"Then come. I have some of my father's Madeira, if Grey has left any. I shall say a word to Mrs. Penhallow. By George! I am glad to have you."

Penhallow showed Woodburn to a room, and feeling relieved and even elated, found his wife, who had tired of waiting and had gone to get ready to dine. He told her in a few words enough to set her at ease with the new guest. Then Mark Rivers came in and John Penhallow, who having heard about the stranger's errand was puzzled when he became aware of the cordial relations of his uncle and Mr. Woodburn.

The dinner was pleasant and unembarra.s.sed. The lad whom events had singularly matured listened to gay memories of West Point and to talk of cadets whose names were to live in history or who had been distinguished in our unrighteous war with Mexico. When now and then the talk became quite calmly political, Ann listened to the good-natured debate and was longing to speak her mind. She was, however, wisely silent, and reflected half amused that she had lost the right to express herself on the question which was making politics ill-tempered but was now being discussed at her table with such well-bred courtesy. John soon ceased to follow the wandering talk, and feeling what for him had the charm of romance in the flight of Josiah sat thinking over the scene of the warning at night, the scared fugitive in the cabin, and the lonely voyage down through the darkness of the rapids of the river. Where would the man go? Would they ever see him again? They were to meet in far-away days and in hours far more perilous. Then he was caught once more by gay stories of adventures on the plains and memories of Indian battles, until the wine had been drunk and the Squire took his friend to the library for an hour.

CHAPTER XI

Penhallow himself drove his guest to meet the night express to the East, and well pleased with his day returned to find his wife talking with Rivers and John. He sat down with them at the fire in the hall, saying, "I wanted to keep Woodburn longer, but he was wise not to stay. What are you two talking over-you were laughing?"

"I," said Rivers, "was hearing how that very courteous gentleman chanced to dine with these mortal enemies who stole his property. I kept quiet, Mrs. Penhallow said nothing, John ate his dinner, and no one quarrelled.

I longed for Mr. Grey-"

"For shame," said Mrs. Ann. "Tell him why we were laughing-it was at nothing particular."

"It was about poor old Mrs. Burton."

"What about her? If you can make that widow interesting in any way, I shall be grateful."

"It was about her dead husband-"

"Am I to hear it or not?" said Penhallow. "What is it?"

"Why, what she said was that she was more than ever confirmed in her belief in special Providences, because Malcolm was so fond of tomatoes, and this year of his death not one of their tomatoes ripened."

The Squire's range of enjoyment of the comic had limitations, but this story was immensely enjoyed and to his taste. He laughed in his hearty way. "Did she tell you that, Mark, or has it improved in your hands?"

"No-no, I got it from Grace, and he had it from the widow. I do not think it seemed the least bit funny to Grace."

"But after all," said Mrs. Ann, "is it so very comic?"

"Oh, now," said Penhallow, "we are in for a discussion on special Providences. I can't stand it to-night; I want something more definite. My manager says sometimes, 'I want to close out this-here business.' Now I want to close out this abominable business about my poor Josiah. You and your aunt, John, have been, as you may know, breaking the law of your country-"

Rivers, surprised and still partially ignorant, looked from one to another.

"Oh, James!" remonstrated his wife, not overpleased.

"Wait a little, my dear Ann. Now, John, I want to hear precisely how you gave Josiah a warning and-well-all the rest. You ought to know that my little lady did as usual the right thing. The risks and whatever there might have been of danger were ours by right-a debt paid to a poor runaway who had made us his friends. Now, John!"

Rivers watched his pupil with the utmost interest. John stood up a little excited by this unexpected need to confess. He leaned against the side of the mantel and said, "Well, you see, Uncle Jim, I got in at the back-"

"I don't see at all. I want to be made to see-I want the whole story."

John had in mind that he had done a rather fine thing and ought to relate it as lightly as he had heard Woodburn tell of furious battles with Apaches. But, as his uncle wanted the whole story, he must have some good reason, and the young fellow was honestly delighted. Standing by the fire, watched by three people who loved him, and above all by the Captain, his ideal of what he felt he himself could never be, John Penhallow told of his entrance to Josiah's room and of his thought of the cabin as a hiding-place. When he hesitated, Penhallow said, "Oh, don't leave out, John Penhallow, I want all the details. I have my reasons, John."

Flushed and handsome, with his strong young face above the figure which was to have his uncle's athletic build, he related his story to the close. As he told of the parting with the frightened fugitive and the hunted man's last blessing, he was affected as he had not been at the time. "That's all, Uncle Jim. It was too bad-and he will never come back."

"He could," said Rivers.

"Yes-but he will not. I know the man," said Penhallow. "He has the courage of the minute, but the timidity of the slave. We shall see him no more, I fear."

The little group around the fire fell to silence, and John sat down. He wanted a word of approval, and got it. "I want you to know, John," said Penhallow, "that I think you behaved with courage and discretion. It was not an errand for a boy, but no man could have done better, and your aunt had no one else. I am glad she had not."

