was already in session, and Swallow--a member--was
talking.
"What is that?" said Penhallow as he entered, hearing Josiah mentioned.
Some one said, "He has been missing since Monday." "He drew out all his
money that morning," said Swallow, "all of it."
"Indeed," said Penhallow. "Did _he_ draw it--I mean in person?"
"No," said the lawyer, who was well pleased to make mischief and hated
Penhallow.
Penhallow was uneasily curious. "Who drew it?" he asked. "Josiah could
hardly have known how to draw a cheque; I had once to help him write
one."
"It was a cheque to bearer, I hear," said Swallow smiling. "Mrs.
Penhallow drew the money. No doubt Josiah got it before he left."
Penhallow said, "You are insolent."
"You asked a question," returned Swallow, "and I answered it."
"And with a comment I permit no man to make. You said, 'no doubt he got
it.' I want an apology at once." He went around the table to where
Swallow sat.
The lawyer rose, saying, "Every one will know to-day that Josiah was a
runaway slave. His master will be here this evening. Whoever warned him
is liable under the Fugitive-Slave Act--Mrs. Penhallow drew the money
and--"
"One word more, sir, of my wife, and I will thrash you. It is clear
that you know all about the matter and connect my wife with this man's
escape--you have insulted her."
"Oh, Mr. Penhallow," said the old farmer who presided, "I beg of you--"
"Keep quiet," said the Squire, "this is my business."
"I did not mean to insult Mrs. Penhallow," said Swallow; "I
apologize--I--"
"You miserable dog," said Penhallow, "you are both a coward and a lying,
usurious plunderer of hard-working men. You may be thankful that I am a
good-tempered man--but take care."
"I shall ask this board to remember what has been said of me," said
Swallow. "The law--"
"Law! The law of the cowhide is what you will get if I hear again that
you have used my wife's name. Good-day, gentlemen."
He went our furious and rode homeward at speed. Before the Squire reached
Grey Pine he had recovered his temper and his habitual capacity to meet
the difficulties of life with judicial calmness. He had long been sure
that Josiah had been a slave and had run away. But after these years,
that he should have been discovered in this remote little town seemed to
him singular. The man was useful to him in several ways and had won his
entire respect and liking, so that he felt personal annoyance because
of this valuable servant having been scared away. That Ann had been in
any way concerned in aiding his escape perplexed him, as he remembered
how entire was her belief in the creed of the masters of slaves who with
their Northern allies had so long been the controlling legislative power
of the country.
"I am glad to be at home, my dear Ann," he said, as they met on the
porch. "Ah! Grey, so you are come at last. It is not too late to say how
very welcome you are; and John, I believe you have grown an inch since I
left."
They went in, chatting and merry. The Squire cast an amused look at the
big spittoon and then at his wife, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.
At the meal no one for a variety of good reasons mentioned Josiah. The
tall soldier with the readiness of helpless courtesy fell into the talk
of politics which Grey desired. "Yes, Buchanan will carry the State,
Grey, but by no large majority."
"And the general election?" asked the cousin.
"Yes, that is my fear. He will be elected."
Ann, who dreaded these discussions, had just now a reproachful political
conscience. She glanced at her husband expecting him to defend his
beliefs. He was silent, however, while Grey exclaimed, "Fear, sir--fear?
You surely cannot mean to say--to imply that the election of a black
Republican would be desirable." He laid down his fork and was about to
become untimely eloquent--Rivers smiled--watching the Squire and his
wife, as Penhallow said:
"Pardon me, Grey, but I cannot have my best mutton neglected."
"Oh, yes--yes--but a word--a word. Elect Fremont--and we secede. Elect
Buchanan--and the Union is safe. There, sir, you have it in a nutshell."
"Ah, my dear Grey," said Penhallow, "this is rather of the nature of a
threat--never a very digestible thing--for me, at least--and I am not
very convincible. We will discuss it over our wine or a cigar." He turned
to his wife, "Any news of Leila, Ann?"
"Yes, I had a letter to-day," she returned, somewhat relieved. "She seems
to be better satisfied."
