Chapter XXXIX: A Council of War (2)

Carl Minnevich was the son of a German, who, in company with a brother, had come to America a few years before, and settled in Tennessee. There the Minneviches purchased a farm, and were beginning to prosper in their new home, when Carl's father suddenly died. The boy had lost his mother on the voyage to America. He was now an orphan, destined to experience all the humiliation, dependence, and wrong, which ever an orphan knew.

Immediately the sole proprietorship of the farm, which had been bought by both, was assumed by the surviving brother. This man had a selfish, ill-tempered wife, and a family of great boys. Minnevich himself was naturally a good, honest man; but Frau Minnevich wanted the entire property for her own children, hated Carl because he was in the way, and treated him with cruelty. His big cousins followed their mother's example, and bullied him. How to obtain protection or redress he knew not. He was a stranger, speaking a strange tongue, in the land of his father's adoption. Ah, how often then did he think of the happy fatherland, before that luckless voyage was undertaken, when he still had his mother, and his friends, and all his little playfellows, whom he could never see more!

So matters went on for a year or two, until the boy's grievances grew intolerable, and he one day took it into his head to please Frau Minnevich for once in his life, if never again. In the night time he made up a little bundle of his clothes, threw it out of the window, got out himself after it, climbed down upon the roof of the shed, jumped to the ground, and trudged away in the early morning starlight, a wanderer. It has been necessary to touch upon this point in Carl's history, in order to explain why it was he ever afterwards felt such deep gratitude towards those who befriended him in the hour of his need.

For many days and nights he wandered among the hills of Tennessee, looking in vain for work, and begging his bread. Sometimes he almost wished himself a slave-boy, for then he would have had a home at least, if only a wretched cabin, and friends, if only negroes,--those oppressed, beaten, bought-and-sold, yet patient and cheerful people, whose lot seemed, after all, so much happier than his own. Carl had a large, warm heart, and he longed with infinite longing for somebody to love him and treat him kindly.

At last, as he was sitting one cold evening by the road-side, weary, hungry, despondent, not knowing where he was to find his supper, and seeing nothing else for him to do but to lie down under some bush, there to shiver and starve till morning, a voice of unwonted kindness accosted him.

"My poor boy, you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?"

Poor Carl burst into tears. It was the voice of Penn Hapgood; and in its tones were sympathy, comfort, hope. Penn took him by the arm, and lifted him up, and carried his bundle for him, talking to him all the time so like a gentle and loving brother, that Carl said in the depths of his soul that he would some day repay him, if he lived; and he prayed God secretly that he might live, and be able some day to repay him for those sweet and gracious words.

Penn never quitted him until he had found him a home; neither after that did he forget him. He took him into his school, gave him his tuition, and befriended him in a hundred little ways beside.

And now the time had arrived when Penn himself stood in need of friends. The evening came, and Carl was missing from his new home.

"Whar's dat ar boy took hisself to, I'd like to know!" scolded old Toby. "I'll clar away de table, and he'll lose his supper, if he stays anoder minute! Debil take me, if I don't!"

He had made the same threat a dozen times, and still he kept Carl's potatoes hot for him, and the table waiting. For the old negro, though he loved dearly to show his importance by making a good deal of bluster about his work, had really one of the kindest hearts in the world, and was as devoted to the boy he scolded as any indulgent old grandmother.

"The 'debil' will take you, sure enough, I'm afraid, Toby, if you appeal to him so often," said a mildly reproving voice.

It was Mr. Villars, the old worn-out clergyman; a man of seventy winters, pale, white-haired, blind, feeble of body, yet strong and serene of soul. He came softly, groping his way into the kitchen, in order to put his feet to Toby's fire.

"Laws, massa," said old Toby, grinning, "debil knows I ain't in 'arnest! he knows better'n to take me at my word, for I speaks his name widout no kind o' respec', allus, I does. Hyar's yer ol' easy char fur ye, Mass' Villars. Now you jes' make yerself comf'table." And he cleared a place on the stove-hearth for the old man's feet.

"Thank you, Toby." With his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, his hands folded thoughtfully before his breast, and his beautiful old face smiling the kindness which his blind eyes could not _look_, Mr. Villars sat by the fire. "Where is Carl to-night, Toby?"

"Dat ar's de question; dat's de pint, massa. Mos' I can say is, he ain't whar he ought to be, a eatin' ob his supper. Chocolate's all a bilin' away to nuffin! ketch dis chile tryin' to keep tings hot for his supper anoder time!" And Toby added, in a whisper expressive of great astonishment at himself, "What I eber took dat ar boy to keep fur's one ob de mysteries!"

For Toby, though only a servant (indeed, he had formerly been a slave in the family), had had his own way so long in every thing that concerned the management of the household, that he had come to believe himself the proprietor, not only of the house and land, and poultry and pigs, but of the family itself. He owned "ol' Mass Villars," and an exceedingly precious piece of property he considered him, especially since he had become blind. He was likewise (in his own exalted imagination) sole inheritor and guardian-in-chief of "Miss Jinny," Mr. Villars's youngest daughter, child of his old age, of whom Mrs. Villars said, on her death-bed, "Take always good care of my darling, dear Toby!"--an injunction which the negro regarded as a sort of last will and testament bequeathing the girl to him beyond mortal question.

