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."