The air was yet chill with the fresh north-wind, that had blown all day, to go down only with the sun, while the misty horizon of the afternoon was now a well-defined fog-bank rolling in from over the sea, and sending a damp breath in advance of its own coming.
"We shall have a nasty night," said Hugh, looking at the smoke-like wall. He and Dorothy were again riding side by side, with the other two just ahead, but out of ear-shot, and they were making a short detour across the fields, their course taking them past the Jameson place.
It was a pretentious-looking house, painted white, with green blinds; and a broad piazza was set back amid the fluted columns that ran up to support the upper floor, whose dormer windows jutted out among the branches of the oak and elm trees. On the piazza, were several scarlet-coated gentry.
"Enjoying himself, no doubt, with rogues of his own ilk," was John Devereux's comment, as he looked over his shoulder at Hugh,—the two now being quite close to one another.
"There might be a thousand rather than a hundred of the redcoats at the Neck, by the way they seem to be ever turning up about the place," Hugh muttered in reply, without taking the trouble to look toward the house.
"And here come some more," announced Mary, in a tone of disgust, as half-a-dozen scarlet coats appeared suddenly in the field before them.
They were riding at a reckless pace which soon brought them abreast of the four, who were now taking their way quite soberly. And as they swept past, the officer in the rear doffed his hat, while he bent his eyes upon Dorothy's flushed face with an intensity that made Hugh Knollys say half aloud, "The impudent young dog—what does he mean?"
Mary Broughton sat rigidly in her saddle, turning her head away at sight of the face disclosed by the uplifted hat. But Dorothy smiled shyly into the bright, daring eyes.
A little farther along they came upon three fishermen trudging the same way as they were bound, one of them being young Bait, whose attempt at singing had brought upon him Doak's wrath the night before.
"Jameson be givin' a dinner to some o' the redcoats," he said, as the riders overtook him and his companions, one of whom added angrily,—
"An' he best have a care that he don't get his roof burnt over him an' his d——d King's friends."
"Have a care yourself, man," said John Devereux, warningly. "'T is not wise to do aught yet that will give them a handle to use for our own hurt."
"Aye," muttered the third, "that may do for now. But if Jameson don't go with his own sort when they leave the place, it may not be so easy for him as it has been in the past."
"How long, think ye, Master John, afore the redcoats quit the Neck?" inquired Bait.
"That were a hard matter for any one to say," was the young man's reply. Then, as he urged his horse forward, he turned to add over his shoulder, "But take my advice, and avoid any brawling with the soldiers, for the present, should you run foul of them."
"That will have to be as it may," one of the men answered doggedly, "accordin' as to how they mind their own affairs and let us alone."
"We shall come to have fighting in our streets yet, Jack; you may be sure of it," said Hugh Knollys. "Our men can never brook with any patience the swaggering of these impudent fellows."
The other glanced at him warningly, with a significant motion of the head toward Dorothy; but the girl did not appear to notice their talk, and was looking dreamingly away into the distance.
Mary Broughton, who was slightly in advance, turned her head; and Hugh saw how her blue eyes were kindling as she exclaimed, "I, for one, should not care if wedidcome to blows! I'd like to see our men show the Britishers that they cannot have matters altogether their own way down here."
"Would you like to take a gun yourself, Mary, and help teach them this lesson?" was Hugh's laughing question.
"Yes," she declared resolutely. "And I am sure I could handle it, too."
"You'll never need to do that, sweetheart, so long as I live to carry out your mind," said Jack, who had been wondering why Hugh looked at Dorothy so oddly, and why she was so strangely silent.
When the early evening meal was over that night, the two young men took their way into the town, where a meeting was to be held.
Old Leet rowed them down, they preferring this as being least likely to attract notice; and avoiding the old wharf, they landed on the beach, near the warehouses, thence taking their way cautiously through the fish-flakes that filled the fields, until they reached the streets up in the town. These were deserted, but filled with lurking shadows, being dimly lit by a stray lamp fastened here and there to the buildings.
They walked slowly toward the town hall, while they talked in low tones of Jameson, making no doubt but that his attentions and hospitality to the Britishers would be known and commented upon at the meeting.
When close to the hall a wild clamor broke out from somewhere ahead of them; and they hurried forward to learn what it might mean.
