Westways: A Village Chronicle Part 42

"And I have none," she returned, smiling. "Mr. Rivers dislikes it. He wrote to me about it just before he left. Do you know, he did really think that you ought to be a clergyman. He said you were so serious-minded for-for a boy."

John laughed, "nice clergyman I'd have made." Did Leila too consider him a boy? "Oh! here we are at the old cabin. I never forget the first day we came here-and the graves. The older I grow, Leila, the more clearly I can see the fight and the rifle-flashes, and the rescue-and the night-I can feel their terror."

"Oh, we were mere children, John; and I do suppose that it is a pretty well decorated tradition." He looked at her with surprise, as she added, "I used to believe it all, now it seems strange to me, John-like a dream of childhood. I think you really are a good deal of a boy yet."

"No, I am not a boy. I sometimes fancy I never was a boy-I came here a child." And then, "I think you like to tease me, Leila," and this was true, although she was not pleased to be told so. "You think, Leila, that it teases me to be called a boy by your ladyship. I think it is because you remember what a boy once said to you here-right here."

"What do you mean?" She knew very well what he meant, but quickly repenting of her feminine fib, said, "Oh, I do know, but I wanted to forget-I wanted to pretend to forget, because you know what friends we have been, and it was really so foolish."

He had been lying at her feet; now he rose slowly. "You are not like my Leila to-day."

"Oh, John!"

"No-and it is hard, because I am going away-and-it will not be pleasant to think how you are changed."

"I wish you wouldn't say such things to me, John."

"I had to-because-I love you. If I was a boy when I was, as you say, silly, I was in earnest. It was nonsense to ask you, to say you would marry me some day. It wasn't so very long ago after all; but I agree with you, it was foolish. Now I mean to make no such proposal."

"Please, John." She looked up at him as he stood over her so grave, so earnest-and so like Uncle Jim. For the time she got the fleeting impression of this being a man.

He hardly heard her appeal. "I want to say now that I love you." For a moment the 'boy's will, the wind's will,' blew a gale. "I love you and I always shall. Some day I shall ask you that foolish question again, and again."

She too was after all very young and had been playing a bit at being a woman. Now his expression of pa.s.sion embarra.s.sed her-because she had no answer ready; nor was it all entirely disagreeable.

He stood still a moment, and added, "That is all-I ask nothing now."

Then she stood up, having to say something and unwilling to hurt him-wanting not to say too much or too little, and ending by a childlike reply. "Oh, John, I do wish you would never say such things to me. I am too young to listen to such nonsense."

"And I am young too," he laughed. "Well-well-let us go home and confess like children."

"Now I know you are a fool, John Penhallow, and very disagreeable."

"When we were ever so young, Leila, and we quarrelled, we used to agree not to speak to one another for a day. Are you cross enough for that now?"

"No, I am not; but I want to feel sure that you will not say such things to me again."

"I make no promise, Leila; I should break it. If I gave you a boy's love, forget it, laugh at it; but if I give you a man's love, take care."

This odd drama-girl and woman, boy and maturing man-held the stage; now one, now the other.

"Take care, indeed!" she said, repeating his words and turning on him with sudden ungraciousness, "I think we have had enough of this nonsense."

She was in fact the more disturbed of the two, and knowing it let anger loose to chase away she knew not what, which was troubling her with emotion she could neither entirely control nor explain later as the result of what seemed to her mere foolishness. If he was himself disturbed by his storm of primitive pa.s.sion, he did not show it as she did.

"Yes," he said in reply, "we have had for the present enough of this-enough talk, I mean-"

"We!" she exclaimed.

"Leila! do you want me to apologize?"

"No."

"Then-let us get those roses for Aunt Ann-what are left of them."

She was glad to escape further discussion-not sure of her capacity to keep in order this cousin who was now so young and now so alarmingly old. His abrupt use of self-control she recognised-liked and then disliked, for a little wrath in his reply would have made her feel more at ease. With well-rea.s.sumed good-humour, she said, "Now you are my nice old playmate, but never, never bother me that way again."

"Yes, ma'am," said John, laughing. "I can hear Aunt Ann say, 'Run, dears, and get me flowers-and-there will be cakes for you.'"

"No, bread and apple-b.u.t.ter, John." They went along merry, making believe to be at ease.

"The robins are gone," said Leila. "I haven't seen one today; and the warblers are getting uneasy and will be gone soon. I haven't seen a squirrel lately. Josiah used to say that meant an early winter."

"Oh, but the asters! What colour! And the golden-rod! Look at it close, Leila. Each little flower is a star of gold."

"How pretty!" She bent down over the flowers to pay the homage of honest pleasure. "How you always see, John, so easily, the pretty little wild beauties of the woods; I never could." She was "making up" as children say.

"Oh, you were the schoolmaster once," he laughed. "Come, we have enough; now for the garden."

They pa.s.sed through the paling fence and along the disordered beds, where a night of too early frost had touched with chill fingers of disaster the latest buds. Leila moved about looking at the garden, fingering a bud here and there with gentle epitaphs of "late," "too late," or gathering the more matronly roses which had bloomed in time. John watched her bend over them, and then where there were none but frost-wilted buds stand still and fondle with tender touch the withered maidens of the garden.

He came to her side, "Well, Leila, I'll swap thoughts with you."

She looked up, "Your's first then."

"I was thinking it must be hard to die before you came to be a rose-like some other more human things."

"Is that a charade, John? You will be writing poems about the lament of the belated virgin roses that had not gathered more timely sunshine and were alas! too late."

He looked at her with a smile of pleased surprise. "Thanks, cousin; it is you who should be the laureate of the garden. Sh.e.l.ley would envy you."

"Indeed! I am flattered, sir, but I have not read any of Sh.e.l.ley as yet. You have, I suppose? He is supposed to be very wicked. Get me some more golden-rod, John." He went back to the edge of the wood and came again laden, rejoining her at the porch.

For two days her aunt kept her busy. Early in the week she went away to be met in Philadelphia by her Uncle Charles, and to be returned to her Maryland school.

A day or two later John too left to undergo the dreaded examination at West Point. The two older people were left alone at Grey Pine with the rector, who had returned from his annual holiday later than usual. Always depressed at these seasons, he was now indisposed for the society of even the two people who were his most valued friends. He dined with them the day John went away and took up the many duties of his clerical life, until as was his custom, a week later he came in smiling for the Sat.u.r.day dinner, saying, "Well, here comes the old house-dog for his bone."

They made him welcome as gaily. "Has the town wickedness acc.u.mulated in your absence, Mark?" said Penhallow.

"Mine has," said Ann Penhallow, "but I never confess except to myself."

"Ann Penhallow might be a severe confessor," said Rivers as they sat down. "How you must miss John and Leila. I shall most sadly."

"Oh, for my part," said Ann, "I have made up my mind not to lament the inevitable, but my husband is like a lost dog and-oh!-heart-hungry for Leila, and worried about that boy's examination-his pa.s.sing."

"Have I said a word?" said the Squire indignantly. "Pa.s.s! Of course, he will pa.s.s."

"No one doubts that, James; but you are afraid he will not be near the top."

"You are a witch, Ann. How did you know that?"