As the trains went northward crowded with more or less damaged officers
and men, John Penhallow in his faded engineer uniform showed signs of
renewed vitality. He chatted in his old companionable way with the other
home-bound volunteers, and as they went through Baltimore related to
McGregor with some merriment his bloodless duel with Mrs. Penhallow's
Rebel brother Henry. The doctor watched him with the most friendly
satisfaction and with such pride as a florist may have in his prospering
flowers. The colour of health was returning to the pale face and there
was evidently relief from excessive pain. He heard, too, as they chatted,
of John's regrets that his simple engineer dress was not as neat as he
would have desired and of whether his aunt would dislike it. Wearing the
station of Westways Crossing, John fell into a laughing account of his
first arrival and of the meeting with Leila. The home-tonic was of use
and he was glad with gay gladness that the war was over.
As the train stopped, he said as he got out, "There is no carriage--you
telegraphed, McGregor?"
"Yes, I did, but the service is, I fancy, snowed under just now with
messages. I will walk on and have them send for you."
"No," said John, "I am quite able to walk. Come along."
"Are you really able?"
"Yes--we'll take it easy."
"There isn't much left of you to carry what remains."
"My legs are all right, Tom." He led the way through the woods until they
came out on the avenue. "Think of it, Tom,--it is close to nine years
since first I left Grey Pine for the Point."
In the afternoon of this sunny day late in April the Colonel sat on the
porch with his wife. Below them on the step Rivers was reading aloud the
detailed account of Lincoln's death. Leila coming out of the house was
first to see the tall thin figure in dark undress uniform. She was
thankful for an unwatched moment of ability to gain entire self-command.
It was needed. She helped herself by her cry of joyous recognition.
"Aunt Ann! Aunt Ann!" she cried, "there is Dr. McGregor and--and John and
Josiah." The aunt cast a look of anxiety at the expressionless face of
James Penhallow, as he rose to his feet, saying, "Why wasn't I told?"
"We did not know, sir," said Rivers, dropping the paper as he went down
the steps to meet the new-comer.
Then the wasted figure with the left arm in a sling was in Ann
Penhallow's embrace.
"My God!" he said, "but it's good to be at home." As he spoke he turned
to the Colonel who had risen.
"Got hit, John? It runs in the family. Once had a Sioux arrow through my
arm. Glad to see you. Want to be fed up a bit. Lord! but you're lean." He
said no more, but sat down again without appearance of interest.
Rivers made John welcome with a pleasant word, and Leila coming forward
took his hand, saying quietly, "We hardly looked for you to-day, but it
is none too soon." Then she turned to McGregor, "We have much to thank
you for. You will stay to dine?"
John, still too sensitive, was troubled as he realized his uncle's
condition, and felt that there was something in Leila's manner which was
unlike that of the far-remembered Leila of other days. She had urged
McGregor to stay and dine, and then added, "But, of course, that pleasure
must wait--you will want to see your father. He is so proud of you--as we
all are."
"That is a pleasant welcome, Miss Leila; and, dear Mrs. Penhallow, I do
not want a carriage, I prefer to walk. I will see you, John, and that
lame arm to-morrow. Good-bye, Colonel."
The master of Grey Pine said, "Nice young man! Ann ought to kill the
fatted calf. Tell John not to be late for dinner."
"It is all right, James," said Mrs. Ann, "all right."
Rivers watched with pain the vacant face of the Colonel. This mental
failure constantly recalled the days of anguish when with despair he had
seen all who were dear to him one after another die mentally before their
merciful exit from life.
"John must be tired," he said. Leila, who noted on the young soldier's
face the effect of sudden realization of his useless state said, "Your
room is ready, John."
"Yes," said John, "I should like to rest before dinner."
With a word as to the fatigue of his journey, Leila followed him into the
well-remembered hall.
"Good heavens, Leila. It seems an age since I was here. Send up Josiah.
I am like a baby and need him to help me."