It was a street fight between the redcoats and the townspeople; and although no powder was being used, strong arms and hard fists were doing almost as painful work.
The British frigate "Lively" had dropped anchor in the harbor at sunset, and as soon as darkness came, a press-gang had been sent on shore to capture such sturdy fishermen as might be abroad, and impress them into the service of His Majesty's navy.
Several men had already been taken, and they were resisting most lustily, while such of their friends as chanced to be in the streets were coming to their rescue.
But these were few in number, as most of the citizens who were not at their homes were now gathered in the town hall, awaiting the opening of the meeting, which was to be of more than usual importance, as measures were to be taken with respect to the new tyranny indicated by the presence of soldiers quartered upon the Neck.
While the two young men paused on a street corner overlooking the combatants, hesitating as to what might be the best thing for them to do, the light from a house over the way shone down upon one figure, as though singling it out from the others.
It was that of a swarthy, strongly built young fellow, taller than most of those about him, and with a bright, resolute face. Hatless, and in his shirt-sleeves, he was raining heavy blows upon such of the enemy as sought to lay hands on him.
"'T is Jem Mugford!" exclaimed Hugh. "See, Jack, what a gallant fight he is making for himself!"
Mugford was well known in the town, and was already, despite his youth, the captain of a merchant vessel. He had been but recently married; and Jack and Hugh recalled the sunny morning when they saw him, looking so handsome and happy, alongside the pretty girl he had just taken for his wife.
They both, moved by the same impulse, now made a dash toward him; but the surging crowd—of friends and foes alike—came between in a way to frustrate their intention. Then, while they were still struggling to reach him, there went up a loud, angry shout bristling with vigorous oaths: "They've got Jem! They've got him an' carried him off! Squael 'em, squael 'em!"[1]
[1] "Rock them!" i.e. "Throw rocks at them!"
The cries and tumult were deafening; and the dark mass rolled slowly down the street, leaving the young men almost alone.
"'T is an outrage!" exclaimed Hugh Knollys, panting from his unavailing exertions. "We need all of us to carry guns to guard against such dastardly work. What will his poor wife do, and her father, now that they'll not have Jem to look to for support and defence?"
"I take it she will not lack for good defenders," answered Jack, his voice trembling with anger, "not so long as you and I live in the town, to say naught of his other friends. With the enemy in our harbor, and amongst us in the very town, the quicker we arm the better, say I. Let us go first to see Mistress Mugford, and then we'll go to the hall."
But Hugh held back, for he had a wholesome dread of women's tears and hysterics.
"There will be plenty to tell her the bad news, poor soul," he said; "and women, too, who will know best how to console and comfort her."
Jack saw the force of this, and did not press the matter; so they took their way to the town hall, which was already crowded, although its tightly shuttered windows gave no sign of the life within. The door was strongly barred, and only opened to the new-comers after they had satisfied the sentinel on guard of their right to be admitted.
Gray heads and brown were there, the old and the young, representing the best blood of the town. And there was a generous sprinkling of weather-beaten and stout-hearted sailors and fishermen, who listened silently, with grave faces and eager eyes, to all that was said.
The talk was for the most part a review of matters considered at former meetings, to the effect that Parliament, being a body wherein no member represented the colonies, had yet undertaken the making of laws affecting not only the property, but the liberty and lives of His Majesty's American subjects—it was argued that such right did not exist, nor any authority to annul or in any manner alter the charter of the Province, nor to interfere with its councillors, justices, sheriffs, or jurors.
The matter of the British soldiers being quartered upon the Neck was also taken up, and with it the outrage committed that very evening by the press-gang; and in view of these attacks upon the peace of the town it was deemed wise to push forward at once the measures already agitated looking to protection and safety.
The fort was to be repaired, and put in condition for proper defence. The militia consisted at this time of a regiment of seven companies of active, well-disciplined men, but under the command of officers commissioned by Governor Gage or his predecessors. It was deemed expedient that these should no longer act, but that they should be replaced by others chosen by vote of the town. And every citizen should possess himself of a firearm and bayonet, both in good order, and should be equipped with thirty rounds of cartridges and ball, as well as a pouch and knapsack.
It was also resolved that effectual measures be taken for the silencing, or expulsion from the community, of those "ministerial tools and Jacobites," who persisted in opposing the action of the various committees, or else held themselves aloof from taking part in the measures needful to protect the rights of the Province and people.