Grey accepted the interrupting hint and fell to critical talk of the
Squire's horses. After the wine Penhallow carried off his guest to the
library, and avoiding politics with difficulty was unutterably bored by
the little gentleman's reminiscent nothings about himself, his crops,
tobacco, wines, his habits of life, what agreed with him and what did
not. At last, with some final whisky, Mr. Grey went to bed.
Ann, who was waiting anxiously, eager to get through with the talk she
dreaded, went at once into the library. Penhallow rising threw his cigar
into the fire. She laughed, but not in her usual merry way, and cried,
"Do smoke, James, I shall not mind it; I am forever disciplined to any
fate. There is a spittoon in the hall--a spittoon!"
The Squire laughed joyously, and kissed her. "I can wait for my pipe; we
can't have any lapse in domestic discipline." Then he added, "I hear that
my good Josiah has gone away--I may as well say, run away."
"Yes--he has gone, James." She hesitated greatly troubled.
"And you helped him--a runaway slave--you--" He smiled. It had for him an
oddly humorous aspect.
"I did--I did--" and the little lady began to sob like a child. "It
was--was wrong--" There was nothing comic in it for Ann Penhallow.
"You angel of goodness," he cried, as he caught her in his arms and held
the weeping face against his shoulder, "my brave little lady!"
"I ought not to have done it--but I did--I did--oh, James! To think that
my cousin should have brought this trouble on us--But I did--oh, James!"
"Listen, my dear. If I had been here, I should have done it. See what you
have saved me. Now sit down and let us have it all out, my dear, all of
it."
"And you really mean that?" she wailed piteously. "You won't think I did
wrong--you won't think I have made trouble for you--"
"You have not," he replied, "you have helped me. But, dear, do sit down
and just merely, as in these many years, trust my love. Now quiet
yourself and let us talk it over calmly."
"Yes--yes." She wiped her eyes. "Do smoke, James--I like it."
"Oh, you dear liar," he said. "And so it was Grey?"
She looked up. "Yes, George Grey; but, James, he did not know how much we
liked Josiah nor how good he had been to me, and how he got hurt when he
stopped Leila's pony. He was sorry--but it was too late--oh, James!--you
will not--oh, you will not--"
"Will not what, dear?" Penhallow was disgusted. A guest entertained in
his own house to become a detective of an escaped slave in Westways, at
his very gate! "My charity, Ann, hardly covers this kind of sin against
the decencies of life. But I wish to hear all of it. Now, who betrayed
the man--who told Grey?"
"I am sorry to say that it was Peter Lamb who first mentioned Josiah to
George Grey as a runaway. When he spoke of his lost fingers, George was
led to suspect who Josiah really was. Then he saw him, and as soon as he
was sure, he wrote to a Mr. Woodburn, who was Josiah's old owner."
"I suppose he recognized Josiah readily?"
"Yes, he had been a servant of George's friend, Mr. Woodburn, and George
says he was a man indulgently treated and much trusted."
"I infer from what I learned to-day that George told you all this and had
already seen Swallow, so that the trap was set and Mr. Woodburn was to
arrive. Did George imagine you would warn my poor barber--"
"But I--I didn't--I mean--I let John hear about it--and he told Josiah."
He listened. Here was another Mrs. Ann. There was in Ann at times a
bewildering childlike simplicity with remarkable intelligence--a
combination to be found in some of the nobler types of womanhood. He made
no remark upon her way of betraying the trust implied in George Grey's
commonplace confession.
"So, then, my dear, John went and gave the man a warning?"
"Yes, I would have gone, but it was at night and I thought it better to
let John see him. How he did it I did not want to know--I preferred to
know nothing about it."
This last sentence so appealed to Penhallow's not very ready sense of
humour that he felt it needful to control his mirth as he saw her
watching earnestness. "Grey, I presume, called on that rascal Swallow,
Mr. Woodburn is sent for, and meanwhile Josiah is told and wisely runs
away. He will never be caught. Anything else, my dear?"
"Yes, I said to George that we would buy Josiah's freedom--what amuses
you, James?" He was smiling.
