From Kingdom to Colony
She promised all this, and turned away as he rode off, waving a
farewell to his host, who stood within the porch, with Aunt Lettice and
little 'Bitha alongside him.
Hugh Knollys followed, with a gay good-by to all, while John Devereux,
who had been talking with Dorothy, now vaulted into his saddle.
As he was about to start, Mary Broughton passed along in her slow walk
to the house. She turned, and their eyes met in a look that told of a
mutual understanding. But she flushed a little, while he only smiled,
doffing his hat as he rode slowly past her down the driveway.
Dorothy was waiting, close to her father, on the porch.
"Don't you wish you were a man, Mary," she said, as her friend came up
the steps, "so that you could ride away to do battle for our rights,
instead of being only a woman, to stop at home and wonder and worry
over matters, while the baking and churning must be done day after day?"
Her father smiled at this, and pinched Dorothy's cheek; then a sadness
came to his face as he looked at her.
"To be a woman does not always mean the doing of over-much baking or
housework," said Mary, with a meaning smile, her cheeks fresher and her
blue eyes brighter, like the flowers, from the pure morning air.
Joseph Devereux nodded an assent. "If you and Mary," he said to
Dorothy, "were to ride to Boston this day, who would there be to do
what you are entrusted with the doing on? Mark ye, my daughter," and
he bent a grave look upon her bright face, "women, as well as men, have
high and holy duties to perform,--aye, indeed, some of them even
higher. Where would come the nerve and hope for the proper ambition o'
men's minds, were there no mothers and wives and--sweethearts, to make
their lives worth the living, and their homes worth fighting for,--yes,
and their country so much more worth saving from oppression. Nay, my
baby, what would become o' your old father, if he had not a little maid
to console him, when his only son must needs face risks and dangers?"
Dorothy did not answer, but her face softened, and her arm stole up
about his neck.
"Dot," said Mary, presently, "do not forget the matter we talked of
last evening,--that your father was to know."
"And pray, what is that?" the old gentleman asked briskly.
"Come into the library, father, with Mary and me, and we will tell
you." And slipping her hand around his arm, she started to lead him
in. Mary was about to follow, when he turned to her and held out his
other arm. With an answering smile she placed her hand within it, and
all three went inside.
Aunt Lettice had gone off to her own apartments, taking 'Bitha for her
usual morning instructing, and so they were not likely to be disturbed.
As soon as her father was seated, Dorothy, standing by the window,
burst forth with her accustomed vehemence.
"I want to tell you, father," she exclaimed, "that I am sure Aunt
Penine is a loyalist!"
"Chut, chut!" he replied reprovingly. But he smiled, used as he was to
the differences betwixt his daughter and her exacting relative.
"I have good reason for what I say," Dorothy insisted; "and Mary can
tell you so, as well."
"Well, child, first tell me all about it, and do not begin by misnaming
any one," her father said gently.
She told him in a few rapid words,--first, what had happened the
evening before, and ending by a detailed account of finding the tea in
the store-closet.
Her father was scowling ominously by the time the story was finished;
and he sat in silence for a few moments, his head bent, as though
considering what she had told him. Then he said: "I thank you, my
child, for what you have told me. I must speak with Penine o' these
matters, and that right away. Do you go, Dot, and tell her I wish to
talk with her, and must do so as soon as she can see me in her room."
"Why not let Mary go?" Dorothy suggested. "Aunt Penine likes Mary, and
she does not like me--nor I her." And she looked quite belligerent.
"I will be glad to go, if you say so," Mary offered, rising from her
chair.
"Well, well," he said, "it matters little to me who goes; only I must
see her at once. And thank you, Mary, child, if you will kindly tell
her so."
As soon as Mary left the room, Dorothy came over to her father's chair
and perched herself upon one of its oaken arms.
"And now there is another thing I wish to tell you," she said, "and I'd
best do it now."
He put an arm about her and smiled up into her troubled face.
"Well, well," he said playfully, while he smoothed her curls, "what a
wise little head it has grown to be all on a sudden! We shall be
hearing soon that Mistress Dorothy Devereux has been invited by the
great men o' the town--Lee and Orne and Gerry, and the rest o' them--to
be present at their next meeting, and instruct them on matters they wot
not on, despite their age and wisdom."
She would not smile at his badinage, but went on soberly to warn him of
what she suspected between her Aunt Penine and their ostracized
neighbor, Jameson,--telling him also of the unusual amount of coin
being spent by the boy, Pashar, whom she had seen carrying notes for
her aunt.
The smile left her father's face as he listened to this, and he shook
his head gravely. And when she finished, he said, as though to
himself, "'T is the enemies in one's own household that are ever the
most dangerous." Then rising, he added, "Come with me, Dot, while I
speak first to Tyntie."