These men who thus spoke and conferred with each other were an impressive embodiment of the spirit which actuated the entire community. Their looks and words were glowing with prayerful earnestness, their manner full of dignity and solemnity.
The memory of these,—of their lofty ideality of aspiration, of the purity of their principles and motives, their love of country and integrity of purpose,—all this is a sacred treasure for the old town, and one still potent with patriotic influence.
Theirs was not the courage that shows forth in bravado, and which delights, from mere exuberance of spirit, in defying peril for its own sake. Rather was it the true, deeper courage of devotion,—the courage that sacrificed self for others, and which for principle and what was deemed simple duty was ready to endure all things. It was the devotion that would accept all results, would meet death, if needs be, or wear life away in slow suffering.
Such courage was the solid material, not the flash and glitter that pleases and bewilders, and then is as unremembered as is the pebble a child tosses into the sea, and having watched the ripple it makes, never thinks of again.
All this has become the priceless jewel of our national history for all time, the salt that gives savor to our country's life. The keynote of it was this,—these men truly loved their country, and were its loyal, steadfast friends. And are we not told from the highest of all high sources that "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends"?
It was nearly midnight when the two young men took their way back through the fields to their boat and its faithful guardian.
They were soon afloat, and none but Leet would have ventured to row so steadily and rapidly down Great Bay in the fog that now shut in about them like a wall of white wool, muffling all objects from sight.
The stillness was intense, save for the lapping of the water on the near-by shore,—this seeming to quicken the old darkey's acute knowledge of the course he was rowing.
The young men sat in either end of the boat, with Leet between them; and not a word was spoken until the keel grated on the sand of Riverhead Beach.
The old negro required no light to secure the craft in its accustomed place; and as the others stood waiting for him to do this, a faint sound of galloping horses came to their cars, apparently from down Devereux Lane, which led from the Salem road directly to the beach, and so on to the Neck.
They listened intently, while the sound came unmistakably nearer.
"Hist, Jack!" said Hugh, in a low voice; "that must be the redcoats coming from Jameson's dinner."
"'T is sure to be, judging from the reckless fashion of their riding. Leet, come with us,—'t is as well to step behind the boathouse until they pass, for we want no challenging at this hour of the night." And as John Devereux said this, he and his companions passed quickly behind the small building.
A dull yellow gleam showed smearingly through the fog as the horsemen clattered by, with here and there a lantern fastened to their saddles; and their loud laughter and boisterous talk seemed to bespeak a free indulgence in good wines and liquors.
As they struck the beach they fell into a more sober pace, and the last two, riding side by side, were talking in tones that came distinctly to the ears of those concealed behind the boathouse.
"'T is like that Southorn hopes to obtain more certain information by accepting the old fellow's hospitality," said one of them; "for it cannot be that the wine is the only attraction, to judge from the way he passed it by to-night."
"Aye," was the reply. "He seemed not to care whether it were good Christian fare we were having once more, or the dogs' food of the camp."
"Maybe he is sickened, like the rest of us, with this heathen land and its folk, and rues the day he ever left the only country fit for a man to live in, to be sent to this strip o' land, with never a petticoat or bright eye to make the stupid time a little more bearable."
The other man laughed. "Perchance if we could but get speech with Jameson's fair friend of whom he prated so much, we might be singing another tune. What was it he called her—such a heathenish name it was never my lot to hear before?"
"He called her 'Mistress Penine;' but she is no blushing maid, for he said—"
Here the words, which had been growing less distinct, died away altogether, and the glow of the lanterns was shut off by the fog, as the clattering of hoofs became lost in the roar of the surf beating in from the seaward side.
John Devereux had refrained from acquainting Hugh with his father's discovery of Aunt Penine's treachery; but now, as they walked toward the house, he told him the facts.
"Think you, Jack, that she has been holding any further communication with Jameson?" Hugh asked.
"That would seem most unlikely, for she has been confined to her room since last Monday night, and both my father and Dot have been watchful of the servants, although I do not believe there is a traitor amongst them. As to Pashar, he is too young to rightfully sense what he was doing, even if he had the wit. Fear of Aunt Penine on the one hand, and a liking for Jameson's loose silver on the other, were his only incentives; but dread of my father's displeasure has now put an end to all that."