"Oh, the idea of buying a man's power to go and come, when he has
been his own master for years. You were right, but it seems that you
failed--or, so I infer."
"Yes. He said Mr. Woodburn was still angry and always had considered
Josiah wickedly ungrateful." Penhallow looked at his wife. Her sense of
the comedies of life was sometimes beyond his comprehension, but now--now
was she not a little bit, half consciously, of the defrauded master's
opinion?
"And so, when that failed, you went to bank and drew out the poor
fellow's savings?" He meant to hear the whole story. There was worse yet,
and he was sure she would speak of it. But now she was her courageous
self and desired to confess her share in the matter. "Of course, he had
to have money, Ann."
She wanted to get through with this, the most unpleasant part of the
matter. "I want to tell you," she said. "I drew out his money with a
cheque John made out and Josiah signed. John took him his two hundred
dollars, as he knew where Josiah would hide--I--I did not want to know."
Her large part in this perilous business began to trouble the Squire. His
face had long been to her an open book, and she saw in his silence the
man's annoyance. She added instantly, "I could not let John draw it--and
Josiah would not--he was too scared. He had to have his money. Was I
wrong--was I foolish, James?"
"No--you were right. The cheque was in John's handwriting. You were the
person to draw it. I would have drawn the money for him. He had a man's
right to his honest savings. It will end here--so you may be quite at
ease." Of this he was not altogether certain. He understood now why she
had not given him of her own money, but Ann was clearly too agitated to
make it well or wise to question her methods further. "Go to bed, dear,
and sleep the sleep of the just--you did the right thing." He kissed her.
"Good-night."
"One moment more, James. You know, of course--you know that all my life I
have believed with my brothers that slavery was wise and right. I had to
believe that--to think so might exact from me and others what I never
could have anticipated. I came face to face with a test of my creed, and
I failed. I am glad I failed."
"My dear Ann," he said, "I am supposed to be a Christian man--I go to
church, I have a creed of conduct. To-day I lost my temper and told a man
I would thrash him if he dared to say a word more."
"It was at the bank, James?"
"Yes. That fellow Swallow spoke of your having drawn Josiah's money. He
was insolent. You need have no anxiety about it--it is all over. I only
mention it because I want you to feel that our creeds of conduct in life
are not always our masters, and sometimes ought not to be. Let that
comfort you a little. You know that to have been a silent looker-on at
the return to slavery of a man to whom we owed so much was impossible.
My wonder is that for a moment you could have hesitated. It makes me
comprehend more charitably the attitude of the owners of men. Now, dear,
we won't talk any more. Good-night--again--good-night."
He lighted a cigar and sat long in thought. He had meant not to speak to
her of Swallow, but it had been, as he saw, of service. Then he wondered
how long Mr. George Grey would remain and if he would not think it
necessary to speak of Josiah. As concerned John, he would be in no hurry
to talk to him of the barber; and how the lad had grown in mind and
body!--a wonderful change and satisfactory.
When after breakfast Mr. Grey showed no desire to mention Josiah and
prudently avoided talk about politics, Penhallow was greatly relieved.
That his host did not open the question of Mr. Grey's conduct in the
matter of the runaway was as satisfactory to the Maryland gentleman,
whose sense of duty had created for him a situation which was
increasingly disagreeable. He warmly welcomed Penhallow's invitation to
look at some newly purchased horses, and expressed the most cordial
approval of whatever he saw, somewhat to the amusement of Penhallow.
Penhallow left him when, declining to ride to the mills, Mr. Grey retired
to the library and read the _Tribune_, with internal comment on its
editorial columns. He laid the paper aside. Mr. Woodburn would probably
have arrived in the afternoon, and would have arranged with Swallow for a
consultation in which Mr. Grey would be expected to take part. It was
plain that he really must talk to the Captain. He rose and went slowly
down the avenue. A half-hour in Westways singularly relieved him.
Swallow was not at home, and Josiah, the cause of Mr. Grey's
perplexities, had certainly fled, nor did he learn that Mr. Woodburn
had already arrived.