She looked after him pitifully as he went up the stairs. "Surely," she
thought, "we have paid dearly our debt to the country."
He came down at six o'clock, still in his undress uniform, but thinking
that his aunt would not like it. In a day or two he would have the
civilian clothes he had ordered in Philadelphia. He need have had no such
anxiety; she was indifferent to all but her husband, who sat at table
speechless, while Leila and John too consciously manufactured talk of the
home and the mills--and the ending of the war. After the meal Ann began
her patient efforts to interest the Colonel with a game of cards and then
of backgammon. It seemed only to make him irritable, and he said at last,
"I think I must go to bed."
"Certainly, dear." She went with him upstairs, saying, "Good-night,
children."
"She will not return, John. This is what goes on day after day."
"It is very sad--I did not fully comprehend his condition."
"He is often far worse, and complains of his head or is resolutely--I
should say obstinately--bent on some folly, such as walking to the mills
and advising them. Aunt Ann never contradicts him--what he wants, she
wants. Not the most reasonable opposition is of any use."
"Does he never ride, Leila?"
"Never, and is vexed when Dr. McGregor calls to see him and advises a
consultation. Once we had a distressing outbreak."
"And yet," said John, "there should have been other advice long ago.
Somehow there must be."
"Mr. Rivers has urged it and made him angry; as for Aunt Ann, she sees
only the bright side of his case and humours him as she would a sick
child."
"She is greatly changed, Leila. I hardly know how to state it. She has a
look of--well, of something spiritual in her face."
"Yes, that is true. Are you in pain, John?" she added.
"Yes--not in great pain, but enough. For two weeks I did suffer
horribly."
"John! Oh, my poor Jack! We never knew--is it so bad?"
"Yes, imagine a toothache in your elbow with a variety of torments in the
whole arm."
"I can't imagine. I never had a toothache--in fact, I hardly know the
sensation of serious pain."
"Well, I broke down under it, Leila. I became depressed and quite
foolishly hopeless. Some day I will tell you what helped me out of a
morass of melancholy."
"Tell me now."
"No, I must go to bed. I am getting better and will get off with a stiff
elbow, so Tom says. At first they talked of amputation. That was awful.
Good-night!"
It was none too soon. She was still unsure of herself, and although no
word of tender approach had disturbed her as he talked, and she was glad
of that, the tense look of pain, the reserve of his hospital confession
of suffering nearly broke down her guarded attitude. As he passed out of
view at the turn of the stairs, she murmured, "Oh, if only Uncle Jim were
well."
Josiah came at the call of the bell. She detained him. She asked, "How
was the Captain wounded? No one wrote of how it happened."
"Well, missy, he would ride a horse called Hoodoo--it was just the bad
luck of that brute done it." Josiah's account was graphic and clear
enough. John Penhallow's character lost nothing as interpreted by Josiah.
"It was a dangerous errand, I suppose."
"Yes, Miss Leila. You see, when they know about a man that he somehow
don't mind bullets and will go straight to where he's sent, they're very
apt to get him killed. At the first shot he ought to have tumbled off and
played possum till it was dark."
"But then," said Leila, "he would have been too late with General Parke's
message."
"Of course, Master John couldn't sham dead like I would.--I don't despise
bullets like he does. Once before he had orders to go somewhere, and
couldn't get across a river. He was as mad as a wet hen."
"A wet hen--delightful! Did he do it?"
"Guess you don't know him! When Master John wants anything, well, he's a
terrible wanter--always was that way even when he was a boy--when he
wants anything, he gets it."
"Indeed! does he? I think he is waiting for you, Josiah."
The black's conclusive summary hardened the young woman's heart. She sat
a while smiling, then took up a book and failed to become interested.
As John became familiar with the altered life of a household once happy
and in pleasant relation to the outer world, he felt as Leila had done
the depressing influence of a home in which the caprices of an invalid
life were constantly to be considered. Meanwhile his own spare figure
gained flesh, and on one sunny morning--he long remembered it--he was
rather suddenly free from pain, and with only the stiff elbow was, as
McGregor described it, "discharged cured."