He had persuaded Hugh to return with him for the night, instead of going to the house of a married cousin living in the town, as he proposed doing, for the reason that it would put him so much farther on the way to his own place, whither he intended to ride the next morning, notwithstanding it would be the Sabbath.
They found the household long since retired, save only its head; and when they were seated in the dining-room the young men gave him a detailed account of the evening's doings.
When this had been done, Joseph Devereux imparted to them his determination to lodge with the committee the name of his sister-in-law, to be listed with those of the other unfaithful townspeople. He had also resolved that on the following Monday she should be carried in his coach to her brother's house, in Lynn, for a future residence.
This had come from the fact that soon after the two young men had departed for the town, a messenger from Jameson brought her a communication.
The fellow had refused to leave without a reply, until forced thereto by the servants whom Joseph Devereux summoned for that purpose; and he went away threatening vengeance upon the entire household when he should have reported to his master the indignity to which he had been subjected.
"Do you know, father," asked Jack, "what it was to which he expected an answer from Aunt Penine—I mean, anything as to the contents of the letter?"
"Nay, my boy. She refused to see me at first; and when I insisted upon it, she became defiant, and would not converse with me o' the matter, saying that it was her own concern, and naught to do with my business. And so I told her that, such being the case, she should hold herself in readiness to be driven to her brother's house on Monday, when she and her concerns would give no further trouble to me or my household."
"Jameson will not be safe a moment," said Hugh Knollys, "after the redcoats are withdrawn. Indeed," he added, "'t would be no great wonder if some of the fisherfolk should even now burn the roof over his head."
"'T is to be hoped they'll do no such thing," said the elder man, shaking his head; "for 'twould surely be used as a pretence for injuring the innocent,—perchance the townsfolk at large."
He now turned to his son and said in a tone of deep anxiety: "By the way, Jack, we must see to it that all be over-careful how such matters be talked on before Dot. I know not what has come to the child. She has been moody and unlike herself all the evening, starting at every sound, as if fearful o' danger. And when she came to tell me good-night awhile ago, she broke down in great weeping. I had much ado to soothe her; and to all my questioning she had but the one answer, that she did not know what ailed her, only that she felt as though her heart would break."
Jack looked very serious, and Hugh Knollys moved uneasily in his chair. Then the former said: "Perhaps it is only that she is in a way unstrung from the excitement of last night. I thought this afternoon that she acted not quite like herself,—that she seemed to have something on her mind. Did you not note it, Hugh?"
Hugh started, and looked still more uncomfortable. His thoughts had been dwelling upon Dorothy's unusual behavior during the afternoon. He was thinking of her reticence and impatience,—of the acerbity of her manner toward himself; and he recalled the quick flushing of her face as the young officer lifted his hat.
All this had made a distinct impression upon him; but the affair was her own,—one which he felt reluctant to mention even to her father or brother. And so, in answer to Jack's direct question, he uttered one of the few falsehoods of his life.
"Nay, Jack; I noted nothing unusual in her manner. I think as you, that she has been a bit overwrought by last night's happenings. Ah," he exclaimed, with animation, and glad to speak the truth once more, "but it was a brave thing she did! And yet she likes to make naught of it."
"Dorothy is brave by nature," her father said, his eye's kindling with pride. "And she is too young to comprehend the full weight o' what she did, prompted as it was by impulse, and by love for her brother." Then turning to Jack, he asked with a change of manner, "Did you see or hear aught o' the British frigate on your way home?"
"Nothing, father,—only, as I told you, that she dropped anchor in Little Harbor, just as the darkness fell."
"She'd not be likely to go from her anchorage in this fog." The old man spoke musingly, while he slowly filled his pipe for a final smoke before retiring for the night.
"But I take it they will move from there as soon as may be, on account of fearing the trouble they have a right to expect because of the men they've stolen," Hugh said indignantly.
"Yes," added Jack, "even if only to get into Great Bay, and closer to their fellows on the Neck."
"'T is a thousand pities they should have taken Mugford," the old gentleman remarked, as he carefully lit his pipe.
"Yes," his son assented; "it is in every way a pity, for if they wish to invite trouble they could not have made a better opening for ill feeling among the people of the town."
"Indeed they could not," Hugh exclaimed hotly. "Every one is sure to take Mugford's abduction to heart, and find a way to make the redcoats answer for it."