He was now shamefully eager to escape that interview with the captain,
and relieved to find that there was no need to wait for the friend he had
brought to Westways on a vain errand. Returning to Grey Pine, he
explained to his cousin that letters from home made it necessary for him
to leave on the mid-afternoon train. Never did Ann Penhallow more
gratefully practise the virtue that speeds the parting guest. He was
sorry to miss the captain and would have the pleasure of sending him a
barrel of the best Maryland whisky; "and would you, my dear cousin, say,
in your delightful way, to the good rector how much I enjoyed his
conversation?"
Ann saw that the lunch was of the best and that the wagon was ready in
more than ample season. As he left, she expressed all the regret she
ought to have felt, and as the carriage disappeared at a turn of the
avenue she sank down in a chair. Then she rang a bell. "Take away that
thing," she said,--"that spittoon."
"If James Penhallow were here," she murmured, "I should ask him to
say--damn! I wonder now if that man Woodburn will come, and if there will
be a difficulty with James on my account." She sat long in thought,
waiting to greet her husband, while Mr. Grey was left impatient at the
station owing to the too hospitable desire of Ann to speed the parting
guest.
When about dusk the Squire rode along the road through Westways, he came
on the rector and dismounted, leaving his horse to be led home by Pole's
boy. "Glad to see you, Mark. How goes it; and how did you like Mr. Grey?"
"To tell you the truth, Squire, I did not like him. I was forced into a
talk about politics. We differed, as you may suppose. He was not quite
pleasant. He seemed to have been so mixed up with this sad business about
Josiah that I kept away at last, so that I might keep my temper. Billy
drove him to the station after lunch."
"Indeed!" said Penhallow, pleased that Grey had gone. It was news to him
and not unwelcome. Ann would no doubt explain. "What put Grey on the
track of Josiah as a runaway? Was it a mere accidental encounter?" He
desired to get some confirmatory information.
"No--I suspect not." Then he related what Josiah had told him of Peter's
threats. "I may do that reprobate injustice, but--However, that is all I
now know or feel justified in suspecting."
"Well, come up and dine to-day; we can talk it out after dinner."
"With pleasure," said Rivers.
Penhallow moodily walking up the street, his head bent in thought, was
made aware that he was almost in collision with Swallow and a large man
with a look of good-humoured amusement and the wide-open eyes and uplift
of brow expressive of pleasure and surprise.
"By George, Woodburn!" said the Squire. "I heard some one of your name
was here, but did not connect the name with you. I last heard of you as
in a wild mix-up with the Sioux, and I wished I was with you." As
Penhallow spoke the two men shook hands, Swallow meanwhile standing apart
not over-pleased as through the narrowed lids of near-sight he saw that
the two men must have known one another well and even intimately, for
Woodburn replied, "Thought you knew I'd left the army, Jim. The last five
years I've been running my wife's plantation in Maryland."
The Squire's pleasure at his encounter with an old West Point comrade for
a moment caused him to forget that this was the master who had been set
on Josiah's track by Grey. It was but for a moment. Then he drew up his
soldierly figure and said coldly, "I am sorry that you are here on what
cannot be a very agreeable errand."
"Oh!" said Woodburn cheerfully, "I came to get my old servant, Caesar. It
seems to have been a fool's errand. He has slipped away. I suppose that
Grey as usual talked too freely. But how the deuce does it concern you? I
see that it does."
Penhallow laughed. "He was my barber."
"And mine," said Woodburn. "If you have missed him, Jim, for a few days,
I have missed him for three years and more." Then both men laughed
heartily at their inequality of loss.
"I cannot understand why this fellow ran away. He was a man I trusted and
indulged to such an extent that my wife says I spoiled him. She says he
owned me quite as much as I owned him--a darned ungrateful cuss! I came
here pretty cross when I got George's letter, and now I hear of an amount
of hostile feeling which rather surprised me."
"That you are surprised, Will, surprises me," said Penhallow. "The
Fugitive-Slave Act will always meet with opposition at the North. It
seems made to create irritation even among people who really are not
actively hostile to slavery. If it became necessary to enforce it, I
believe that I would obey it, because it is the law--but it is making
endless trouble. May I ask what you propose to do about this present
case?"
