CHAPTER X
Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to joinher, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to seeyour father."
At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had lefther father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisiblewritings upon the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings againstthe oaken polish.
He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing amoment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.
"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and asthough not wishing to be disturbed.
Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who waswaiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into thesunshiny morning.
They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pasharcoming from a side door of the house. His black hand held somethingwhite, 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 toher, 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 stoodbefore 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, remonstrativefashion; but Dorothy cut him short.
"Give me that letter," she repeated, stamping her small foot, "oryou'll be sorry!"
Trained like a dumb beast to obedience, the negro boy fumbled in hispocket and took out a folded paper which he handed to his imperiousyoung mistress.
"What'll I say ter Massa Jameson when I sees him?" he askedtremblingly, 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, ifyou 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 flashingof her dark eyes bore witness to her sincerity.
"Now," she added, "go about your work,--whatever you have to do. Andmind, don't you dare stir a step--no matter who bids you--to Jameson'splace; else you will get into trouble that will make you wish you hadobeyed 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 helooked 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'suncomforting reply, as she glanced over her shoulder at the tremblingboy.
The two girls walked quickly toward the house, while Pashar betookhimself off with a very downcast air, digging his black fists into hiseyes as if he felt only too certain of being punished for hiswrongdoing.
Joseph Devereux was ascending the stairway, bound for hissister-in-law's room, when the two girls came in from outside. Dorothycalled 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 herselfto do, adding, "I was fearful of what she might have told him, ifperchance she overheard anything last night of the gunpowder and arms."
"Wise, trusty little maid," he said, a slow smile touching the gloom ofhis 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 sograve, 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 somewhatsubdued, bade him.
Penine was lying back on a settle, a bright-hued patchwork of silkthrown 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 facegrave 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; thenher eyes fell, and she began to pluck nervously at the edge of thecovering, while her face became filled with an expression of guiltyembarrassment.
"Penine," he began, in a voice quite low, but full of severity, "thesebe times when, as you well know, it behooves a householder to look mostcarefully to the doings of those about him. He must see to it that allappearance, as well as doing, o' wrong be most strictly avoided. Andso I have come to ask you, as one o' my own household, how is it thatyou have been brewing tea for yourself, after all that's been done andsaid; and how 't is that you have such a supply of the stuff in myhouse?"
Penine flushed angrily, and tried to look him in the eyes, while herlips half parted, as though to make some retort. Then she seemed toalter her mind, for she remained silent, her eyes falling guiltilybefore his stern, searching gaze.
"Do not seek to hide your fault by another one--o' falsehood," hewarned her, more sternly than before. "I know what I am accusing youof to be the truth,--more's the pity. And it surprises and grieves methat a woman o' such years as you should set a pernicious example tothose who, younger and inferior in station to yourself, look to you fora 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 seemdisloyal and false to my word of honor," he replied with increasingsternness. "And this you have no right to do, while you abide under myroof."
"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, angryeyes, "and I have never heard that he forbade his loyal subjects allthe 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'vesuspected as much since I had knowledge o' the fact o' your sendingnotes 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 meto presume to. If things be not so black against ye as they surelylook, take this note that ye sent my servant with just now, to bedelivered to our country's avowed enemy, and read every word aloud tome."
He held the letter toward her; but she made such an eager clutch for itthat a sudden impulse led him to change his mind, and he drew back hishand.
"No," he said, "on second thought, 't is best that ye give me permit toread it myself, aloud."
"No, no!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly; and the unmistakableterror in her voice and eyes confirmed him in his determination to seefor himself the contents of the letter.
"I have to beg your pardon, Penine," he said with formal courtesy, "forseeming to do a most ungallant act; but your manner only proves to mewhat is my duty."
With this he deliberately broke the seal and ran his eyes over thepaper, while Penine cast one terrified glance at him, and then fellback, 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 sendword of the matter to the Governor, hoping in this way to win honor andreward for the man she expected to lure into speedy wedlock.
He read the letter once more, and then sat silent, as though ponderingover all her selfish treachery and disloyalty. And while he was thusmusing, the clock on the mantel ticked with painful loudness, and someflies 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 gonefrom his voice, "that you should have realized to the full all you weredoing when you took such a step,--that you were bringing the Britishguns down to slay my son, an' like as not my innocent little maid; afate which now, thank God, has been kept from them."
His voice had become husky, and he paused to clear his throat. Then heresumed, speaking in the same deliberate manner: "Because o' theirdeliverance from death I will try and forgive what you have tried todo; 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. Butso 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 tohold converse or communication of any sort with this man Jameson whileyou 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 directionwent out of the room, leaving Penine in tears.
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