"We shall find a way, please God, to make them all answer for their overbearing and insolence to us as a country as well as individuals," Joseph Devereux said gravely. "And that reminds me, I had surely thought Broughton and the rest o' the committee would have returned from Boston this night."
"He was very doubtful, as I think, of getting back before to-morrow, or perhaps until Monday." And a dreamy look softened Jack's face, as if he might be thinking of what was to be told when Nicholson Broughton returned.
"Jack, what a lucky beggar you are!" exclaimed Hugh, with a touch of envy in his tone, as the two young men tarried a moment in the former's room before saying good-night.
Jack opened his eyes still wider, exactly after the fashion of Dorothy when she was surprised.
"You see," Hugh added nervously, "you love Mary Broughton, and she loves you, and you have the approval and blessing of both fathers. Now I—" Here he stammered, and then became silent.
"What is it, Hugh—do you wish me to understand that you love Mary yourself?"
John Devereux spoke seriously, almost jealously, for an old suspicion was beginning to awaken once more within him.
But Hugh laughed in a way to forever remove any such feeling from his friend's mind.
"I—I love Mary!" he exclaimed. "I never dreamed of such a thing, Jack, although I admit that she is very beautiful, and possesses everything to call forth any man's best and deepest love. But, my dear Jack, if you were not blinded, you might see that the world holds other girls than Mary." And he looked wistfully at his friend, as if wishing him to know something he hesitated to put into words.
"Do you mean that you are in love with some one, Hugh?" asked Jack, laying his hand on the other's broad shoulder.
Hugh's blue eyes lowered as bashfully as those of a girl, and Jack, now smiling at him, said, "Who is it—Polly Chine, over at the Fountain Inn?"
"Polly Chine!" Hugh answered disgustedly. "A great strapping red-cheeked clatter-tongue, who can do naught but laugh?"
"Well, if 't is not Polly, then I am all at sea, for I never knew you to do more than speak to another girl, unless—" And he paused, as something in Hugh's pleading eyes caught his attention and awoke his senses with a rush.
"Oh, Hugh—it surely is not—" But Knollys interrupted him.
"Yes, Jack," he said with slow earnestness, "it is—Dorothy."
Silence followed this avowal, and Jack's hand fell from his friend's shoulder. Then with an incredulous laugh he said: "Dorothy—why she is little more than a baby, with no thought beyond her horse and other pets. 'T was not long since I came upon her playing at dolls with little 'Bitha."
"She will be seventeen her next birthday," Hugh retorted with some impatience; "and that is but a year less than Mary Broughton's age."
"Yes," Jack admitted. "But it is several months yet to Dot's birthday; and those months, nor yet another year, can scarce give to my little sister the womanly depth for sentiment and suffering that Mary now possesses."
"Think ye so, Jack?" said Hugh, as though inclined to argue the matter. "You know 't is odd, sometimes, how little we guess aright the nature of those akin to us, however dear we may love them."
The young man sighed as he thought of the look he caught in Dorothy's eyes when the olive-faced horseman uncovered his handsome head, and also recalled the flushing of her cheeks at his mother's banter.
Jack's hand was now once more upon Hugh's shoulder, and he said in his warm, impulsive way: "See here, old fellow, I'd sooner have you for a brother than any other man I know; and my father is well-nigh certain to approve. Only I feel sure he would say what I now ask of you, and that is, not to speak of such matters to little Dot—not yet awhile; for it would only risk making her think of what otherwise might never come into that wilful head of hers. And while there seem to be such grave matters gathering for our attention, it were best not to give her heart aught to trouble over."
"Then you admit she might be woman enough to take to heart whatever ill would come to me?" Hugh asked eagerly.
Jack's answer was guarded, although not lacking in kindly feeling.
"The child has a warm heart, Hugh, and has known you long enough to feel deep sorrow should any evil come to you—which God forbid. But take my advice, and do not stir deeper thought in her, to make her sorrow like a woman, but let her keep her child's heart awhile longer."
After the young men had bidden each other more than a usually cordial good-night, Hugh Knollys remained seated for a long time in his own room, his hands deep in his pockets, and his legs stretched to their uttermost length. He was lost in thoughts that were neither entirely pleasurable nor yet altogether lacking in that quality.
