From Kingdom to Colony
practical bustling and sharp tongue.
For Aunt Penine ruled the household with a veritable "rod of iron;" and
her courtly and calm-voiced brother-in-law was the only mortal to whom
she had ever been known to show deference of manner or speech.
She had gone within, and the maids with her. The dairy was closed for
the night, and Dorothy had returned to the porch, where she was now
seated in her father's favorite chair.
"Aunt Lettice," she said presently, "what think you all these queer
things mean? Mary Broughton said we might have a war; and there seems
a great lot for the men folk to be having meetings over, and secret
talk about."
"I know no more than you, Dorothy, but I wish it was all over, and that
I might have my tea once more; I miss it sadly."
"Why," exclaimed Dorothy, looking greatly surprised, "there is tea in
the house, Aunt Lettice! I thought it was not made for you because you
did not care for it."
"Indeed I do care for it very much," said the little old lady; and she
sighed wistfully. "But Penine said there was to be no more tea, as
your father had forbidden it."
"Well, some one is drinking it," Dorothy asserted with positiveness,
"for I found a small potful of tea in the store-closet this very
morning."
"Are you sure, my dear?" Aunt Lettice asked wonderingly.
"Of course I am sure, for I smelled it; and as I detest the odor, I
looked to see what it came from. And I know as well that there is a
big canful of tea there, for I caught the lace of my sleeve on the lid
last Sabbath day, as I reached to get the sugar to put on 'Bitha's
bread. Aunt Penine must know it is there."
"Penine is very fond of her tea." Aunt Lettice sighed again, and this
time rather suggestively.
"Well," said Dorothy, her fiery spirit all aglow, "if she be such a pig
as to make it for herself when she lets you have none, I shall find
out, and tell my father of her doings."
"My dear, my dear, you should not speak so," the gentle old lady
protested, but with only feeble remonstrance. It was evident that
Dorothy's words had put the matter in a new light.
"Now, Aunt Lettice," continued Dorothy, as she straightened her small
figure in the chair, "you know that Aunt Penine often treats you with
hard-hearted selfishness, and then next minute she will be reading her
good books and trying to look pious. I never want to be her sort of
good,--never! And while I live, she shall not treat you so any more.
I shall tell father to ask her about the tea, I warrant you."
Before Aunt Lettice could reply to this impetuous speech, a coach drove
up, its lamps showing like glow-worms in the gathering dusk. In it
were Nicholson Broughton and Mary; and Dorothy rushed down the steps to
welcome her friend as though they had been parted for weeks.
While the new-comers were alighting, Leet came up to show the coachman
the way to the stables; and then the two girls went directly to the
porch, while Broughton himself tarried to give some low-spoken orders
to his servant.
The sound of the carriage wheels had brought John Devereux quickly to
the porch, while his father and Hugh Knollys followed after, the
younger man walking slowly, in deference to the slight lameness of his
host.
"Ah, neighbor Broughton, you are just the man we were wishing for.
Heartily welcome!" And Joseph Devereux clasped the other man's hand,
while John turned away with his sister and Mary Broughton.
They were joined a moment later by Hugh Knollys; and John Devereux, as
though suspecting a possible rival, watched keenly his blunt, honest
face as he took the small hand Mary extended. But there was naught in
Hugh's look to alarm him, nor in the quiet greeting Mary gave his
friend.
Dorothy now drew his attention. "Jack," she asked earnestly, "did you
warn Hugh not to speak aught of this afternoon?" But Hugh answered her
question by a slight laugh, accompanied by a comprehending nod.
"Oh, Dot," said Mary, with gentle reproach, "you should not deceive
your father in this way."
Dorothy raised her head as though she had been struck, and drew herself
up to the full limit of her small stature.
"Indeed, Mary, I intend to do no such thing," she replied almost
aggressively. "'T is only that I wish to tell him all about it myself,
and in my own fashion."
Here her father's voice broke in. "Come, John,--come, Hugh,--come
inside, with neighbor Broughton and me. We will get our matters
settled as soon as may be, while the girls visit with Aunt Lettice.
But ye must all come within; 't is getting much too damp and cold to
stop longer out o' the house."
He drove them in before him and closed the door, shutting out the roar
of the surf along the shore, as it mingled with the shrilling of the
dry-voiced insects in the grasses and woods.
CHAPTER VII
It was the dining-room of the house wherein the four men sat in earnest
consultation; and now that they were alone, their faces were grave to
solemnity.
The oak-ceiled and wainscoted room was filled with lurking shadows in
the far corners, where the light from the candles did not penetrate;
and the inside shutters of stout oak were closed and bolted over the
one great window, along which ran a deep cushioned seat.
Joseph Devereux sat by the mahogany table, whose black polish reflected
the lights, mirror-like, and--but more dully--the yellow brass of the
candlesticks. His elbow was resting upon the smooth wood, his hand
supporting his head; and in the light of the candle burning near, his
face looked unusually stern.
His son sat opposite, his face mostly in shadow, as he lay back in his
chair and thrummed the table with his slender brown fingers.