There was, in fact, but one member of the household he did not exclusively claim. This was the married daughter, Salina, whose life had been embittered by a truant husband,--no other, in fact, than the erring son of the worthy Mrs. Sprowl. The day when the infatuated girl made a marriage so much beneath the family dignity, Toby, in great grief and indignation, gave her up. "I washes my hands ob her! she ain't no more a chile ob mine!" said the old servant, passionately weeping, as if the washing of his hands was to be literal, and no other fluid would serve his dark purpose but tears. And when, after Sprowl's desertion of her, she returned, humiliated and disgraced, to her father's house,--that is to say, Toby's house,--Toby had compassion on her, and took her in, but never set up any claim to her again.

"Where is Carl? Hasn't Carl come yet?" asked a sweet but very anxious voice. And Virginia, the youngest daughter, stood in the kitchen door.

"He hain't come yet, Miss Jinny; dat ar a fact!" said Toby. "'Pears like somefin's hap'en'd to dat ar boy. I neber knowed him stay out so, when dar's any eatin' gwine on,--for he's a master hand for his supper, dat boy ar! Laws, I hain't forgot how he laid in de vittles de fust night Massa Penn fetched him hyar! He was right hungry, he was, and he took holt powerful! 'I neber can keep dat ar boy in de world,' says I; 'he'll eat me clar out o' house an' home!' says I. But, arter all, it done my ol' heart good to see him put in, ebery ting 'peared to taste so d'effle good to him!" And Toby chuckled at the reminiscence.

"My daughter," said Mr. Villars, softly.

She was already standing behind his chair, and her trembling little hands were smoothing his brow, and her earnest face was looking pale and abstracted over him. He could not see her face, but he knew by her touch that the tender act was done some how mechanically to-night, and that she was thinking of other things. She started as he spoke, and, bending over him, kissed his white forehead.

"I suspect," he went on, "that you know more of Carl than we do. Has he gone on some errand of yours?"

"I will tell you, father!" It seemed as if her feelings had been long repressed, and it was a relief for her to speak at last. "Carl came to me, and said there was some mischief intended towards Penn. This was long before dark. And he asked permission to go and see what it was. I said, 'Go, but come right back, if there is no danger.' He went, and I have not seen him since."

"Is this so? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because, father, I did not wish to make you anxious. But now, if you will let Toby go----"

"I'll go myself!" said the old man, starting up. "My staff, Toby! When I was out, I heard voices in the direction of the school-house,--I felt then a presentiment that something was happening to Penn. I can control the mob,--I can save him, if it is not too late." He grasped the staff Toby put into his hand.

"O, father!" said the agitated girl; "are you able?"

"Able, child? You shall see how strong I am when our friend is in danger."

"Let me go, then, and guide you!" she exclaimed, glad he was so resolved, yet unwilling to trust him out of her sight.

"No, daughter. Toby will be eyes for me. Yet I scarcely need even him. I can find my way as well as he can in the dark."

The negro opened the door, and was leading out the blind old minister, when the light from within fell upon a singular object approaching the house. It started back again, like some guilty thing; but Toby had seen it. Toby uttered a shriek.

"De debil! de debil hisself, massa!" and he pulled the old man back hurriedly into the house.

"The devil, Toby? What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Villars.

"O, laws, bress ye, massa, ye hain't got no eyes, and ye can't see!" said Toby, shutting the door in his fright, and rolling his eyes wildly. "It's de bery debil! he's come for dis niggah dis time, sartin'. Cos I, cos I 'pealed to him, as you said, massa! cos I's got de habit ob speakin' his name widout no kind o' respec'!"

And he stood bracing himself, with his back against the door, as if determined that not even that powerful individual himself should get in.

"You poor old simpleton!" said Mr. Villars, "there is no fiend except in your own imagination. Open the door!"

"No, no, massa! He's dar! he's dar! He'll cotch old Toby, shore!" And the terrified black held the latch and pushed with all his might.

"What did he see, Virginia?"

"I don't know, father! There was certainly somebody, or something,--I could not distinguish what."

"It's what I tell ye!" gibbered Toby. "I seed de great coarse har on his speckled legs, and de wings on his back, and a right smart bag in his hand to put dis niggah in!"

"It might have been Carl," said Virginia.

"No, no! Carl don't hab sech legs as dem ar! Carl don't hab sech great big large ears as dem ar! O good Lord! good Lord!" the negro's voice sank to a terrified whisper, "he's a-knockin' for me now!"

"It's a very gentle rap for the devil," said Mr. Villars, who could not but be amused, notwithstanding the strange interruption of his purpose, and Toby's vexatious obstinacy in holding the door. "It's some stranger; let him in!"

"No, no, no!" gasped the negro. "I won't say nuffin, and you tell him I ain't to home! Say I'se clar'd out, lef', gone you do'no' whar!"

"Toby!" was called from without.

"Dat's his voice! dat ar's his voice!" said Toby. And in his desperate pushing, he pushed his feet from under him, and fell at full length along the floor.

"It's the voice of Penn Hapgood!" exclaimed the old minister. "Arise, quick, Toby, and open!"

Toby rubbed his head and looked bewildered.

"Are ye sartin ob dat, massa? Bress me, I breeve you're right, for oncet! It _ar_ Mass' Penn's voice, shore enough!"

He opened the door, but started back again with another shriek, convinced for an instant that it was, after all, the devil, who had artfully borrowed Penn's voice to deceive him.

But no! It was Penn himself, his hat and clothes in his hand, smeared with black tar and covered with feathers from head to foot; not even his features spared, nor yet his hair; on his cheeks great clumps of gray goose plumes, suggestive of diabolical ears, and with no other covering but this to shield him from the night wind, save the emptied bed-tick, which he had drawn over his shoulders, and which Toby had mistaken for Satanic wings.

