Peter Loon (18 page)

“At any rate,” he said, “cat, dog, or rooster, it is
I
who own the coop.”

The parson thought this very good and smiled.

Peter, in the meanwhile, would have done well to pay attention to the limits of his plate–for at first, he realized that he was allowing himself miserly helpings of the meal, and that the puny dollops of squash and turnip looked ridiculous next to the slab of meat on his plate. In compensating for this daintiness, he applied great portions before him till he quickly ran out of room. Everyone else helped themselves as the servings passed, as if it were the most natural thing. He was in near agony, not understanding the manners of his hosts and certain that his awkwardness was visible, even conspicuous, to those about him and that they would share a good laugh at his expense when he was gone.

Nora, meanwhile, though she might have had more sense of eating among strangers than Peter, allowed hunger to overcome nicety, and set upon her portions as they reached her plate. The Clayden sisters were quick to raise interesting subjects for the attention of the table.

“I hope it doesn't continue to rain,” said Sussanah, looking sweetly at no one in particular. “If the fields have dried enough tomorrow we might
pique-nique
,” which last phrase she pronounced in her best French.

A general cry ran up among the young people, and James declared, “Yes! The last of the season! The last of the year!”

Peter was taken by their enthusiasm, though he had no idea what it meant to
pique-nique
.

“You are not to take these young people out on one of your expeditions if tomorrow isn't proper,” said the Captain firmly. “They've experienced enough weather now, and could do with their feet by the fire. You go on one of your outings and, pounds to pennies, Sussanah will let Miss Tillage's bonnet blow away, and James will pull Mr. Loon into the river, trying to guddle a minnow. Emily will chase Henry into a briar and have to be rescued.”

Just these sorts of things might have happened before, since the pronouncement garnered laughter rather than indignation.

“I don't suppose
Martha
has ever done anything wrong,” said Sussanah with feigned vexedness.

“Martha has not yet revealed the degree of her mischief to me, but I don't doubt she has some.” This was all said with great affection, and Martha was delighted, the more so–Peter suspected–because she hadn't a degree of mischief in her, though she may have hoped she did.

Even Nora seemed to appreciate the jocular mood of the gathering and Peter was conscious that her rigid bearing had calmed somewhat. He turned to the pale young woman and flashed a small smile, but she could not return his gaze with anything like it and he was moved to reflection again.

The meal continued in much the same manner for Peter–there was his amazement with the gracious plenty before him, and pleasure in the generally light company; it was not disagreeable to note admiring looks from the young women at the table, nor troublesome to know that he incited their interest; but his pleasure was mixed with wonder. He could not be other than sensible of his differences from these people, most of all because of their unhaunted ease and cheerfulness. Peter hardly knew what it meant to be careless, and was a little frightened by its display.

Throughout the meal, Parson Leach was like a bit of familiar country to Peter, just as he must have been to Nora, who watched him with barely concealed anxiety. The Captain was cordial and gentle with Nora and plainly approving of Peter, and it was an example of a vast separation between them that the cordiality of the hosts could not entirely win over the apprehensions of their young guests.

Peter flagged in his appetite long before his plate was cleared; he was not used to such abundance and his stomach felt fit to burst before he was done. Wine was served at the meal as well, and Peter, who was only used to small beer and the occasional corner of rum, felt a little heady from it. Nora, as the daughter of a tavern keeper, was used to more food and tended to her meal with some vigor despite her narrow carriage and whatever doubts that plagued her.

After dinner they retired to a parlor which was more elegant than anything Peter and Nora had yet seen. It was expected that everyone would sit and continue conversation and perhaps play a game or two, but Peter and Nora were beyond imbibing any further novelties. Their present surroundings were so remote from the circumstances they had left only that morning, and indeed so foreign to anything in their experience, that strangeness alone would have worn them out even had they not known the chill and sapping power of the rain and fright and nervous exhaustion.

Parson Leach took command of Peter and Nora and ordered them to bed, and the others took pity on them. The young women escorted Nora, amid a chorus of goodnights, to the room and bed she would share with Sussanah, and the parson allowed James to lead himself and Peter to guest quarters on the other side of the house.

On the stairs, however, Nora had a moment–or was given a moment–beside Peter, when she said beneath her breath, “I am with you, now,” which sounded part question and part vow. He recalled her question of him the day before and this morning–“You're with Parson Leach,” which again was difficult to separate as query or statement. Peter was not afforded the opportunity to reply, if reply was warranted, but was whisked off by James to the room he would share with Parson Leach.

“Well, Peter,” said the parson, when they shut the door and considered the two beds in the room. “We'll be spared each other's kicks in the night, if not the snores. See, they've laid out nightclothes for you.”

