Westways: A Village Chronicle Part 10

"Well, after the election things will quiet down, as usual."

"They will not, Mark. I know the South. Unhappily they think we live by the creed of day-book and ledger. We as surely misunderstand them, and G.o.d alone knows what the future holds for us."

This was unusual talk for Penhallow. He thought much, but talked little, and his wife's resolute att.i.tude of opinions held from youth was the one trouble of an unusually happy life.

"We can only hope for the best," said Rivers. "Time is a great peacemaker."

"Or not," returned his host as Rivers rose. "Just a word, Mark, before you go. I am desirous that you should not misunderstand me in regard to my politics. I see that slavery is to be more and more in question. My own creed is, 'let it alone, obey the laws, return the runaways,-oh! whether you like it or not,-but no more slave territory.' And for me, my friend, the States are one country and above all else, above slave questions, is that of an unbroken union. I shall vote for Fremont. I cannot go to party meetings and speak for him because, Mark, I am in doubt about the man, and because-oh! you know."

Yes, he knew more or less, but knowing did not quite approve. The Squire of Grey Pine rarely spoke at length, but now he longed, as he gave some further clue to his reticence, to make public a political creed which was not yet so fortified by the logic of events as to be fully capable of defence.

"The humorous side of it," he said, "is that my very good wife has been doing some pretty ardent electioneering while I am sitting still, because to throw my weight into the local contest would oblige me to speak out and declare my whole political religion of which I am not quite secure enough to talk freely."

The young rector looked at his older friend, who was uneasy between his uncertain sense of duty and his desire not to go among people at the mills and in the town and struggle with his wife for votes.

"I may, Mark, I may do no more than let it be known how I shall vote.

That is all. It will be of use. I could wish to do more. I think that here and at the mills the feeling is rather strong for Buchanan, but why I cannot see."

Mrs. Ann had been really active, and her constant kindness at the mills and in the little town gave to her wishes a certain influential force among these isolated groups of people who in their remoteness had not been disturbed by the aggressive policy of the South.

"Of course, Mark, my change of opinion will excite remark. Whoever wins, I shall be uneasy about the future. Must you go? Good-night."

He went to the hall door with the rector, and then back to his pipe, dismissing the subject for the time. On his return, he found John in the library looking at the sword hanging over the mantelpiece. "Well, Jack," he said, "a penny for your thoughts."

"Oh; I was thinking what the sword had seen."

"I hope it will see no more, but it may-it may. Now I want to say a word to you. You had a fight with Tom McGregor and got the worst of it."

"I did."

"I do not ask why. You seem to have shown some pluck."

"I don't know, uncle. I was angry, and I just slapped his face. He deserved it."

"Very well, but never slap. I suppose that is the French schoolboy way of fighting. Hit hard-get in the first blow."

"Yes, sir. I hadn't a chance."

"You must take my old cadet boxing-gloves from under the sword. I have spoken to Sam, the groom. I saw him last year in a bout with the butcher's boy. After he has knocked you about for a month, you will be better able to take care of the Penhallow nose."

"I shall like that."

"You won't, but it will help to fill out your chest." Then he laughed, "Did you ever get that cane?"

"No, sir. Billy found it. Leila gave him twenty-five cents for it, and now she won't give it to me."

"Well, well, is that so? The ways of women are strange."

"I don't see why she keeps it, uncle."

"Nor I. Now go to bed, it is late. She is a bit of a tease, John. Mark Rivers says she is now just one half of the riddle called woman."

John understood well enough that he was some day expected by his uncle to have it out with Tom. He got two other bits of advice on this matter. The rector detained him after school, a few days later. "How goes the swimming, John?" he asked.

The Squire early in the summer had taken this matter in hand, and as Ann Penhallow said, with the West Point methods of kill or cure. John replied to the rector that he was now given leave to swim with the Westways boys. The pool was an old river-channel, now closed above, and making a quiet deep pool such as in England is called a "backwater" and in Canada a "bogan." The only access was through the Penhallow grounds, but this was never denied.

"Does Tom McGregor swim there?" asked Rivers.

"Yes, and the other boys. It is great fun now; it was not at first."

"About Tom, John. I hope you have made friends with him."

Said John, with something of his former grown-up manner, "It appears to me that we never were friends. I regret, sir, that it seems to you desirable."

"But, John, it is. For two Christian lads like you to keep up a quarrel-"

"He's a heathen, sir. I told him yesterday that he ought to apologize to Leila."

"And what did he say?"

"He said, he guessed I wanted another licking. That's the kind of Christian he is."

"I must speak to him."

"Oh, please not to do that! He will think I am afraid." Here were the Squire and Rivers on two sides of this question.

"Are you afraid, John? You were once frank with me about it."

"I do not think, Mr. Rivers, you ought to ask me that." He drew up his figure as he spoke.

The rector would have liked to have whistled-a rare habit with him when alone and not in one of his moods of depression. He said, "I beg your pardon, John," and felt that he had not only done no good, but had made a mistake.

John said, "I am greatly obliged, sir." When half-way home he went back and met Rivers at his gate.

"Well," said the rector, "left anything?"

"No, sir," said the boy, his young figure stiffening, his head up. "I wasn't honest, sir." And again with his old half-lost formal way, "I-I-you might have thought-I wasn't-quite honourable. I mean-I'll never be able to forgive that blackguard until I can-can get even with him. You see, sir?"

"Yes, I see," said Rivers, who did not see, or know for a moment what to say. "Well, think it over, John. He is more a rough cub than a blackguard. Think it over."

"Yes, sir," and John walked away.

The rector looked after the boy thinking-he's the Squire all over, with more imagination, a gentleman to the core. But how wonderfully changed, and in only eight months.

John was now, this July, allowed to ride with Leila when his uncle was otherwise occupied. He had been mounted on a safe old horse and was not spared advice from Leila, who enjoyed a little the position of mistress of equestrianism. She was slyly conscious of her comrade's mildly resentful state of mind.

"Don't pull on him so hard, John. The great thing is to get intimate with a horse's mouth. He's pretty rough, but if you wouldn't keep so stiff, you wouldn't feel it."

John began to be a little impatient. "Let us talk of something else than horses. I got a good dose of advice yesterday from Uncle Jim. I am afraid that you will be sent to school in the fall. I hate schools. You'll have no riding and s...o...b..lling, and I shall miss you. You see, I was never friends with a girl before."

"Uncle Jim would never let me go."

"But Aunt Ann?" he queried. "I heard her tell Mr. Rivers that you must go. She said that you were too old, or would be, for s...o...b..lling and rough games and needed the society of young ladies."

"Young ladies!" said Leila scornfully. "We had two from Baltimore year before last. I happened to hit one of them in the eye with a s...o...b..ll, and she howled worse than Billy when he plays bear."