VI.

_A STRANGE COAT FOR A QUAKER._

Now, Virginia Villars was the very last person by whom Penn would have wished to be seen. He was well aware how utterly grotesque and ludicrous he must appear. But he was not in a condition to be very fastidious on this point. Stunned by blows, stripped of his clothing (which could not be put on again, for reasons), cruelly suffering from the violence done him, exposed to the cold, excluded from Mrs. Sprowl's virtuous abode, he had no choice but to seek the protection of those whom he believed to be his truest friends.

In the little sitting-room of the blind old minister he had always been gladly welcomed. Such minds as his were rare in Curryville. His purity of thought, his Christian charity, his ardent love of justice, and (quite as much as any thing) his delight in the free and friendly discussion of principles, whether moral, political, or theological, made him a great favorite with the lonely old man. His coming made the winter evenings bloom. Then the aged clergyman, deprived of sight, bereft of the companionship of books, and of the varied consolations of an active life, felt his heart warmed and his brain enlivened by the wine of conversation. He and Penn, to be sure, did not always agree. Especially on the subject of _non-resistance_ they had many warm and well-contested arguments; the young Quaker manifesting, by his zeal in the controversy, that he had an abundance of "fight" in him without knowing it.

Nor to Mr. Villars alone did Penn's visits bring pleasure. They delighted equally young Carl and old Toby. And Virginia? Why, being altogether devoted to her blind parent, for whose happiness she could never do enough, she was, of course, enchanted with the attentions she saw Penn pay _him_. That was all; at least, the dear girl thought that was all.

As for Salina, forsaken spouse of the gay Lysander Sprowl, she too, after sulkily brooding over her misfortunes all day, was glad enough to have any intelligent person come in and break the monotony of her sad life in the evening.

Such were Penn's relations with the family to whom alone he durst apply for refuge in his distress. Others might indeed have ventured to shelter him; but they, like Stackridge, were hated Unionists, and any mercy shown to him would have brought evil upon themselves. Mr. Villars, however, blind and venerated old man, had sufficient influence over the people, Penn believed, to serve as a protection to his household even with him in it.

So hither he came--how unwillingly let the proud and sensitive judge. For Penn, though belonging to the meekest of sects, was of a soul by nature aspiring and proud. He had the good sense to know that the outrage committed on him was in reality no disgrace, except to those guilty of perpetrating it. Yet no one likes to appear ridiculous. And the man of elevated spirit instinctively shrinks from making known his misfortunes even to his best friends; he is ashamed of that for which he is in no sense to blame, and he would rather suffer heroically in secret, than become an object of pity.

Most of all, as I have said, Penn dreaded the pure Virginia's eyes. Mr. Villars could not see him, and for Salina he did not care much--singularly enough, for she alone was of an acrid and sarcastic temper. What he devoutly desired was, to creep quietly to the kitchen door, call out Carl if he was there, or secretly make known his condition to old Toby, and thus obtain admission to the house, seclusion, and assistance, without letting Virginia, or her father even, know of his presence.

How this honest wish was thwarted we have seen. When the door was first opened, he had turned to fly. But that was cowardly; so he returned, and knocked, and called the negro by name, to reassure him. And the door was once more opened, and Virginia saw him--recognized him--knew in an instant what brutal deed had been done, and covered her eyes instinctively to shut out the hideous sight.

But it was no time to indulge in feelings of false modesty, if she felt any. It was no time to be weak, or foolish, or frightened, or ashamed.

"It is Penn!" she exclaimed in a burst of indignation and grief. "Toby! Toby! you great stupid----! what are you staring for? Take him in! why don't you? O, father!" And she threw herself on the old man's bosom, and hid her face.

"What has happened to Penn?" asked the old man.

"I have been tarred-and-feathered," answered Penn, entering, and closing the door behind him. "And I have been shut out of Mrs. Sprowl's house. This is my excuse for coming here. I must go somewhere, you know!"

"And where but here?" answered the old man. He had suppressed an outburst of feeling, and now stood calm, compassionating, extending his hands,--his staff fallen upon the floor. "I feared it might come to this! Terrible times are upon us, and you are only one of the first to suffer. You did well to come to us. Are you hurt?"

"I hardly know," replied Penn. "I beg of you, don't be alarmed or troubled. I hope you will excuse me. I know I am a fearful object to look at, and did not intend to be seen."

He stood holding the bed-tick over him, and his clothes before him, to conceal as much as possible his hideous guise, suffering, in that moment of pause, unutterable things. Was ever a hero of romance in such a dismal plight? Surely no writer of fiction would venture to show his hero in so ridiculous and damaging an aspect. But this is not altogether a romance, and I must relate facts as they occurred.

"Do not be sorry that I have seen you," said Virginia, lifting her face again, flashing with tears. "I see in this shameful disguise only the shame of those who have so cruelly treated you! Toby will help you. And there is Carl at last!"

She retreated from the room by one door just as Carl and Stackridge entered by the other.

Poor Penn! gentle and shrinking Penn! it was painful enough for him to meet even these coarser eyes, friendly though they were. The shock upon his system had been terrible; and now, his strength and resolution giving way, his bewildered senses began to reel, and he swooned in the farmer's arms.

VII.

_THE TWO GUESTS._

Virginia entered the sitting-room--the same where so many happy evenings had been enjoyed by the little family, in the society of him who now lay bruised, disfigured, and insensible in Toby's kitchen.