He had loved Dorothy since she was a child, and he admired her character far more than that of any girl he had ever known. The reckless daring of her nature—the trait Aunt Penine had censured so severely, and which the others of the family regarded somewhat askance—met with a quick sympathy from his own impulsive temperament; and this last outburst of her intrepid spirit had acted like a torch to set aflame all his dreams and desires. And now the suspicion that some sort of an understanding existed between the girl and this young Britisher gave him a fierce desire to speak out, and claim for his own that which he feared the other man might seek to take from him.
And so he chafed at his friend's injunction, hoping as he did, that, could he but obtain the first hearing, the redcoat's chances might be weakened, if not destroyed altogether.
As he sat here alone, there came to him like a flash the memory of one late afternoon in a long-ago autumn, when, upon his return from a fishing-trip, he found Dorothy—then a dimpled mite of seven or eight—visiting his mother, as she often did in those days.
The child had been left to amuse herself alone; and this she did by taking down a powder-horn hanging upon the wall, filled with some cherished bullets which Hugh was hoarding as priceless treasures.
He seemed to see again the great dark room, lit only by the leaping flames from the logs piled in the open fireplace, and the little scarlet-clad child looking up with big startled eyes at his indignant face as he stood in the doorway, while the precious bullets poured in a rattling shower over the wooden' floor. He saw once more her look turn to fiery anger, as he strode over and boxed her ears; and he could hear the girlish treble crying, "Wait, Hugh Knollys, until I am as big as you, and I'll hurt you sorely for that!"
Aye, and she had already hurt him sorely, for all his breadth of shoulder and length of limb; she had hurt him in a way to make all his life a bitter sorrow should she now reject his love!
October had come, with an unusual glory of late wild-flowers and reddened leaves.
The soldiers were still quartered upon the Neck, and owing to the many collisions between them and the townspeople, the Governor had seen fit to augment the force. Several times the citizens had almost determined to march to the Neck and exterminate the entire body of Britishers; but wiser counsels prevailed, and no attack was made.
Governor Gage had issued a proclamation forbidding the assembling of the legislature which had been called to meet at Salem upon the fifth of the month. But notwithstanding this interdiction it had convened upon the appointed day, and resolved itself into a Provincial Congress.
Azar Orne, Jeremiah Lee, and Elbridge Gerry were the delegates representing Marblehead, and they took a prominent part in the proceedings. A number of important matters were discussed and acted upon, and a committee was appointed for "Observation and Prevention," and with instructions to "co-operate with other towns in the Province for preventing any of the inhabitants, so disposed, from supplying the English troops with labor, lumber, bricks, spars, or any other material whatsoever, except such as humanity requires."
The loyalists in the town were still zealous in the King's cause, and would not be silenced. And they entreated their neighbors and friends to recede, before it became too late, from the position they had taken. But the only reply of the patriots was, "Death rather than submission!" And they went on making provision for the organization of an army of their own.
Companies of "Minute Men" were enlisted, and these were disciplined and equipped. A compensation of two shillings per day was to be allowed each private; and to sergeants, drummers, fifers, and clerks, three shillings each. First and second lieutenants were to receive four shillings sixpence, and captains, five shillings. Pay was to be allowed for but three days in each week, although a service of four hours a day was required.
The town house was now filled—as were also most of the warehouses and other buildings—with the stored goods of Boston merchants, who were suffering from the operation of the Port Bill, which had closed that harbor to their business. And owing to this, as also by reason of the greater advantage afforded for securing privacy, the townsmen now held their meetings at the old tavern on Front Street, which faced the water, thus giving a good opportunity for observing the movements of the enemy upon the Neck.
John Glover, one of the town's foremost men, and a stanch patriot, lived near here; and he was now at the head of the regiment in which were John Devereux and Hugh Knollys,—the former being second lieutenant in the company of which Nicholson Broughton was captain, and in whose ranks Hugh was serving as a private.
Soon after his return from Boston, Broughton had closed his own house, deeming it too much exposed to the enemy for the safety of his daughter, who was compelled during his many absences to remain there alone with the servants; and Mary had gone with them to the house of a married aunt—Mistress Horton—living in a more retired portion of the town, away from the water.
He had consented, in response to the urging of his prospective son-in-law, that the wedding should take place before the winter was over. And thus it was that Mary, being busy with preparations for the event, left Dorothy much to herself,—more, perhaps, than was well for her at this particular time.
