From Kingdom to Colony
mind, don't you dare stir a step--no matter who bids you--to Jameson's
place; else you will get into trouble that will make you wish you had
obeyed me."
With this she turned back with Mary in the direction of the house.
"Ye won't have me whipped, will ye, mist'ess?" Pashar whimpered, as he
looked after her. "Mist'ess Penine--she tole me I was ter go. An',
'sides, I gets money from Massa Jameson for ev'ry letter I fetches him."
"I'll see presently about your getting whipped," was Dorothy's
uncomforting reply, as she glanced over her shoulder at the trembling
boy.
The two girls walked quickly toward the house, while Pashar betook
himself off with a very downcast air, digging his black fists into his
eyes as if he felt only too certain of being punished for his
wrongdoing.
Joseph Devereux was ascending the stairway, bound for his
sister-in-law's room, when the two girls came in from outside. Dorothy
called quickly, and speeding after him, placed the letter in his hand,
as he paused and turned to face her.
In a low voice she acquainted him with what she had taken upon herself
to do, adding, "I was fearful of what she might have told him, if
perchance she overheard anything last night of the gunpowder and arms."
"Wise, trusty little maid," he said, a slow smile touching the gloom of
his set face. "You have acted rightly and with great discretion, Dot.
And now I will see what Penine has to say o' the matters that look so
grave, as we see them."
Pausing at her closed door, on the left-hand side of the upper passage,
he knocked, and then entered, as her querulous voice, now somewhat
subdued, bade him.
Penine was lying back on a settle, a bright-hued patchwork of silk
thrown over her spare form; and her eyes showed traces of recent tears.
Her brother-in-law seated himself in an arm-chair near her, his face
grave to sternness, as he bent a piercing look upon her troubled face.
She cast a furtive glance at the paper he still held in his hand; then
her eyes fell, and she began to pluck nervously at the edge of the
covering, while her face became filled with an expression of guilty
embarrassment.
"Penine," he began, in a voice quite low, but full of severity, "these
be times when, as you well know, it behooves a householder to look most
carefully to the doings of those about him. He must see to it that all
appearance, as well as doing, o' wrong be most strictly avoided. And
so I have come to ask you, as one o' my own household, how is it that
you have been brewing tea for yourself, after all that's been done and
said; and how 't is that you have such a supply of the stuff in my
house?"
Penine flushed angrily, and tried to look him in the eyes, while her
lips half parted, as though to make some retort. Then she seemed to
alter her mind, for she remained silent, her eyes falling guiltily
before his stern, searching gaze.
"Do not seek to hide your fault by another one--o' falsehood," he
warned her, more sternly than before. "I know what I am accusing you
of to be the truth,--more's the pity. And it surprises and grieves me
that a woman o' such years as you should set a pernicious example to
those who, younger and inferior in station to yourself, look to you for
a proper code of action for their following."
"What harm is it, I would like to know," she burst out, but weakly,
"that I should drink my tea, if I like?"
"The harm you do is to defy your country's law, and make me seem
disloyal and false to my word of honor," he replied with increasing
sternness. "And this you have no right to do, while you abide under my
roof."
"My country's law is the law of His Gracious Majesty," she answered,
plucking up a little spirit, but yet unable to meet his dark, angry
eyes, "and I have never heard that he forbade his loyal subjects all
the tea they could pay for and drink."
"Do ye mean me to understand that ye set yourself up as the enemy o'
your townsfolk and kindred?" he demanded, his voice rising. "I've
suspected as much since I had knowledge o' the fact o' your sending
notes to Robert Jameson."
"You have no right to talk to me so, Joseph," she said, with a whimper,
terrified at the angry lighting of his face, now ablaze with wrath.
"And ye have no right to act in a manner that makes it possible for me
to presume to. If things be not so black against ye as they surely
look, take this note that ye sent my servant with just now, to be
delivered to our country's avowed enemy, and read every word aloud to
me."
He held the letter toward her; but she made such an eager clutch for it
that a sudden impulse led him to change his mind, and he drew back his
hand.
"No," he said, "on second thought, 't is best that ye give me permit to
read it myself, aloud."
"No, no!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly; and the unmistakable
terror in her voice and eyes confirmed him in his determination to see
for himself the contents of the letter.
"I have to beg your pardon, Penine," he said with formal courtesy, "for
seeming to do a most ungallant act; but your manner only proves to me
what is my duty."
With this he deliberately broke the seal and ran his eyes over the
paper, while Penine cast one terrified glance at him, and then fell
back, silent and cowering, her ashy face covered by her trembling hands.
She had written Jameson of the intended landing of the arms and powder.
And Joseph Devereux knew she had done so with a view to having him send
word of the matter to the Governor, hoping in this way to win honor and
reward for the man she expected to lure into speedy wedlock.
