Westways: A Village Chronicle Part 23

"No, I must go. I am pleased to find you so much better."

"Thank you, sir. I don't want whisky now. I'll be fit for work in a week or so. I wonder what I did say to Josiah?"

This was a little too much for Rivers's patience. "Whatever you said had better never be said again or you will find yourself in very serious trouble with Mr. Penhallow."

"Why, Mr. Rivers, I know I drink, and then I'm not responsible, but how could I say to that poor old darkey what I don't mind I said yesterday?"

"Well, you may chance to remember," said Rivers; "at least I have done my duty in warning you."

"I'd like, sir," returned Lamb, leaning forward with his head bent and uplift of lids over watchful eyes-"Oh, I want you to know how much I thank you, sir, for all your kind-"

"You may credit the Squire for that. Good-bye," and he went out.

Neither man had been in the least deceived, but the honours of the game were with the big man in the bed, which creaked under his weight as he fell back grinning in pleased self-approval. "d.a.m.n that black cuss," he muttered, "and the preacher too. I'll make them sorry."

At the outer doorstep Mark Rivers stood still and wiped the sweat from his forehead. There must be minutes in the life of the most spiritually minded clergyman when to bow a little in the Rimmon House of the G.o.ds of profane language would be a relief. He may have had the thought, for he smiled self-amused and remembered his friend Grace. Then he took himself to task, reflecting that he should have been more gently kind, and was there not some better mode of approaching this man? Was he not a spirit in prison, as St. Peter said? What right had he with his beliefs to despair of any human soul? Then he dismissed the matter and went home to his uncompleted sermon. He would have to tell the Squire; yes, that would be advisable.

The days at Grey Pine ran on in the routine of lessons, riding, and the pleasure for John of representing his uncle in the oversight of the young thoroughbred colts and the stables. Brief talks with Rivers of books and politics filled the after-dinner hour, and when he left John fell with eagerness on the newspapers of the day. His uncle's mail he forwarded to Pittsburgh, and heard from him that he would not return until mid-October. His aunt would be at home about the 8th, and Leila was now at her school. The boy felt the unaccustomed loneliness, and most of all the absence of Leila. One letter for his aunt lay on the hall table. It came too late to be sent on its way, nor had she asked to have letters forwarded.

Two days before her return was to be expected, when John came down dressed for dinner, he found Mr. Rivers standing with his back to a fire, which the evening coolness of October in the hills made desirable. The rector was smiling.

"Mr. George Grey came just after you went upstairs. It seems that he wrote to your aunt the letter on the table in the hall. As no one met him at Westways Crossing, he was caught in a shower and pretty well soaked before he got some one to bring him to Grey Pine. I think he feels rather neglected."

"Has he never been here before?" asked John, curious in regard to the guest who he thought, from hearing his aunt speak of him, must be a person of importance.

"No, not for a long while. He is only a second cousin of Mrs. Penhallow; but as all Greys are for her-well, the Greys-we must do our best to make it pleasant for him until your aunt and uncle return."

"Of course," said John, with some faint feeling that it was needless to remind him, his uncle's representative, of his duties as the host. Rivers said, smiling, "It may not be easy to amuse Mr. Grey. I did not tell you that your aunt wrote me, she will not be here until the afternoon train on the 9th. Ah! here is Mr. Grey."

John was aware of a neatly built, slight man in middle life, clad in a suit of dark grey. He came down the stairs in a leisurely way. "Not much of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling face.

John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow, sir. I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day."

"It is all right-all right. Rather chilly ride. Less moisture outside and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present, if I may take the liberty."

Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I think, John, Mr. Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him some of your uncle's rye."

"Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the Maryland gentleman meant.

Mr. Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand, "Peach-flavoured, sir. Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste. As Mr. Clay once remarked, the mellowing years, sir, have refined it."

"Dinner is ready," said John.

There was no necessity to entertain Mr. Grey. He talked at length, what James Penhallow later described as "grown-up prattle." Horses, the crops, and at length the proper methods of fining wine-a word of encouragement from Rivers set him off again. Meanwhile the dinner grew cold on his plate. At last, abruptly conscious of the lingering meal, Mr. Grey said, "This comes, sir, of being in too interesting society."

Was this mere quaint humour, thought Rivers; but when Grey added, "I should have said, sir, too interested company," he began to wonder at the self-absorption of what was evidently a provincial gentleman. At last, with "Your very good health!" he took freely of the captain's Madeira.

Rivers, who sipped a single gla.s.s slowly, was about to rise when to his amus.e.m.e.nt, using his uncle's phrase, John said, "My uncle thinks that Madeira and tobacco do not go well together; you may like to smoke in the library."

Grey remarked, "Quite right, as Henry Clay once said, 'There is nothing as melancholy as the old age of a dinner; who, sir, shall p.r.o.nounce its epitaph?' That, sir, I call eloquence. No more wine, thank you." As he spoke, he drew a large Cabana from his waistcoat pocket and lighted it from one of the candles on the table.

Rivers remarked, "We will find it warmer in the library."

When the two men settled down to pipe or cigar at the library fire, John, who had felt the role of host rather difficult, was eager to get a look at the Tribune which lay invitingly on the table, and presently caught the eye of Mr. Grey.

"I see you have the Tribune" he said. "A mischief-making paper-devilish. I presume Penhallow takes it to see what the other side has to say. Very wise, sir, that."