Aunt Penine had departed upon the day her brother-in-law fixed; but under Aunt Lettice's mild guidance, coupled with Tyntie's efficient rule, the household went on fully as well as before,—better, indeed, in many respects, for there was no opposing will to make discord.
The tory Jameson still remained under an unburned roof, despite the mutterings against him; and he continued to entertain the redcoats with lavish hospitality.
Several times, during trips to and from the Knollys house, Dorothy, escorted by Hugh or her brother—sometimes by both—or by old Leet, had encountered the young officer. But nothing more than a bow and smile had passed between them since the morning he had turned so haughtily from her father's presence.
It was about the middle of the month, and the shutters of all the windows were opened wide to let in the flood of autumn sunshine as the family sat at breakfast; and the silver service in front of Aunt Lettice glinted like little winking eyes where it caught the golden flood.
Her delicate white hands had poured out the sweetened hot milk and water which she and 'Bitha drank in lieu of tea, while her brother-in-law, busy with looking over a copy of the "Salem Gazette" brought by his son the night before, was letting his coffee cool.
Jack himself, after a hastily despatched breakfast, had already gone into the town, where he had matters of importance to look after, not the least of them being to dine at the Hortons' with Mary and her father; and he would not return until late in the evening.
Dorothy had little to say, seeming to be busy with her own thoughts; but she could not help smiling as little 'Bitha murmured softly, "Oh, grandame, I am all full of glory by now, for I caught a lot of sunshine on my spoon and swallowed it."
"And you'll be full of a mess, child, if you stir your porridge about in such reckless fashion," said Aunt Lettice, smiling as her eyes met Dorothy's.
"Dot," her father now asked suddenly, lifting his eyes from the paper, "when did you last see old Ruth Lecrow?"
Dorothy started, and her big eyes turned to him with a troubled look as she answered, "It is all of a month since I saw her."
The girl's conscience smote her, as never before had she neglected for so long a time to go and see the faithful carer of her own motherless infancy, or else send needful provision for her impoverished old age.
"A month!" her father repeated. "How is that, my child?" Then with a searching, anxious look into her downcast face, he said more gently: "You had best take Leet, and go to Ruth this very morning. The air and sun be fine enough to bring back the roses to your cheeks. I am thinking that you stop within doors too much o' late."
Before Dorothy could reply, Aunt Lettice reminded him that Leet was to meet Jack in the town that morning.
"Then I will walk, father," the girl said, "and take Pashar."
With this she arose from the table and was about to leave the room, when 'Bitha put in a petition that she might accompany her.
"No, 'Bitha," interposed her grandmother, "you made such a froach[1] of your sampler yesterday that you have it all to do over again this morning, as you promised me." She spoke with gentle firmness, and the child hung her head in silence.
[1] Spoiled work.
"Never mind, 'Bitha," Dorothy said soothingly, as she touched the small blonde head,—"mayhap we can have Leet take us to see Mistress Knollys this afternoon."
"I'd sooner go on the water, Dot," the child suggested timidly. Then turning to the head of the house, she asked: "Cannot we go out in one of the boats, Uncle Joseph? We've not been on the water for a long time." And the blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the old gentleman, who had just set down his emptied cup.
"Nay, my child," he answered, "that you must not; and for the same reason that none have been for so long a time. None o' ye must go nigh the boats until the redcoats be gone from the Neck."
"When will they go?" asked 'Bitha, pouting a little. "They have spoiled our good times for long past. We cannot go anywhere as we used."
"Nor can others older than you, my child," he said with an unmirthful smile, as he arose from the table. "The soldiers are a pest in the town, little one. But till the King sees fit to call them off, or we find a way to make them go, you must be content to stop nigh the house, and away from the boats." Then he added teasingly, as he put his hand upon her head, "The redcoats may carry you off, if you put yourself in their way."
'Bitha shook off his hand as she gave her small head a belligerent toss. "If they tried to do that, Uncle Joseph, I'd push them over the rocks, as Mary Broughton did that redcoat we met in the cave. And oh, Dot,"—turning to her—"that 'minds me that the other day when I was with Leet and Trent, down in the ten-acre lot, that same redcoat was there, sitting in the door of the shed, with his horse standing nigh. And when he saw us coming, he hurried away. And Trent said 't was lucky no sheep were within the shed for him to steal."