She walked to and fro, she gazed from the windows out into the darkness, she threw herself on the lounge, scarce able to control the feelings of pity and indignation that agitated her. For almost the first time in her life she was fired with vindictiveness; she burned to see some swift and terrible retribution overtake the perpetrators of this atrocious deed.

Mr. Villars soon came out to her. She hastened to lead him to a seat.

"How is he?--much injured?" she asked.

"He has been brutally used," said the old man. "But he is now in good hands. Where is Salina?"

"I don't know. I had been to look for her, when I came and found you in the kitchen. I think she must have gone out."

"Gone out, to-night? That is very strange!" The old man mused. "She will have to be told that Penn is in the house. But I think the knowledge of the fact ought to go no farther. Mr. Stackridge is of the same opinion. Now that they have begun to persecute him, they will never cease, so long as he remains alive within their reach."

"And we must conceal him?"

"Yes, until this storm blows over, or he can be safely got out of the state."

"There is Salina now!" exclaimed the girl, hearing footsteps approach the piazza.

"If it is, she is not alone," said the old man, whose blindness had rendered his hearing acute. "It is a man's step. Don't be agitated, my child. Much depends on our calmness and self-possession now. If it is a visitor, you must admit him, and appear as hospitable as usual."

It was a visitor, and he came alone--a young fellow of dashy appearance, handsome black hair and whiskers, and very black eyes.

"Mr. Bythewood, father," said Virginia, showing him immediately into the sitting-room.

"I entreat you, do not rise!" said Mr. Bythewood, with exceeding affability, hastening to prevent that act of politeness on the part of the blind old man.

"Did you not bring my daughter with you?" asked Mr. Villars.

"Your daughter is here, sir;" and he of the handsome whiskers gave Virginia a most captivating bow and smile.

"He means my sister," said Virginia. "She has gone out, and we are feeling somewhat anxious about her." She thought it best to say thus much, in order that, should the visitor perceive any strangeness or abstraction on her part, he might think it was caused by solicitude for the absent Salina.

"Nothing can have happened to her, certainly," remarked Mr. Bythewood, seating himself in an attitude of luxurious ease, approaching almost to indolent recklessness. "We are the most chivalrous people in the world. There is no people, I think, on the face of the globe, among whom the innocent and defenceless are so perfectly secure."

Virginia thought of the hapless victim of the mob in the kitchen yonder, and smiled politely.

"I have no very great fears for her safety," said the old man. "Yet I have felt some anxiety to know the meaning of the noises I heard in the direction of the academy, an hour ago."

Bythewood laughed, and stroked his glossy mustache.

"I don't know, sir. I reckon, however, that the Yankee schoolmaster has been favored with a little demonstration of southern sentiment."

"How! not mobbed?"

"Call it what you please, sir," said Bythewood, with an air of pleasantry. "I think our people have been roused at last; and if so, they have probably given him a lesson he will never forget."

"What do you mean by 'our people'?" the old man gravely inquired.

"He means," said Virginia, with quiet but cutting irony, "the most chivalrous people in the world! among whom the innocent and defenceless are more secure than any where else on the globe!"

"Precisely," said Mr. Bythewood, with a placid smile. "But among whom obnoxious persons, dangerous to our institutions, cannot be tolerated. As for this affair,"--carelessly, as if what had happened to Penn was of no particular consequence to anybody present, least of all to him,--"I don't know anything about it. Of course, I would never go near a popular demonstration of the kind. I don't say I approve of it, and I don't say I disapprove of it. These are no ordinary times, Mr. Villars. The south is already plunged into a revolution."

"Indeed, I fear so!"

"Fear so? I glory that it is so! We are about to build up the most magnificent empire on which the sun has ever shone!"

"Cemented with the blood of our own brethren!" said the old man, solemnly.

"There may be a little bloodshed, but not much. The Yankees won't fight. They are not a military people. Their armies will scatter before us like chaff before the wind. I know you don't think as I do. I respect the lingering attachment you feel for the old Union--it is very natural," said Bythewood, indulgently.

The old man smiled. His eyes were closed, and his hands were folded before him near his breast, in his favorite attitude. And he answered,--

"You are very tolerant towards me, my young friend. It is because you consider me old, and helpless, and perhaps a little childish, no doubt. But hear my words. You are going to build up a magnificent empire, founded on--slavery. But I tell you, the ruin and desolation of our dear country--that will be your empire. And as for the institution you mean to perpetuate and strengthen, it will be crushed to atoms between the upper and nether millstones of the war you are bringing upon the nation."

He spoke with the power of deep and earnest conviction, and the complacent Bythewood was for a moment abashed.

"I was well aware of your opinions," he remarked, rallying presently. "It is useless for us to argue the point. And Virginia, I conceive, does not like politics. Will you favor us with a song, Virginia?"

"With pleasure, if you wish it," said Virginia, with perfect civility, although a close observer might have seen how repulsive to her was the presence of this handsome, but selfish and unprincipled man. He was their guest; and she had been bred to habits of generous and self-sacrificing hospitality. However detested a visitor, he must be politely entertained. On this occasion, she led the way to the parlor, where the piano was,--all the more readily, perhaps, because it was still farther removed from the kitchen. Bythewood followed, supporting, with an ostentatious show of solicitude, the steps of the feeble old man.