Rivers, unwilling to announce his friend's political opinions, said, smiling, "I must leave Mr. Penhallow to account for that wicked journal."

Grey sat up with something like the alert look of a suddenly awakened terrier on his thin face. "I presume the captain (he spoke of him usually as the captain) must be able to control a good many votes in the village and at the iron-works."

"I rather fancy," said Rivers, "that he has taken no active part in the coming election."

"Unnecessary, perhaps. It is, I suppose, like my own county. We haven't a dozen free-soil voters. 'Bleeding Kansas' is a dead issue with us. It is bled to death, politically dead, sir, and buried."

"Not here," said John imprudently. "Uncle James says Buchanan will carry the State by a small majority, but he may not carry this county."

"Then he should see to it," said Grey. "Elect Fremont, my boy, and the Union will go to pieces. Does the North suppose we will endure a sectional President? No, sir, it would mean secession-the death-knell of the Union. Sir, we may be driven to more practical arguments by the scurrilous speeches of the abolitionists. It is an attack on property, on the ownership of the inferior race by the supremely superior. That is the vital question."

He spoke with excitement and gesticulated as if at a political meeting.

Mark Rivers, annoyed, felt a strong inclination to box John's ears. He took advantage of the pause to say, "Would you like a little more rye, Mr. Grey?"

"Why, yes, sir. I confess to being a trifle dry. But to resume our discussion-"

"Pardon me. John, ask for the whisky."

To John this was interesting and astonishing. He had never heard talk as wild. The annoyance on Rivers's face was such as to be easily read by the least observant. Elsewhere Mr. Rivers would have had a ready answer, but as Grey sat still a little while enjoying his own eloquence, the fire and the whisky, Rivers's slight negative hint informed John that he was to hold his tongue.

As the clergyman turned to speak to Grey, the latter said, "I wish to add a word more, sir. You will find that the men at the South cling to State rights; if these do not preserve for me and others my property and the right, sir, to take my body-servant to Boston or Kansas, sure that he will be as secure as my-my-shirt-studs, State rights are of no practical use."

"You make it very plain," said Rivers, feeling at last that he must defend his own opinions. "I have myself a few words to say-but, is that all?"

"Not quite-not quite. I am of the belief that the wants of the Southern States should be considered, and the demand for their only possible labour considered. I would re-open the slave-trade. I may shock you, reverend sir, but that is my opinion."

"And, as I observe," said Rivers, "that also of some governors of States." He disliked being addressed as "reverend," and knew how Penhallow would smile when captained.

There was a brief silence, what Rivers used to call the punctuation value of the pipe. The Maryland gentleman was honestly clear in the statement of his political creed, and Rivers felt some need to be amiable and watchful of his own words in what he was longing to say. John listened, amazed. He had had his lesson in our history from two competent masters and was now intensely interested as he listened to the ultimate creed of the owner of men.

Grey had at last given up the cigar he had lighted over and over and let go out as often. He set down his empty gla.s.s, and said with perfect courtesy, "I may have been excessive in statement. I beg pardon for having spoken of, or rather hinted at, the need for a resort to arms. That is never a pleasant hint among gentlemen. I should like to hear how this awful problem presents itself to you, a clergyman of, sir, I am glad to know, my own church."

"Yes, that is always pleasant to hear," said Rivers. "There at least we are on common ground. I dislike these discussions, Mr. Grey, but I cannot leave you without a reply, although in this house (and he meant the hint to have its future usefulness) politics are rarely discussed."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Grey. "At home we talk little else. I do believe the watermelons and the pumpkins talk politics."

Rivers smiled. "I shall reply to you, of course. It will not be a full answer. I want to say that this present trouble is not a quarrel born within the memory of any living man. The colonial life began with colonial differences and aversions due to religion-Puritan, Quaker and Church of England, intercolonial tariffs and what not. For the planter-cla.s.s we were mere traders; they for us were men too lightly presumed to live an idle life of gambling, sport and hard drinking-a life foreign to ours. The colonies were to one another like foreign countries. In the Revolution you may read clearly the effect of these opinions, when Washington expressed the wish that his officers would forget that they came from Connecticut or Virginia, and remember only they were Americans."

Grey said, "We did our share, sir."

"Yes, but all Washington's important generals were Northern men; but that is not to the point. Washington put down the whisky-tax revolt with small regard for State rights. The Const.i.tution unhappily left those State rights in a condition to keep up old differences. That is clear, I regret to say. Then came the tariff and a new seed of dissension. Slavery and its growing claims added later mischief, but it was not the only cause of our troubles, nor is it to-day with us, although it is with you, the largest. We have tried compromises. They are of the history of our own time, familiar to all of us. Well, Mr. Grey, the question is shall we submit to the threat of division, a broken land and its consequences?-one moment and I have done. I am filled with gloom when I look forward. When nations differ, treaties or time, or what not, may settle disputes; too often war. But, Mr. Grey, never are radical, civil or religious differences settled without the sword, if I have read history aright. You see," and he smiled, "I could not let pa.s.s your hint without a word."

"If it comes to that-to war," said Grey, "we would win. In that belief lies the certainty I dread."

"Ah! sir, in that Southern belief lies the certainty I too dread. You think we live merely lives of commerce. You do not realise that there is with us a profound sentiment of affection for the Union. No people worth anything ever lived without the very human desire of national self-preservation. It has the force of a man's personal desire for self-preservation. Pardon me, I suppose that I have the habit of the sermon."