He read the letter once more, and then sat silent, as though pondering
over all her selfish treachery and disloyalty. And while he was thus
musing, the clock on the mantel ticked with painful loudness, and some
flies crawling about the panes of the closed windows buzzed angrily.
When at length he spoke, his wrath seemed to have given place to pity,
mingled with utter contempt.
"I can scarce credit, Penine," he said slowly, all trace of anger gone
from his voice, "that you should have realized to the full all you were
doing when you took such a step,--that you were bringing the British
guns down to slay my son, an' like as not my innocent little maid; a
fate which now, thank God, has been kept from them."
His voice had become husky, and he paused to clear his throat. Then he
resumed, speaking in the same deliberate manner: "Because o' their
deliverance from death I will try and forgive what you have tried to
do; but I must not forget it, lest another such thing befall. And now,
until you be able to travel, you shall be made comfortable here. But
so soon as your ankle can be used, then you shall go to your brother,
in Lynn, for no roof o' mine shall harbor secret enemies to my country.
And," now with more sternness, "I warn you, that should you seek to
hold converse or communication of any sort with this man Jameson while
you are in my house, I shall report the matter to the town committee,
and leave them to settle with you."
He arose from his chair, and without another glance in her direction
went out of the room, leaving Penine in tears.
CHAPTER XI
The days intervening until Friday passed without event, and the
household affairs went on much as before, Tyntie proving herself fully
capable of replacing Aunt Penine as head of the domestic regime.
That lady kept her room, seeing no one except Tyntie and one of the
younger maids. She had refused all overtures extended by her niece and
Mary Broughton; and so, by the advice of the head of the house, they
left her to herself.
Even Aunt Lettice was refused admittance by her sister, and refrained
from seeking it a second time after being informed by Joseph Devereux
of the recent occurrences.
The gentle old lady now went about the house in a sad, subdued fashion,
secretly debating as to whether she would decide against King or
Colony, but carefully keeping her thoughts from being known to others.
Johnnie Strings had kept his word to Dorothy, and brought the ribbon
and lace. Aunt Lettice had paid him for the goods she purchased,
making no response when he said, as he strapped his pack, "The
Britishers be quartered on the Neck, ma'am,--landed there this very
mornin'. The reg'lars,--they came down by ships from Salem; an' a
troop o' dragoons be ridin' over to join 'em."
It was Mary Broughton who asked, "What are they come there for,
Johnnie,--do you know?"
"Any one can guess, mistress, I take it," he replied significantly,
busying himself with the buckles.
"And what do you guess, Johnnie?" asked Dorothy, who was examining a
sampler 'Bitha was working, which was to announce,--
"Tabitha Hollis is my name,
New England is my nation,
Marblehead is my dwelling-place,
And Christ is my Salvation."
Johnnie Strings finished his work with the straps and buckles; then
raising himself from the floor, he said jocosely: "Now, Mistress
Dorothy, surely ye don't care to burden your mind with matters o'
state. Whatever they be come down for, 't is a true fact that the
redcoats be on the Neck,--a hundred or more of 'em. An' as I was
tellin' ye but t'other day, ye'd best keep at home till they be called
away again."
This was Thursday; and Friday morning the two girls, with 'Bitha, were
down in the Sachem's Cave, a small opening that ran, chasm-like, into
the rocks a few feet above the level of the sea, with a natural roof
projecting over it.
Within was a sandy floor,--whether or not the work of man, none living
could say. It was studded with shells, placed there by childish hands,
and the cave had served as playhouse for many generations of boys and
girls.
The opening was hung about with a lace-like weed, wherein some drops of
water were now sparkling in the morning sunshine; and beyond,
stretching away to the horizon, could be seen the sea.
The waves creeping in against the shore broke with gentle plashings as
they touched the rocky base of the headlands; a wonderful serenity lay
over the face of the earth, and all between the land and horizon seemed
a blank and dreaming space of water.
"We are sure to have a fine night," Dorothy had just said, as she
looked out at the sea and sky.
"H-m-m," murmured Mary, warningly, and with a quick glance at 'Bitha,
who seemed to be poring intently over a small book she had taken from
her pocket.
"What are you reading, 'Bitha?" Dorothy asked; and the little girl came
close beside her.
It was Aunt Lettice's "Church Book;" and on the titlepage was:--
"A NEW VERSION OF
the
PSALMS
of
DAVID,
fitted to the Tunes ufed in the Churches:
With feveral Hymns
Out of the
Old and New Teftaments.
By John Barnard,
Paftor of a Church in Marblehead."
In the back part of the book was the music of several tunes such as
were used at that time in the churches; and amongst them was one known
as
"Marblehead."
* Copied literally from publication "printed by J. Draper for T.
Leverett in Cornhill 1752."
Good Parson Barnard had years since been laid away in his grave on the
old Burial Hill, which rose higher than all the land about, as though
Nature were seeking to lift as near as might be to the skies the dead
committed to her care.
The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many
of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led
her to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,--a
thing she was always proud to be asked to do.
Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have