For some time he had been feeling that in bodily vigour and sense of
being his normal self he had been rapidly gaining ground. The relief from
the thraldom of pain brought a sudden uplift of spirits and a feeling of
having been born anew into an inheritance of renewed strength and of
senses sharpened beyond what he had ever known. A certain activity of
happiness like a bodily springtime comes with such a convalescence.
Ceasing to feel the despotism of self-attention, he began to recover his
natural good sense and to watch with more care his uncle's state, his
aunt's want of consideration for any one but James Penhallow, and the
effect upon Leila of this abnormal existence. He began to understand that
to surely win this sad girl-heart there must be a patient siege, and
above all something done for the master of Grey Pine. He recognized with
love's impatience the beauty of this young life amid the difficulties of
the Colonel's moods and Ann Penhallow's ill-concealed jealousy. A great
passion may be a very selfish thing, or in the nobler natures rise so
high on the wings of love that it casts like the singing lark no shadow
on the earth. He could wait and respect with patient affection the sense
of duty which perhaps--ah! that perhaps--made love a thing which must
wait--yes, and wait too with helpful service where she too had nobly
served.
When the day came for his first venture on a horse and he rode through
the young leafage of June, no enterprise seemed impossible. How could he
be of use to her and these dear people to whom he owed so much? War had
been costly, but it had taught him that devotion to the duty of the hour
which is one of the best lessons of that terrible schoolmaster. There
was, as he saw every day, no overruling common sense in the household of
Grey Pine, and no apparent possibility of reasonable control. Just now it
was worse than ever, and he meant to talk it over with the two McGregors.
With Josiah riding behind him, he left a message here and there in the
village, laughing and jesting, with a word of sympathy where the war had
left its cruel memories. He had been in the little town very often since
his return, but never before when free from pain or with the pleasant
consciousness that he had it in his power to be to these friends of his
childhood what the Colonel had been. He talked to Joe Grace, left a
message for Pole's son, and then rode on to his appointment.
He sat down with father and son in the unchanged surroundings of the
untidy office; even the flies were busy as before on the old man's
tempting bald head.
"Well, John," said the doctor, "what's up now? The Squire won't see me at
all." Tom sat still and listened.
"There are two things to consider, and I want your advice; but, first, I
want to say that there is no head to that family. I wonder how Leila
stands it. I mean that your advice shall be taken about a consultation
with Prof. Askew."
"You want my advice? Do you, indeed! Mrs. Penhallow will ask the
Colonel's opinion, he will swear, and the matter is at an end."
"I mean to have that consultation," said John. Tom laughed and nodded
approval.
"It's no use, John, none," said the older man.
"We shall see about that. Do you approve?--that is my question."
"If that's the form of advice you want, why, of course--yes--but count me
out."
"Count me in, John," said the younger surgeon. "I know what Askew will
say and what should have been done long ago."
"An operation?" asked his father.
"Yes, sir, an operation."
"Too late!"
"Well," said John, "he gets no worse; a week or two will make no
difference, I presume."
"None," said Dr. McGregor.
"It may," said Tom.
"Well, it may have to wait. Just now there is a very serious question.
Aunt Ann made last night the wild suggestion that the Colonel might be
amused if we had one of those rummage-sales with which she used to
delight the village. Uncle Jim at once declared it to be the thing he
would like best. Aunt Ann said we must see about it at once. Her
satisfaction in finding an amusement which the Colonel fancied was really
childlike. Leila said nothing, nor did I. In fact, the proposal came
about when I happened unluckily to say what a fine chance Uncle Sam had
for a rummage-sale after a forced march or a fight. I recall having said
much the same thing long ago in a letter to Leila."
"Then there's nothing to be done just now, John," remarked Tom McGregor,
"but I cannot conceive of anything more likely to affect badly a
disordered brain."