At either side sat Nicholson Broughton and Hugh Knollys, the former
looking stern and troubled as he smoked his long pipe, while the
younger man's face held but little of its usual light-hearted
expression. His hands were thrust deep in his breeches' pockets, and
he whistled softly now and then in an absent-minded way.
"Aye, 't is a grave state of affairs, Broughton," Joseph Devereux was
saying. "I love not oppression, nor tyrannical dealing. And yet,
think you that ever was a petty tyrant overthrown, and the instruments
of his punishment could always escape a pricking o' the conscience,
that made it not easy for them to look back upon their own share in his
downfall? Shall the time come, I wonder, when we must question the
truth o' this inspiration we are now acting under as a town and as a
country?"
"Nay, say I,--never!" exclaimed Broughton, with fiery ardor. "Being
human, we must all feel sympathy for suffering, be it in enemy or
friend. But our land is lost, and we nothing better than slaves, did
we longer submit to the tyranny of the mother country. As God bade
Moses of old lead the children of Israel from the bondage and cruel
injustice of Pharaoh, so we should feel that He now bids us, as men
with a country, and as fathers with families to cherish and protect, to
rise up and assert our manhood, and to assure our freedom, even though
it be by as fierce a war as ever was waged."
"And war there's bound to be!" It was Hugh Knollys who said this, and
he seemed to look more cheery at the thought.
Joseph Devereux glanced at him sharply, and then turned to his son.
"You say, Jack," he asked, "that Strings said the Governor was to order
a body o' soldiers down to the Neck?"
"Yes, sir--and that right away."
At this, Nicholson Broughton spoke up, looking at his host.
"As I was saying to you awhile back, neighbor Devereux, the committee
ordered to Boston, to decide upon delegates, must get a start from town
before the redcoats get into quarters upon the Neck, or there may be
trouble which it were as well to avoid. This was decided upon when we
met at the Fountain Inn, this afternoon; and 't was agreed that all who
go from here should take the road to Boston before to-morrow's dawn.
John and Hugh, here, reckon on going along with us, to meet Brattle in
Boston, for he has sent word that he is to sail the day after to-morrow
with a shipload of supplies ordered down by the Governor for the
soldiery at Salem. This will be a fine opportunity for smuggling down
the firearms and powder which have been hid so long in Boston, waiting
the chance for safe conveyance here."
Before Joseph Devereux could speak, his son broke in eagerly: "Hugh and
I will come down with Brattle, and we'll lie off at anchor, as near our
own shore as may be. Some one must be ready to give us the signal from
the land; and if all is safe, we can put the guns and powder ashore and
hide them. This will be the safest plan, for about Great Bay the
soldiers will be on the lookout for anything unwonted; and in Little
Harbor it will be as bad, for they will have their eyes wide open to
keep a sharp watch upon the Fountain Inn, and all about it--be it on
land or water."
"You say truly, Jack," his father assented, "But whom can we trust to
give the signal? Ah," with a sigh, "if only I had back a few of my own
lost years, or was not so lame!"
"Brains can serve one's land, friend Devereux, as well, oftentimes
better, than arms," said Broughton, looking at his host's massive head
and intelligent features. "We all have our appointed work to do, and
no man is more capable than you of doing his share."
"I pray it maybe so," was the reply. "But, be it much or little, all I
have and am are at the service of our cause."
"Why not let Dorothy be the one to give the signal?" asked Hugh
Knollys, as from a sudden inspiration.
"Just the one," said John Devereux, looking over at his father. "She
fears nothing, and can be relied upon in such a matter."
The old gentleman seemed a bit reluctant, and sat silent for a few
moments. Then speaking to his son, he said: "Call the child in. This
is no time to hold back one's hand from the doing of aught that be
needful to help the cause of our land."
It was not many minutes before Dorothy came into the room behind her
brother; and her eyes opened wider than ever as their quick glance took
in the solemn conclave about the table.
Her father stretched out an inviting hand. "Come here, Dot," he said
smilingly. "Do not look so frightened, my baby." And he patted her
small hand in a loving way as he drew her close beside him.
"No," added Hugh mischievously, his face having now regained its usual
jollity, "we are not going to eat you, Dorothy."
She deigned him no reply, not even a glance, but stood silently beside
her father, while she looked questioningly into her brother's face.
He explained in a few words the matter in hand; and the flash of her
eyes, together with the smile that touched the upturned corners of her
mouth, told how greatly to her liking was the duty to which she had
been assigned.
Jack had scarce finished speaking, when there was an interruption, in
the person of Aunt Penine, who entered bearing a tray, upon which were
tumblers and a bowl of steaming punch.
She shot a glance of marked disapproval at Dorothy; then, as she placed
the tray upon the table in front of her brother-in-law, she said in a
tone of acidity, "Were it not better, think you, Joseph, that the girl
went into the other room and stopped with Lettice and Mary Broughton?"
Dorothy turned her eyes defiantly upon the elder woman, her soft brows
suggesting the frown that came to her father's face as he said with
grave severity: "The child is here, Penine, because I sent for her.
Let the punch be as it is--and leave us, please."
She tossed her head belligerently, and without speaking took her
departure, casting a far from friendly look at the others.
"I strongly suspect, father," said John, as he rose and crossed the
room to close the door his aunt, either by accident or intent, had left