CHAPTER V
On Riverhead Beach, at the extreme southwest end, the Devereux familykept sundry boats, for greater convenience in reaching the town proper,without going around the Neck, by the open seaway; and some distancefrom the boat-house was their home, the way being along the shore andacross the thriftily planted acres and through the woodland.
The same low stone house it was that had withstood the pirates' raidover one hundred years before. But the forests were now gone, althougha noble wood still partially environed it. And beyond this weresloping hills and grassy meadows, through which ran a stream of pure,sweet water, wandering on through the dusk of the woods until it foundthe sea.
Here fed the flocks and herds of Joseph Devereux, the grandson of Johnand Anne.
There had been some additions to the original building, but these werelow and rambling, like the older portion. And before it, broader ofexpanse and to the vision than in the early days, stretched the sea, afar-reaching floor of glass or foam, to melt away in the pearly dimnessof the horizon.
The hush of lingering twilight was over the place, and now and then thenote of a thrush or robin thrilled sweet on the golden-tissued air.But from the vine-draped door of the low stone dairy came sounds lessinviting, uttered by Aunt Penine, the widowed sister-in-law andhousekeeper of Joseph Devereux, as she goaded her maids at theirevening work.
In sharp contrast with her, both as to person and manner, was herinvalid sister Lettice, who was sitting on the porch before the opendoor, with little 'Bitha, her orphaned grandchild, hanging lovinglyabout her.
Opposite these sat Joseph Devereux, smoking his evening pipe; andcrouched on the stone step, her curly head resting against his knee,was Dorothy, now gentle and subdued.
There was an irresistible charm about the girl's wilfulness thatblended perfectly with the sacred innocence of her childish nature.She was impetuous, laughter-loving, and somewhat spoiled; but she waspossessed of a high spirit, strong courage, and a pure, tender heart.
Her father's idol and chief companion she had always been since, in hissixtieth-odd year, she was laid in his strong arms,--vigorous as thoseof a man half his own age. And he was looking into her baby face, solike his own, when he heard that she was all he had left of hisfaithful wife.
He had lost many children; and such sorrow, softening still more anever hard heart, had made him dotingly fond of those left to him,--histwenty-seven-year-old son John and the wilful Dot.
The girl's education had been beyond that of most maids in those times,as had also that of her only friend, Mary Broughton; and for much thesame reason. Both girls had been carefully trained by their fathers;and Aunt Penine, at Nicholson Broughton's request, had taught Maryhousewifery in all its branches, at the same time she was undertakingthe like portion of her niece's education.
But this was an art in which Mary far exceeded Dot; and Aunt Peninelectured her niece unceasingly, while seeming to find nothing butpraise for Mary's efforts.
It was pretty sure to be something of this sort: "Dorothy, Dorothy!Ye'll ne'er be a good butter-maker; ye beat it so, the grain will bebroke. Why cannot ye take it this way?" and Aunt Penine would showher. "See how fine Mary does it! Ye have too hot a hand."
Dot would give her head a toss, and remind her aunt that it was not sheherself who had the fashioning of her small hand, nor the regulating ofits temperature. And then Aunt Penine would be very sure to go to herbrother-in-law with complainings of his daughter's disrespectfultongue, and it would end in Dot being persuaded by her father to begAunt Penine's pardon, which she would do in a meek tone, but with asuspicious sparkle in her eyes. And after that she was very likely tobe found at the stables, saddling her own mare, Brown Bess, for a wildgallop off over the country.
Aunt Penine was one who never seemed to remember that she had ever beenyoung herself; and this made her all the more unbending in herdisapproval of Dorothy's flow of spirits, and of the indulgence shownher by her father.
She was now coming across the grass from the dairy,--a tall, lithefigure, from which all the roundness of youth (had she ever possessedanything so weak) had given way to the spareness of middle age. Herhair, still plentiful, was of a dull, lustreless black; her complexionsallow, with paler cheeks, somewhat fallen in; and she had a pair ofsmall gray eyes that seemed like twinkling lights set either side avery long, sharp nose.
Her gown was now pinned up around her like that of a fishwife; a whitecap surmounted her severe head, and her brown arms were bare above theelbows, where she had rolled her sleeves. She well knew that herbrother-in-law in no wise approved of her going about in such afashion; but this was only an added reason for her doing so.
There was a silken rustling of doves' wings, as the flock scatteredfrom in front of her on the grass, where, obedient to Dorothy's call,they had come like a cloud from the dove-cote perched high on a polenear by.
"Joseph," she cried, sending her shrill voice ahead of her as shewalked along, "do you know that the last two new Devonshires haveeither strayed or been stolen?"
"So Trent told me." He spoke very calmly, letting several secondsintervene between question and answer, puffing his pipe meanwhile,while the fingers of one hand rested amongst the curly, fragrant lockslying against his knee.
"Told you! Then why, under the canopy, did n't ye tell _me_?" shedemanded, as she now stood on the stone flagging in front of theveranda, her arms akimbo, while she peered at him with her littletwinkling eyes.
He looked at her gravely, and as if thinking, but made no reply.
Her eyes fell, and she seemed embarrassed, for she said in a lowertone, and by way of explanation: "Because, you see, Joseph, I cannotlook after the pans o' milk properly, if I know not how many cows therebe to draw from. There was less milk by twenty pans, this e'en; and Iwas suspecting the new maid we've taken from over Oakum Bay way ofmaking off with it for her own folk, when Pashar came in and said hewas to go with Trent, to hunt for the missing Devonshires. And thatwas the first I'd heard of any strayed cattle."
"And even had they not been missing, Penine, you had no right to thinksuch evil o' the stranger," Joseph Devereux said reprovingly. "'T is aqueer fashion, it seems to me, for a Christian woman to be so ready asyou ever seem to be for thinking harsh things o' folk you may happennot to know well. Strangers are no more like to do evil than friends,say I."
He now handed his pipe to Dot, who rapped the ashes out on the groundand returned it to him. He thanked the girl with the same courtesy hewould have shown an utter stranger, while Aunt Penine, looking verymuch subdued, turned about and went back to the dairy.
Joseph Devereux was still a handsome man, with a dark, intellectualface, framed in a halo of silvery hair, worn long, as was the fashion,and confined by a black ribbon. About his throat was wrapped snowylinen lawn, fine as a cobweb, and woven on his own hand-looms by thewomen of his house, as was also that of the much ruffled shirt showingfrom the front of a buff waistcoat, gold-buttoned.
The same color was repeated in his top-boots, that came up to meet thebreeches of dark cloth, fastened at the knee with steel buckles.
His tall figure was but slightly bowed; and there was a mixture ofhaughtiness and softness in his manner, very far removed fromprovincial brusqueness, and belonging rather to the days andsurrounding of his ancestors than to the time in which he lived.
John, his son, was a more youthful picture of the father, but with afreer display of temper,--this due, perhaps, to his fewer years. Butfather and son were known alike for kindly and generous deeds, and aspossessing a high ideal of truth and justice.
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