Bythewood named the pieces he wished her to sing, and bent graciously over the piano to turn the music-leaves for her, and applauded with enthusiasm. And so she entertained him. And all the while were passing around them scenes so very different! There was Penn, heroically stifling the groans of a wounded spirit, within sound of her sweet voice, and Bythewood so utterly ignorant of his presence there! A little farther off, and just outside the house, a young woman was even then parting, with whispers and mystery, from an adventurous rover. Still a little farther, in barber Jim's back room, Silas Ropes was treating his accomplices; and while these drank and blasphemed, close by, in the secret cellar, Stackridge's companions were practising the soldier's drill.

Salina parted from the rover, and came into the house while Virginia was singing, throwing her bonnet negligently back, as she sat down.

"Why, Salina! where have you been?" said Virginia, finishing a strain, and turning eagerly on the piano stool. "We have been wondering what had become of you!"

"You need never wonder about me," said Salina, coldly. "I must go out and walk, even if I don't have time till after dark."

She drummed upon the carpet with her foot, while her upper lip twitched nervously. It was a rather short lip, and she had an unconscious habit of hitching up one corner of it, still more closely, with a spiteful and impatient expression. Aside from this labial peculiarity (and perhaps the disproportionate prominence of a very large white forehead), her features were pretty enough, although they lacked the charming freshness of her younger sister's.

Virginia knew well that the pretence of not getting time for her walk till after dark was absurd, but, perceiving the unhappy mood she was in, forbore to say so. And she resumed her task of entertaining Bythewood.

VIII.

_THE ROVER._

Meanwhile the nocturnal acquaintance from whom Salina had parted took a last look at the house, and shook his envious head darkly at the room where the light and the music were; then, thrusting his hands into his pockets, with a swaggering air, went plodding on his lonely way across the fields, in the starlight.

The direction he took was that from which Penn had arrived; and in the course of twenty minutes he approached the door of the solitary house with the dark windows and the dogs within. He walked all around, and seeing no light, nor any indication of life, drew near, and rapped softly on a pane.

The dogs were roused in an instant, and barked furiously. Nothing daunted, he waited for a lull in the storm he had raised, and rapped again.

"Who's there?" creaked the stridulous voice of good Mrs. Sprowl.

"_You know!_" said the rover, in a suppressed, confidential tone. "One who has a right."

Now, the excellent relict of the late lamented Sprowl reflected, naturally, that, if anybody had a right there, it was he who paid her for his board in advance.

"You, agin, after all, is it!" she exclaimed, angrily. "Couldn't you find nowhere else to go to? But if you imagine I've thought better on't, and will let you in, you're grandly mistaken! Go away this instant, or I'll let the dogs out!"

"Let 'em out, and be----!"

No matter about the last word of the rover's defiant answer. It was a very irritating word to the temper of the good Mrs. Sprowl. This was the first time (she thought) she had ever heard the mild and benignant schoolmaster swear; but she was not much surprised, believing that it was scarcely in the power of man to endure what he had that night endured, and not swear.

"Look out for yourself then, you sir! for I shall take you at your word!" And there was a sound of slipping bolts, followed by the careful opening of the door.

Out bounced the dogs, and leaped upon the intruder; but, instead of tearing him to pieces, they fell to caressing him in the most vivacious and triumphant manner.

"Down, Brag! Off, Grip! Curse you!" And he kicked them till they yelped, for their too fond welcome.

"How dare you, sir, use my dogs so!" screamed the lady within, enraged to think they had permitted that miserable schoolmaster to get the better of them.

"I'll kick them, and you too, for this trick!" muttered the man. "I'll learn ye to shut me out, and make a row, when I'm coming to see you at the risk of my----"

She cut him short, with a cry of amazement.

"Lysander! is it you!"

"Hold your noise!" said Lysander, pressing into the house. "Call my name again, and I'll choke you! Where's your schoolmaster? Won't he hear?"

"Dear me! if it don't beat everything!" said Mrs. Sprowl in palpitating accents. "Don't you know I took you for the master!"

"No, I didn't know it. This looks more like a welcome, though!" Lysander began to be mollified. "There, there! don't smother a fellow! One kiss is as good as fifty. The master is out, then? Anybody in the house?"

"No, I'm so thankful! It seems quite providential! O, dearie, dearie, sonny dearie! I'm so glad to see you agin!"

"Come! none of your sonny dearies! it makes me sick! Strike a light, and get me some supper, can't you?"

"Yes, my boy, with all my heart! This is the happiest day I've seen----"

"Ah, what's happened to-day?" said Lysander, treating with levity his mother's blissful confession.

"I mean, this night! to have you back again! How could I mistake you for that dreadful schoolmaster!" Here her trembling fingers struck a match.

"Draw the curtains," said Lysander, hastily executing his own order, as the blue sputter kindled up into a flame that lighted the room. "It ain't quite time for me to be seen here yet."

"Where did you come from? What are you here for? O, my dear, dear Lysie!" (she gazed at him affectionately), "you ain't in no great danger, be you?"

"That depends. Soon as Tennessee secedes, I shall be safe enough. I'm going to have a commission in the Confederate army, and that'll be protection from anything that might happen on account of old scores. I'm going to raise a company in this very place, and let the law touch me if it can!"

He tossed his cap into a corner, and sprawled upon a chair before the stove, at which his devoted mother was already blowing her breath away in the endeavor to kindle a blaze. She stopped blowing to gape at his good news, turning up at him her low, skinny forehead, narrow nose, and close-set, winking eyes.

"There! I declare!" said she. "I knowed my boy would come back to me some day a gentleman!"

"A gentleman? I'm bound to be that!" said the man, with a braggart laugh and swagger. "I tell ye, mar, we're going to have the greatest confederacy ever was!"