Peter picked up the long nightdress and fingered the soft-worked cloth. The goosedown pillow and mattress were an amazement to him, and the sheets felt cool and crisp beneath his hand; he almost forgot Nora, considering them. When she did surface in his thoughts, a series of associated ideas led him to Captain Clayden's kindness toward the young woman.

“It is difficult not to be fond of Captain Clayden,” said Peter quiedy, almost speaking to himself.

“As it should be,” replied the parson. “He is a fond gentleman. Certainly it is difficult to dislike a gracious host, otherwise we should flee hypocrisy, scavenge supper, and sleep out of doors.”

“But he is against my father,” said Peter, who did fear hypocrisy, “for my father would have been in disagreement with him about our land and the claims of Proprietors.” He stood at the window with the curtain pulled aside–he had never known curtains–and looked out at the last graying portion of the day. He thought the rain had fallen off, and that the wind had come around to another quarter.

“He does not disagree as completely as the Proprietors themselves,” answered the clergyman, “nor as much as many a satellite, who is the more vehement for wanting to please his master. Each man will turn with the wind that favors his course.”

“My father said something like,” Peter half-whispered.

“From what you tell me of your father, Peter, and from your conduct, I guess that he was a wise and prudent man.”

“But it seems as if I am accepting comfort from an enemy, from a man who would strip the people I know best of what they've worked hardest for.”

“I don't think, in the end, that Captain Clayden would.” Parson Leach had been extracting his feet from his boots and sat on the edge of his bed wiggling his toes in his socks and relishing the relief this brought to the soles of his feet. He may have appeared to be answering Peter without feeling, but the young man had learned to suspect deeper things in the parson's complaisant surface.

“They buried him today, no doubt,” said Peter.

“Yes,” said Parson Leach. “I will say a prayer.”

Peter looked over his shoulder to see the man seriously considering his word. The parson looked a little sad, in fact, and Peter had another dizzying sensation as he wondered what he was doing there.

How many people can there be in the world?
he wondered. “But from what I understood of his opinion,” said Peter, “Captain Clayden would put down my claim to the acres I have cleared and anything I accomplished there.”

“He would have his own account of justice. He may have attempted to survey those acres himself, years ago.”

“What's that you say?”

“He is a Captain of men by necessity, and was a brave and cunning leader in the war, but he is by training a surveyor, and worked for the Plymouth Patent when he was a young man.”

Peter considered this, feeling no less dizzy for the knowledge. “And yet, I like him,” he repeated finally.

“I should think less of you if you didn't; for you see, if we only love those who
agree
with us, then our society has no future. The old world has kings and queens to fall back upon, to blame as well as praise, but we have only ourselves, and it is a measure of this civilization, this strange nation of ours and its particular refinements, how willingly we live beside each other in peace when our opinions, and even cherished beliefs are
not
in harmony. Reasonable men
can
disagree, Peter, and there will be every imaginable permutation of opinion and thought–and some that you or I could
not
imagine–no man's lights reflecting any other's completely, not Captain Clayden's and mine, not mine and yours. Captain Clayden might not be in accord with you or me on the necessity of opening the wilderness, or at least not in absolute accord, but I know that he would not willingly see harm come to any man or his children.”

“He
is
taking Nora in.”

“Yes, he is indeed.”

“Each man will turn to the wind that favors his cause,” quoted Peter.

“Reasonable men can disagree,” said the parson, as if repeating a catechism. “All else is war and a blasphemy to God.”

“At any rate, Captain Clayden–with whom I
do
disagree–seems more reasonable to me than Barrow, who would support my claim.”

“And it is Barrow you must shake off,” said the parson with sudden energy, as if he were suddenly in the midst of a sermon. “For any cause of men must hold their own to the highest standards of good will and decency.” He rose and hung his coat behind the door, saying, “You must be the first to call out the man in your own camp who fails in principles and exact yourself to constant watch, demanding of you and yours the behavior you would hope for in your adversary.”

Peter smiled in such a knowing way that the parson might have mistaken him for a Seminarian. The young man said, “Some would not admit that those were the tactics to win a war.”

“They are the tactics to
avoid
war,” said the clergyman.

Peter understood this, though perhaps only at that very instant.

Briefly, as Parson Leach turned away, he gripped Peter's shoulder.

WHEN PETER WOKE, WITH SUNLIGHT BRIGHT IN THE ROOM, PARSON
Leach and his boots were up and gone. Peter took some moments, blinking at the ceiling and the play of light there, to appraise the events that led him to this chamber and the house surrounding it, none of which he would have had the experience to envision two days ago.