Then John Penhallow felt that he was shaky and that his eyes were uncomfortably filling. With a boy's dislike of showing emotion, he mastered his feelings and said, "Thank you, Uncle Jim."

"That is all," said the Squire, who too saw and comprehended what he saw, "go to bed, you breaker of the law-"

"And I," said Ann, "a wicked partner. Come, John."

They left the master of the house with the rector. Rivers looked at the clock, "I think I must go. I do not stand late hours. If I let the day capture the night, the day after is apt to find me dull."

"Well, stand it this once, Mark. I hate councils of war or peace without the pipe, and now, imagine it, my dear wife wanted me to smoke, and that was all along of that terrible spittoon and the long-expected cousin of whom I have heard from time to time. Les absens n'out pas toujours tort. Now smoke and don't watch the clock. I said this abominable business was to be closed out-"

"And is it not?" asked Rivers.

"No. I do not talk about Peter Lamb to my wife, because she thinks my helping him so often has done the man more harm than good. It was not Grey alone who was responsible. He told Mrs. Penhallow that Peter had sent him to Josiah's shop. He told Grey too that Josiah must be a runaway slave and that any one would know him by his having lost two fingers. That at once set Grey on this mischievous track."

"I am only too sure that you are right," returned Rivers. "Peter tried a very futile blackmailing trick on Josiah. He wanted to get whisky, and told the poor negro that he must get it for him or he would let his master know where he was. Of course, the scamp knew what we all knew and no more, but it alarmed Josiah, who came to me at once. He was like a scared child. I told him to go home and that Peter had lied. He went away looking as if the old savagery in his blood might become practically active."

"I don't wonder," said Penhallow. "Did it end there?"

"No, I saw Peter next day, and he of course lied to me very cleverly, said it was only a joke on Josiah, and so on. I think, sir, and you will I hope excuse me-I do think that the man were better let alone. Every time you help him, he gets worse. When he was arrested and suspected of burning Robert's hayrick, you pleaded with the old farmer and got the man off. He boasted of it the next time he got drunk."

"I know-I know." The Squire had paid Robert's loss, and aware of his own folly was of no mind to confess to any one. "I have no wish or will to help him. I mean now to drop him altogether, and I must tell him so. But what a pity it is! He is intelligent, and was a good carpenter until he began to drink. I must talk to him."

"You will only make him more revengeful. He has what he calls 'got even' with Josiah, and he is capable of doing it with you or me. Let him alone."

"Not I," said the Squire; "if only for his mother's sake, I must see what I can do."

"Useless-quite useless," said Rivers. "You may think that strange advice for a clergyman, but I do sometimes despair of others and occasionally of Mark Rivers. Goodnight."

During these days the fugitive floated down the swift little river at night, and at dawn hid his frail boat and himself in the forests of a thinly settled land. He was brave enough, but his ignorance of geography added to his persistent terror. On the third day the broader waters brought him to farms and houses. Then he left his boat and struck out across the country until he came to a railway. In the station he made out that it led to Philadelphia. Knowing that he would be safe there, he bought a ticket and arrived in the city the next day-a free man with money, intelligence, and an honest liking for steady work.

The Squire had the good habit of second thought. His wife knew it well and had often found it valuable and to be trusted. At present he was thoroughly disgusted with the consequences of what he knew to be in some degree the result of his own feeling that he was bound to care for the man whose tie to him was one few men would have considered as in any serious degree obligatory. The night brought good counsel, and he made up his mind next morning simply to let the foster-brother alone. Fate decreed otherwise. In the morning he was asked by his wife to go with her to the village; she wanted some advice. He did not ask what, but said, "Of course. I am to try the barber's a.s.sistant I have brought from the mills to shave me, and what is more important-Westways. I have put him in our poor old Josiah's shop."

They went together to Pole's, and returning she stopped before the barn-like building where Grace gathered on Sundays a scant audience to hear the sermons which Rivers had told him had too much heart and too little head.

"What is it?" asked Penhallow.

"I have heard, James, that their chapel (she never called it church) is leaking-the roof, I mean. Could not you pay for a new roof?"

"Of course, my dear-of course. It can't cost much. I will see Grace about it."

"Thank you, James." On no account would she now have done this herself. She was out of touch for the time with the whole business of politics, and to have indulged her usual gentle desire to help others would have implied obligation on the part of the Baptist to accept her wish that he should vote and use his influence for Buchanan. Now the thing would be done without her aid. In time her desire to see the Democrats win in the interest of her dear South would revive, but at present what with Grey and the threat of the practical application of the Fugitive-Slave Act and her husband's disgust, she was disposed to let politics alone.

Presently, as they walked on, Peter Lamb stopped them. "I'd like to speak to you for a moment, Mr. Penhallow." Mrs. Penhallow walked on.

"What is it?" said the Squire.

"I'm all right now-I'll never drink again. I want some work-and mother's sick."