The old Indian woman had been devoted to the interests of the family
since forty years before, when Joseph Devereux found her--a beaten,
half-starved child of ten--living with her drunken father in a wretched
hut on the outskirts of the town, and brought her to his own house for
his wife to rear and instruct. And because of her idolatrous love for
her benefactor and his family, she had endured patiently the exacting
tyranny of Aunt Penine, whom she detested.
Her tall, spare figure was now moving about her domain with a curious
dignity inseparable from her Indian birth; but she paused in what she
was doing the moment her master and his daughter appeared at the door,
and remained facing them in respectful silence.
She was alone, the men having gone off to their duties about the farm,
and the maids to the dairy, or to the housework above stairs.
"I desire to ask you, Tyntie," her master began, addressing her with
the same grave courtesy he would have used in speaking to the best-born
lady in the land, "if, since I forbade the making or using o' tea in my
house, any has been brewed?"
"Yes, master," she answered without any hesitancy; and a sly look, as
of revenge, crept into her black eyes.
"How dared ye do such a thing?" he demanded, his face severe with
indignation.
"I never did it," was her laconic reply.
"Then who did? I command ye to make a clean breast o' the matter."
And he struck his stick peremptorily upon the floor, while Dorothy,
awed by the unusual anger showing in his voice and bearing, drew a
little away from him.
"It was Mistress Penine brewed the tea, for her own drinking." And
Tyntie showed actual pleasure in being thus enabled to expose her
oppressor.
"And how often hath this happened since I gave strict orders that none
should be had or drunk in this house o' mine?"
"'Most every day; and sometimes more than once in the day."
"And how were you guarding your master's interests, to permit such
secret goings on under his roof, without giving him warning?"
The tears rose to Tyntie's eyes and stood sparkling there; but her
voice was firm as she replied, "It was not for me to know that Mistress
Penine was doing anything wrongful, nor for me, a servant, to come to
you, my master, with evil reports o' your own kinsfolk."
She spoke slowly and with calm dignity, and her words softened the
white wrath from the old man's face.
He bent his head for a moment, as though pondering deeply; then he
looked at her and said in a very different tone: "You are a
right-minded, faithful servant, Tyntie, and I must tell you I am sorry
to have spoken as I did a moment agone. But from this day henceforth,
bear in mind that should you ever see aught being done under my roof
that you've heard me forbid, 't is your bounden duty to come and inform
me freely o' such matter."
"Yes, master." Tyntie now wiped her eyes, and looked very much
comforted.
"Now," he asked, his voice growing stern once more, "know you where
aught o' the forbidden stuff be kept, or if there still be any in the
house?"
Tyntie went silently to the store-closet and fetched a sizable can of
burnished copper. This she opened and held toward her master and young
mistress, who saw that it was nearly half filled with the prohibited
tea.
Joseph Devereux scowled fiercely as he beheld this tangible evidence of
Penine's bad faith and selfishness.
"Do you take that in your own hands, Tyntie, as soon as may be," he
said; "or no--take it this instant, down to the beach, and throw it,
can and all, into the water. And see to it that you make mention o'
this matter to no one."
Then turning slowly, he took his way again to the front of the house,
Dorothy following in silence, and feeling unwontedly awed by the
apprehension of the storm she felt was about to break; for it was a
rare matter indeed for Aunt Penine to be the one entirely at fault in
anything.
CHAPTER X
Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to join
her, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to see
your father."
At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had left
her father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisible
writings upon the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings against
the oaken polish.
He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing a
moment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.
"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and as
though not wishing to be disturbed.
Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who was
waiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into the
sunshiny morning.
They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pashar
coming from a side door of the house. His black hand held something
white, which he was thrusting into the pocket of his jacket.
She called to him sharply, and he turned his head in her direction,
while his eyes rolled restlessly. But he made no movement to come to
her, and stood motionless, as though awaiting her orders.
"Come here!" she called peremptorily; but still he hesitated.
"Do you come here this instant, Pashar, as I bid you," she commanded,
now taking a few steps toward him.
At this he came forward, but in a halting way, and at length stood
before her, looking very ill at ease.
"Give me that letter," Dorothy demanded, extending her hand for it.
"Mist'ess Penine done say--" he began in a hesitating, remonstrative
fashion; but Dorothy cut him short.
"Give me that letter," she repeated, stamping her small foot, "or
you'll be sorry!"
Trained like a dumb beast to obedience, the negro boy fumbled in his
pocket and took out a folded paper which he handed to his imperious
young mistress.
"What'll I say ter Massa Jameson when I sees him?" he asked
tremblingly, as Dorothy's little white fingers closed over the letter.
"He'll lay his ridin'-whip 'bout my shoulders, if I goes ter him now."
"My father will surely lay _his_ riding-whip about your shoulders, if
you go near Jameson again. I'll see to it myself that you get whipped,
if you dare do such a thing," exclaimed Dorothy; and the angry flashing
of her dark eyes bore witness to her sincerity.
"Now," she added, "go about your work,--whatever you have to do. And