"He is a gentleman, 'Bitha, and would no more steal my father's sheep than would you or I!"
Dorothy's voice was full of indignation, and the child's eyes opened wide at its unusual sharpness. But this, as well as her heightened color, her father and Aunt Lettice ascribed to embarrassment at being reminded of her exploit of the past summer.
All the outside world lay flooded in the warm golden sunshine that blunted the cold edge of the wind rushing from the north, where sullen cloud-banks were piling up in a way to threaten a change of weather before night. The sea lay a floor of molten silver and burnished steel, and the crows called incessantly from the woods.
Dorothy chose to take a short cut across the fields to old Ruth's abode; and while skirting the ten-acre lot, she cast a furtive glance toward the large shed, as if expecting to see a scarlet coat in the doorway.
But only the homespun-clad form of Trent was there, letting out a large flock of sheep, who came gambolling about him, and then dispersed over the dry brown grass, where a bright green patch showed here and there.
"'T was queer, Mist'ess Dor'thy, dat we nebber foun' de two cows dat strayed so long 'go, don't ye t'ink?" inquired Pashar, who followed close behind her with a big basket on his arm.
Dorothy, intent upon her own affairs, did not reply, and the boy went on: "Trent say now dat he b'leebe de redcoats stole 'em, fo' sure."
"How could that be," she asked sharply, "when the cows were missing before any soldiers came down here?"
"I dunno, Mist'ess—on'y dat's what Trent say, an' what we all b'leebe."
Here Dorothy was startled by a wild, shrill yell from the boy, and turned quickly to see the cause of it. The sheep had discovered a broken place in the fence, and were trooping through it en masse; and if once out of the field, there was nothing to bar their way to Riverhead Beach.
Trent had already started in pursuit, but it was easy to see that many of the flock would be on the other side of the fence before he could stop them.
"Give me the basket," Dorothy said to the negro boy, "and go to help Trent. Then come to Ruth's after me."
She had scarcely spoken when he, giving her the basket, uttered another wild yell and was off, speeding after the wayward sheep. He was soon alongside Trent, who had stopped to put some bars across the opening, at which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses. But these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, charged through them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side with a speed that quickly carried him out of sight.
Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which she crossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in a narrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness was broken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear of the intruder.
The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led in different directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tall pine-trees standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothy pursued brought her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took a sharp turn, and then ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, about the door of which grew a honeysuckle vine.
In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden; everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in the unshuttered windows were spotlessly bright.
Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within the living-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, and low-ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls, bedimmed with age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was the open hearth, back of which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling in front of the logs was a girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair of bellows to blow it into a brisker flame.
She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, but started quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your granny this morning?"
"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing to her feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally old and worried face.
"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down the heavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhat disarranged the curls over which it was drawn.
"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, she says. An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. She was sayin' last evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."
Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her old nurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with an open Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.
"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunny face, that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devoured its every feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill, for sure. An' what a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be a fine day outside. Ah," with a deep sigh, "if I could only get about as I used to, my lamb!" The old woman's voice faltered, and the moisture was showing in her eyes.
"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set," Dorothy said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always make you feel poorly."
"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday I was runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an' but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An' here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor granddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her. An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."
Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she can for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had that moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for anything.
She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only she be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."
The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.
As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of things I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you another time."
"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old nurse."
"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that fashion, I'll go straight home again."
The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher was here yesterday to see me."
"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath; for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.
"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it afterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She did not want to tell me, either; but I made her."
"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what she said, Ruth."
The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her restless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She told me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one could change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with a scarlet color."
"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes looked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon the pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still more impressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside. But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said that naught could change it,—that his heart was set to ye as the flowers to the sunshine,—that ye held him to wind about your little finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow, would come to ye with it."
Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thought her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. For a moment—only a moment—she felt frightened and almost helpless, even turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outer room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.
Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and she laughed with joyous disbelief.
"Nonsense, Ruth,—nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."
"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping her wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time will bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some herbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night, an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to Lynn to 'bide."
"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you fret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and get well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and Mary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."
Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my lamb, if ye married the right man."
Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,—did Moll tell you where he was?"
"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd best keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had to open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,—keep all the redcoats away from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to the true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys—he be most fit for ye."
Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he is almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to any one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry Hugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."
"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and her lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make a jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.
"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and so don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly head threateningly.