"Do tell if we be!" said the edified "mar."

"Six months from now, you'll see the Yankees grovelling at our feet, begging for admission along with us. We'll have Washington, and all of the north we want, and defy the world!"

"I want to know now!" said Mrs. Sprowl, overcome with admiration.

"The slave-trade will be reopened, Yankee ships will bring us cargoes of splendid niggers, not a man in the south but'll be able to own three or four, they'll be so cheap, and we'll be so rich, you see," said Lysander.

"You don't say, re'lly!"

"That's the programme, mar! You'll see it all with your own eyes in six months."

"Why, then, why _shouldn't_ the south secede!" replied "mar," hastening to put on the tea-kettle, and then to mix up a corn dodger for her son's supper. "I'm sure, we ought all on us to have our servants, and live without work; and I knowed all the time there was another side to what Penn Hapgood preaches (for he's dead set agin' secession), though I couldn't answer him as _you_ could, Lysie dear!"

"Wal, never mind all that, but hurry up the grub!" said "Lysie dear," putting sticks in the stove. "I hain't had a mouthful since breakfast."

"You hain't seen _her_, of course," observed Mrs. Sprowl, mysteriously.

"Her? who?"

"Salina!" in a whisper, as if to be overheard by a mouse in the wall would have been fatal.

"Wal, I have seen _her_, I reckon! Not an hour ago. By appointment. I wrote her I was coming, got a woman to direct the letter, and had a long talk with her to-night. What I want just now is, a little money, and she's got to raise it for me, and what she can't raise I shall look to you for."

"O dear me! don't say money to me!" exclaimed the widow, alarmed. "Partic'larly now I've lost my best feather-bed and my boarder!"

"What is it about your boarder? Out with it, and stop this hinting around!"

Thus prompted, Mrs. Sprowl, who had indeed been waiting for the opportunity, related all she knew of what had happened to Penn. Lysander kindled up with interest as she proceeded, and finally broke forth with a startling oath.

"And I can tell you where he has gone!" he said. "He's gone to the house I can't get into for love nor money! She refused me admission to-night--refused me money! but he is taken in, and their money will be lavished on him!"

"But how do you know, my son,----"

"How do I know he's there? Because, when I was with her in the orchard, we saw an object--she said it was some old nigger to see Toby--go into the kitchen. Then in a little while a man--it must have been Stackridge, if you say he was looking for him--went in with Carl, and didn't come out again, as I could see. I staid till the light from the kitchen went up into the bedroom, in the corner of the house this way. There's yer boarder, mar, I'll bet my life! But he won't be there long, I can tell ye!" laughed Lysander, maliciously.

IX.

_TOBY'S PATIENT HAS A CALLER._

Mr. Bythewood had now taken his departure; Salina had been intrusted with the secret; and Penn had been put to bed (as the rover correctly surmised) in the corner bedchamber.

He had been diligently plucked; as much of the tar had been removed as could be easily taken off by methods known to Stackridge and Toby, and his wounds had been dressed. And there he lay, at last, in the soothing linen, exhausted and suffering, yet somehow happy, thinking with gratitude of the friends God had given him in his sore need.

"Bress your heart, dear young massa!" said old Toby, standing by the bed (for he would not sit down), and regarding him with an unlimited variety of winks, and nods, and grins, expressive of satisfaction with his work; "ye're jest as comf'table now as am possible under de sarcumstances. If dar's anyting in dis yer world ye wants now, say de word, and ol' Toby'll jump at de chance to fetch 'em fur ye."

"There is nothing I want now, good Toby, but that you and Carl should rest. You have done everything you can--and far more than I deserve. I will try to thank you when I am stronger."

"Can't tink ob quittin' ye dis yer night, nohow, massa! Mr. Stackridge he's gone; Carl he can go to bed,--he ain't no 'count here, no way. But I'se took de job o' gitt'n you well, Mass' Penn, and I'se gwine to put it frew 'pon honor,--do it up han'some!"

And notwithstanding Penn's remonstrances, the faithful black absolutely refused to leave him. Indeed, the most he could be prevailed upon to do for his own comfort, was to bring his blanket into the room, and promise that he would lie down upon it when he felt sleepy. Whether he kept his word or not, I cannot say; but there was no time during the night when, if Penn happened to stir uneasily, he did not see the earnest, tender, cheerful black face at his pillow in an instant, and hear the affectionate voice softly inquire,--

"What can I do fur ye, massa? Ain't dar nuffin ol' Toby can be a doin' fur ye, jes' to pass away de time?"

Sometimes it was water Penn wanted; but it did him really more good to witness the delight it gave Toby to wait upon him, than to drink the coolest and most delicious draught fresh from the well.

At length Penn began to feel hot and stifled.

"What have you hung over the window, Toby?"

"Dat ar? 'Pears like dat ar's my blanket, sar. Ye see, 'twouldn't do, nohow, to let nary a chink o' light be seen from tudder side, 'cause dat 'ud make folks s'pec' sumfin', dis yer time o' night. So I jes' sticks up my ol' blanket--'pears like I can sleep a heap better on de bar floor!"

"But I must have some fresh air, you dear old hypocrite!" said Penn, deeply touched, for he knew that the African had deprived himself of his blanket because he did not wish to disturb him by leaving the room for another.

"I'll fix him! Ill fix him!" said Toby. And he seemed raised to the very summit of happiness on discovering that there was something, requiring the exercise of his ingenuity, still to be done for his patient.