"Do--oh, nothing! I am advised to employ detectives and hunt the man
down. I will not; I shall go home. It is not Mr. Swallow's advice."
"No, it is not," said the lawyer, who stood aside waiting a chance to
speak. "Some one warned the man, and it is pretty generally suspected how
he came to be told."
Penhallow turned to Woodburn, "Has Mr. Swallow ventured to connect me or
any of my family with this matter?"
"No," said Woodburn, which was true. Swallow meant to keep in reserve
Mrs. Penhallow's share in the escape until he learned how far an angry
slave-owner was disposed to go. Woodburn had, however, let him understand
that he was not of a mind to go further, and had paid in good-humour a
bill he thought excessive. Grey had made it all seem easy, and then as
Swallow now learned had gone away. He had also written to his own
overseer, and thus among their neighbours a strong feeling prevailed that
this was a case for prompt and easy action. The action had been prompt
and had failed. Woodburn was going home to add more bitterness to the
Southern sense of Northern injustice.
When Woodburn, much to Penhallow's relief, had said he was done with the
case, the Squire returned, "Then, as you are through with Mr. Swallow,
come home and dine with me. Where are you staying?"
"At Mr. Swallow's, but I leave by the night train."
"So soon! But come and dine. I will send for your bag and see that you
get to your train."
The prospect of Swallow and his feeble, overdressed wife, and his
comrade's urgency, decided Woodburn. He said, "Yes, if Mr. Swallow will
excuse me."
Swallow said, "Oh, of course!" relieved to be rid of a dissatisfied
client, and the two ex-soldiers went away together chatting of West Point
life.
Half-way up the avenue Penhallow said, "Before we go in, a word or two--"
"What is it, Jim?"
"That fellow said nothing of Mrs. Penhallow, you are sure?"
"Yes," returned Woodburn, "not a word. I knew that you lived here, but
neither of you nor of Mrs. Penhallow did he say a word in connection with
this business. I meant to look you up this afternoon. Why do you speak of
your wife?"
"Because--well--I could not let you join us without an honest word
concerning what I was sure you would have heard from Swallow. Now if you
had taken what I presume was his advice--to punish the people concerned
in warning Josiah, you--indeed I--might hesitate--"
"What do you mean, Jim?" said his companion much amazed.
"I mean this: After our loose-tongued friend Grey told my wife that
Josiah was in danger, she sent him word of the risk he ran, and then drew
out of our bank for him his savings and enabled him to get away. Now
don't say a word until I have done. Listen! This man turned up here over
three years ago and was soon employed about my stables. He broke his leg
in stopping a runaway and saved my wife's young niece, our adopted child,
Leila Grey. There was some other kind and efficient service. That's all.
Now, can you dine with me?"
"With all my heart, Jim. Damn Grey! Did he talk much?"
"Did he? No, he gabbled. But are you satisfied?"
"Yes, Jim. I am sorry I drove off your barber--and I shall hold my tongue
when I get home--as far as I can."
"Then come. I have some of my father's Madeira, if Grey has left any. I
shall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow. By George! I am glad to have you."
Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even
elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get
ready to dine. He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with
the new guest. Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who having
heard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of the
cordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.
The dinner was pleasant and unembarrassed. The lad whom events had
singularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk of
cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished
in our unrighteous war with Mexico. When now and then the talk became
quite calmly political, Ann listened to the good-natured debate and was
longing to speak her mind. She was, however, wisely silent, and reflected
half amused that she had lost the right to express herself on the
question which was making politics ill-tempered but was now being
discussed at her table with such well-bred courtesy. John soon ceased to
follow the wandering talk, and feeling what for him had the charm of
romance in the flight of Josiah sat thinking over the scene of the
warning at night, the scared fugitive in the cabin, and the lonely voyage
down through the darkness of the rapids of the river. Where would the man
go? Would they ever see him again? They were to meet in far-away days and
in hours far more perilous. Then he was caught once more by gay stories
of adventures on the plains and memories of Indian battles, until the
wine had been drunk and the Squire took his friend to the library for an
hour.