The older man was silent until John asked, "Is it worth while to talk to
Aunt Ann about it--advise against it?"
"Quite useless, John. I advise you and Leila quietly to assist your aunt,
and like as not the Colonel may forget all about it in a day or two."
"No, Doctor. To-day he had Billy up with him in the attic bringing down
whatever he can find, useful or useless."
With little satisfaction from this talk, John rode homeward. Sitting in
the saddle at the post-office door, he called for the mail. Mrs. Crocker,
of undiminished bulk and rosiness, came out.
"How's your arm, Captain? I bet it's more use than mine. The rheumatism
have took to permanent boarding in my right shoulder--and no glory like
you got to show for it."
"I could do without the glory."
"No, you couldn't. If I was a man, I'd be glad to swap; you've got to
make believe a bit, but the town's proud of you. I guess some one will
soon have to look after them Penhallow mills." Mrs. Crocker put a
detaining hand on his bridle reins.
"Yes, yes," said John absently, glancing well pleased over a kind letter
of inquiry from General Parke. "Well, what else, Mrs. Crocker?"
"The Colonel quite give me a shock this morning. He's not been here--no,
not once--since he came home. Well, he walked in quite spry and told me
there was to be a rummage-sale in a week, and I was to put up a notice
and tell everybody. Why, Mr. John, he was that natural. He went away
laughing because I offered to sell my old man--twenty-five cents a
pound. I did notice he don't walk right."
"Yes, I have noticed that; but this notion of a rummage-sale has seemed
to make him better. Now, suppose you let my reins go."
"Oh, Mr. John, don't be in such a hurry. It's surely a responsible place,
this post-office; I don't ever get time for a quiet talk."
"Well, Mrs. Crocker, now is your chance."
"That's real good of you. I was wanting to ask if you ever heard anything
of Peter Lamb. He wrote to his mother he was in the army, and then that
was the end of it. She keeps on writing once a week, and the letters come
back stamped 'not found.' I guess he's wandering somewhere."
"Like enough. I went to see her last week, but I could not give her any
comfort. She couldn't have a worse thing happen than for Peter to come
home."
"Well, Captain John, when you come to have babies of your own, you'll
find mothers are a curious kind of animal."
"Mothers!" laughed John. "I hope there won't be more than one. Now, I
really must go."
"Oh, just one more real bit of news. Lawyer Swallow's wife was here
yesterday with another man to settle up her husband's business."
"Is he dead?"
"They say so, but you can't believe everything you hear. Now, don't
hurry. What most killed Swallow was just this: He hated Pole like poison,
and when he got a five hundred dollar mortgage-grip on Pole's pasture
meadow, he kept that butcher-man real uneasy. When you were all away,
Swallow began to squeeze--what those lawyers call 'foreclose.' It's
just some lawyer word for robbery."
"It's pretty bad, Mrs. Crocker, but two people are waiting for you and
this isn't exactly Government business."
"Got to hear the end, Captain."
"I suppose so--what next?" Dixy wondered why the spur touched him even
lightly.
"Pole, he told Mrs. Penhallow all about it, and she wasn't as glad to
help her meat-man as she was to bother Swallow, so she took over the
mortgage. When the Squire first came home from Washington and wasn't like
he was later, she told him, of course. Now everybody knows Pole's ways,
and so the Squire he says to me--he was awful amused--'Mrs. Crocker, I
asked Mrs. Penhallow how Pole was going to pay her.' She said she did put
that at Pole, and he said it wouldn't take long to eat up that debt at
Grey Pine. He wouldn't have dared to speak like that to your aunt if she
hadn't got to be so meek-like, what with war and bother." By this time
Dixy was with reason displeased and so restless that Mrs. Crocker let the
reins drop, but as John Penhallow rode away she cried, "The price of
meats at Grey Pine has been going up ever since, until Miss Leila--" The
rest was lost to the Captain. He rode away laughing as he reflected on
what share of Pole's debt he was to devour.