After that Penn slept a little. "Tank de good Lord," said the old negro the next morning, "you're lookin' as chirk as can be! I'se a right smart hand fur to be nussin' ob de sick; and sakes! how I likes it! I'se gwine to hab you well, sar, 'fore eber a soul knows you'se in de house." Yet Toby's words expressed a great deal more confidence than he felt; for, though he had little apprehension of Penn's retreat being discovered, he saw how weak and feverish he was, and feared the necessity of sending for a doctor.

Penn now insisted strongly that the old servant should not neglect his other duties for him.

"Now you jes' be easy in yer mind on dat pint! Dar's Carl, tends to out-door 'rangements, and I'se got him larnt so's't he's bery good, bery good indeed, to look arter my cow, and my pigs, and sech like chores, when I'se got more 'portant tings on hand myself. And dar's Miss Jinny, she's glad enough to git de breakfust herself dis mornin'; only jes' I kind o' keeps an eye on her, so she shan't do nuffin wrong. She an' Massa Villars come to 'quire bery partic'lar 'bout you, 'fore you was awake, sar."

These simple words seemed to flood Penn's heart with gratitude. Toby withdrew, but presently returned, bringing a salver.

"Nuffin but a little broff, massa. And a toasted cracker."

"O, you are too kind, Toby! Really, I can't eat this morning."

"Can't eat, sar? I declar, now!" (in a whisper), "how disappinted she'll be!"

"Who will be disappointed?"

"Who? Miss Jinny, to be sure! She made de broff wid her own hands. Under my d'rections, ob course! But she would make 'em herself, and took a heap ob pains to hab 'em good, and put in de salt wid her own purty fingers, and looked as rosy a stirrin' and toastin' ober de fire as eber you see an angel, sar!"

For some reason Penn began to think better of the broth, and, to Toby's infinite satisfaction, he consented to eat a little. Toby soon had him bolstered up in bed, and held the salver before him, and looked a perfect picture of epicurean enjoyment, just from seeing his patient eat.

"It is delicious!" said Penn; at which brief eulogium the whole rich, exuberant, tropical soul of the unselfish African seemed to expand and blossom forth with joy. "I shall be sure to get well and strong soon, under such treatment. You must let Carl go to Mrs. Sprowl's and fetch my clothes; I shall want some of them when I get up."

"Bress you, sar! you forgets nobody ain't to know whar you be! Mass' Villars he say so. You jes' lef' de clo'es alone, yit awhile. Wouldn't hab dat ar Widder Sprowl find out you'se in dis yer house, not if you'd gib me----"

Rap, rap, at the chamber door; two light, hurried knocks.

"Miss Jinny herself!" said old Toby, forgetting Mrs. Sprowl in an instant. And setting down the salver, he ran to the door.

Penn heard quick whispers of consultation; then Toby came back, his eyes rolling and his ivory shining with a ludicrous expression of wrath and amazement.

"It's de bery ol' hag herself! Speak de debil's name and he's allus at de door!"

"Who? Mrs. Sprowl?"

"Yes, sar! and I wish she was furder, sar! She's a 'quirin' fur you,--says she knows you'se in de house, and it's bery 'portant she must see ye. But, tank de Lord, massa!" chuckled the old negro, "Carl's forgot his English, and don't know nuffin what she wants! he, he, he! Or if she makes him und'stan' one ting, den he talks Dutch, and _she_ don't und'stan.' And so dey'se habin' it, fust one, den tudder, while Miss Jinny she hears 'em and comes fur to let us know. But how de ol' critter eber found you out, dat am one ob de mysteries!"

"She merely guesses I am here," said Penn. "I'm only afraid Carl will overdo his part, and confirm her suspicions."

"'Sh!" hissed Toby in sudden alarm. "She's a comin! She's a comin' right up to dis yer door!" And he flew to fasten it.

He had scarcely done so when a hand tried the latch, and a voice called,--

"Come! ye needn't, none of ye, try to impose on me! I know you're in this very room, Penn Hapgood, and you'll let me in, old friends so, I'm shore! I've bothered long enough with that stupid Dutch boy, and now Virginny wants to keep me, and talk with me; but I've nothing to do with nobody in this house but _you_!"

Mrs. Sprowl had not been on amicable terms with her daughter-in-law's family since Salina and her husband separated; and this last declaration she made loud enough for all in the house to hear.

Penn motioned for Toby to open the door, believing it the better way to admit the lady and conciliate her. But Toby shook his head--and his fist with grim defiance.

"Wal!" said Mrs. Sprowl, "you can do as you please about lettin' a body in; but I'll give ye to understand one thing--I don't stir a foot from this door till it's opened. And if you want it kept secret that you're here, it'll be a great deal better for you, Penn Hapgood, to let me in, than to keep me standin' or settin' all day on the stairs."

The idea of a long siege struck Toby with dismay. He hesitated; but Penn spoke.

"I am very weak, and very ill, madam. But I have learned what it is to be driven from a door that should be opened to welcome me; and I am not willing, under any circumstances, to treat another as you last night treated me."

This was spoken to the lady's face; for Toby, seeing that concealment was at an end, had slipped the bolt, and she had come in.

"Wal! now! Mr. Hapgood!" she began, with a simper, which betrayed a little contrition and a good deal of crafty selfishness,--"you mustn't go to bein' too hard on me for that. Consider that I'm a poor widder, and my life war threatened, and I _had_ to do as I did."

"Well, well," said Penn, "I certainly forgive you. Give her a chair, Toby."

