Westways: A Village Chronicle Part 26

"Got a new fis.h.i.+ng-rod," said Billy, but to John's amus.e.m.e.nt 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 gla.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 G.o.d, 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."