Toby placed the chair, and widow Sprowl sat down.

"I couldn't be easy--old friends so--till I had come over to see how you be," she said, folding her hands, and regarding Penn with a solemn pucker of solicitude. "I know, 'twas a dreadful thing; but it's some comfort to think it's nothing I'm any ways to blame fur. It's hard enough for me to lose a boarder, jest at this time,--say nothing about a friend that's been jest like one of my own family, and that I've cooked, and washed, and ironed fur, as if he war my own son!"

And Mrs. Sprowl wiped her eyes, while she carefully watched the effect of her words.

"I acknowledge, you have cooked, washed, and ironed for me very faithfully," said Penn.

"And I thought," said she,--"old friends so,--may be you wouldn't mind making me a present of the trifle you've paid over and above what's due for your board; for I'm a poor widder, as you know, and my only son is a wanderer on the face of the 'arth."

Penn readily consented to make the present--perhaps reflecting that it would be equally impossible for him ever to board it out, or get her to return the money.

"Then there's that old cloak of yourn," said Mrs. Sprowl, sympathizingly. "I believe you partly promised it to me, didn't you? I can manage to get me a cape out on't."

"Yes, yes," said Penn, "you can have the cloak;" while Toby glared with rage behind her chair.

"And I considered 'twouldn't be no more'n fair that you should pay for the----I don't see how in the world I can afford to lose it, bein' a poor widder, and live geeses' feathers at that, and my only son----" She hid her face in her apron, overcome with emotion.

"What am I to pay for?" asked Penn.

"Fur, you know," she said, "I never would have parted with it fur any money, and it will take at least ten dollars to replace it, which is hard, bein' a poor widder, and as strong a linen tick as ever you see, that I made myself, and that my blessed husband died on, and helped me pick the geese with his own hands; and I never thought, when I took you to board, that ever _that_ bed would be sacrificed by it,--for 'twas on your account, you are ware, it was took last night and done for."

"And you think I ought to pay for the bed!" said Penn, as much astonished as if Silas Ropes had sent in his bill, "To 1 coat tar and feathers, $10.00."

"They said I must look to you," whined the visitor; "and if you don't pay fur't, I don't know who will, I'm shore! for none of them have sot at my board, and drinked of my coffee, and e't of my good corn dodgers, and slep' in my best bed, all for four dollars fifty a week, washing and ironing throwed in, and a poor widder at that!"

"Mrs. Sprowl," said Penn, laughing, ill as he was, "have the kindness not to tell any one that I am here, and as soon as I am able to do so, I will pay you for your excellent feather-bed."

"Thank you,--very good in you, I'm shore!" said the worthy creature, brightening. "And if there's anything else among your things you can spare."

"I'll see! I'll see!" said Penn, wearily. "Leave me now, do!"

"But if you had a few dollars, this morning, towards the bed," she insisted, "for my son----" She almost betrayed herself; being about to say that Lysander had arrived, and must have money; but she coughed, and added, in a changed voice, "is a wanderer on the face of the 'arth."

Penn, however, reflecting that she would have more encouragement to keep his secret if he held the reward in reserve, replied, that he could not possibly spare any money before collecting what was due him from the trustees of the Academy. Her countenance fell on hearing this; and, reluctantly abandoning the object of her mission, she took her leave, and went home to her hopeful son.

X.

_THE WIDOW'S GREEN CHEST._

Mr. Villars had spoken truly when he said Penn's persecutors would not rest here. In fact, Mr. Ropes, and three of his accomplices, were even now on the way to Mrs. Sprowl's abode, to make inquiries concerning the schoolmaster.

That lone creature had scarcely reached her own door when she saw them coming. Now, though Penn was not in the house, her son was. Great, therefore, was her trepidation at the sight of visitors; and she evinced such eagerness to assure them that the object of their pursuit was not there, and appeared altogether so frightened and guilty, that Ropes winked knowingly at his companions, and said,--

"He's here, boys, safe enough."

So they forced their way into the house; her increased tremor and confusion serving only to confirm them in their suspicions.

"Not that we doubt your word in the least, Mrs. Sprowl,"--Ropes smiled sarcastically. "But of course you can't object to our searching the premises, for we're in the performance of a solemn dooty. Any whiskey in the house, widder?"

The obliging lady went to find a bottle. She was gone so long, however, that the visitors became impatient. Ropes accordingly stationed two of his men at the doors, and with the third went in pursuit of Mrs. Sprowl, whom they met coming down stairs.

"Keep your liquor up there, do ye?" said Ropes, significantly.

"I--I thought--" Mrs. Sprowl gasped for breath before she could proceed--"the master had some in his room. But I can't find it. You are at liberty to--to look in his room, if you wants to."

"Wal, it's our dooty to, I suppose. Meantime, you can be bringing the whiskey. Give some to the boys outside, then bring the bottle up to us. That's the way, Gad," said Silas, as she unwillingly obeyed; "allus be perlite to the sex, ye know."

"Sartin! allus!" said Gad.

It was evident these men fancied themselves polite.

"But he ain't here," said Silas, just glancing into Penn's room, "or else she wouldn't have been so willing for us to search. Le's begin at the top of the house, and look along down." They entered a low-roofed, empty garret. "As we can't perceed without the whiskey, we'll wait here. Meantime, I'll tell you what you wanted to know."

They sat down on a little old green chest, and Ropes, producing a plug of tobacco, gave his friend a bite, and took a bite himself.

"What I'm going to say is in perfect confidence, between friends;" chewing and crossing his legs.