CHAPTER XIX
October had come, with an unusual glory of late wild-flowers andreddened leaves.
The soldiers were still quartered upon the Neck, and owing to the manycollisions between them and the townspeople, the Governor had seen fitto augment the force. Several times the citizens had almost determinedto march to the Neck and exterminate the entire body of Britishers; butwiser counsels prevailed, and no attack was made.
Governor Gage had issued a proclamation forbidding the assembling ofthe legislature which had been called to meet at Salem upon the fifthof the month. But notwithstanding this interdiction it had convenedupon the appointed day, and resolved itself into a Provincial Congress.
Azar Orne, Jeremiah Lee, and Elbridge Gerry were the delegatesrepresenting Marblehead, and they took a prominent part in theproceedings. A number of important matters were discussed and actedupon, and a committee was appointed for "Observation and Prevention,"and with instructions to "co-operate with other towns in the Provincefor preventing any of the inhabitants, so disposed, from supplying theEnglish troops with labor, lumber, bricks, spars, or any other materialwhatsoever, except such as humanity requires."
The loyalists in the town were still zealous in the King's cause, andwould not be silenced. And they entreated their neighbors and friendsto recede, before it became too late, from the position they had taken.But the only reply of the patriots was, "Death rather than submission!"And they went on making provision for the organization of an army oftheir own.
Companies of "Minute Men" were enlisted, and these were disciplined andequipped. A compensation of two shillings per day was to be allowedeach private; and to sergeants, drummers, fifers, and clerks, threeshillings each. First and second lieutenants were to receive fourshillings sixpence, and captains, five shillings. Pay was to beallowed for but three days in each week, although a service of fourhours a day was required.
The town house was now filled--as were also most of the warehouses andother buildings--with the stored goods of Boston merchants, who weresuffering from the operation of the Port Bill, which had closed thatharbor to their business. And owing to this, as also by reason of thegreater advantage afforded for securing privacy, the townsmen now heldtheir meetings at the old tavern on Front Street, which faced thewater, thus giving a good opportunity for observing the movements ofthe enemy upon the Neck.
John Glover, one of the town's foremost men, and a stanch patriot,lived near here; and he was now at the head of the regiment in whichwere John Devereux and Hugh Knollys,--the former being secondlieutenant in the company of which Nicholson Broughton was captain, andin whose ranks Hugh was serving as a private.
Soon after his return from Boston, Broughton had closed his own house,deeming it too much exposed to the enemy for the safety of hisdaughter, who was compelled during his many absences to remain therealone with the servants; and Mary had gone with them to the house of amarried aunt--Mistress Horton--living in a more retired portion of thetown, away from the water.
He had consented, in response to the urging of his prospectiveson-in-law, that the wedding should take place before the winter wasover. And thus it was that Mary, being busy with preparations for theevent, left Dorothy much to herself,--more, perhaps, than was well forher at this particular time.
Aunt Penine had departed upon the day her brother-in-law fixed; butunder Aunt Lettice's mild guidance, coupled with Tyntie's efficientrule, the household went on fully as well as before,--better, indeed,in many respects, for there was no opposing will to make discord.
The tory Jameson still remained under an unburned roof, despite themutterings against him; and he continued to entertain the redcoats withlavish hospitality.
Several times, during trips to and from the Knollys house, Dorothy,escorted by Hugh or her brother--sometimes by both--or by old Leet, hadencountered the young officer. But nothing more than a bow and smilehad passed between them since the morning he had turned so haughtilyfrom her father's presence.
It was about the middle of the month, and the shutters of all thewindows were opened wide to let in the flood of autumn sunshine as thefamily sat at breakfast; and the silver service in front of AuntLettice glinted like little winking eyes where it caught the goldenflood.
Her delicate white hands had poured out the sweetened hot milk andwater which she and 'Bitha drank in lieu of tea, while herbrother-in-law, busy with looking over a copy of the "Salem Gazette"brought by his son the night before, was letting his coffee cool.
Jack himself, after a hastily despatched breakfast, had already goneinto the town, where he had matters of importance to look after, notthe least of them being to dine at the Hortons' with Mary and herfather; and he would not return until late in the evening.
Dorothy had little to say, seeming to be busy with her own thoughts;but she could not help smiling as little 'Bitha murmured softly, "Oh,grandame, I am all full of glory by now, for I caught a lot of sunshineon my spoon and swallowed it."
"And you'll be full of a mess, child, if you stir your porridge aboutin such reckless fashion," said Aunt Lettice, smiling as her eyes metDorothy's.
"Dot," her father now asked suddenly, lifting his eyes from the paper,"when did you last see old Ruth Lecrow?"
Dorothy started, and her big eyes turned to him with a troubled look asshe answered, "It is all of a month since I saw her."
The girl's conscience smote her, as never before had she neglected forso long a time to go and see the faithful carer of her own motherlessinfancy, or else send needful provision for her impoverished old age.
"A month!" her father repeated. "How is that, my child?" Then with asearching, anxious look into her downcast face, he said more gently:"You had best take Leet, and go to Ruth this very morning. The air andsun be fine enough to bring back the roses to your cheeks. I amthinking that you stop within doors too much o' late."
Before Dorothy could reply, Aunt Lettice reminded him that Leet was tomeet Jack in the town that morning.
"Then I will walk, father," the girl said, "and take Pashar."
With this she arose from the table and was about to leave the room,when 'Bitha put in a petition that she might accompany her.
"No, 'Bitha," interposed her grandmother, "you made such a froach[1] ofyour sampler yesterday that you have it all to do over again thismorning, as you promised me." She spoke with gentle firmness, and thechild hung her head in silence.
[1] Spoiled work.
"Never mind, 'Bitha," Dorothy said soothingly, as she touched the smallblonde head,--"mayhap we can have Leet take us to see Mistress Knollysthis afternoon."
"I'd sooner go on the water, Dot," the child suggested timidly. Thenturning to the head of the house, she asked: "Cannot we go out in oneof the boats, Uncle Joseph? We've not been on the water for a longtime." And the blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the old gentleman,who had just set down his emptied cup.
"Nay, my child," he answered, "that you must not; and for the samereason that none have been for so long a time. None o' ye must go nighthe boats until the redcoats be gone from the Neck."
"When will they go?" asked 'Bitha, pouting a little. "They havespoiled our good times for long past. We cannot go anywhere as weused."
"Nor can others older than you, my child," he said with an unmirthfulsmile, as he arose from the table. "The soldiers are a pest in thetown, little one. But till the King sees fit to call them off, or wefind a way to make them go, you must be content to stop nigh the house,and away from the boats." Then he added teasingly, as he put his handupon her head, "The redcoats may carry you off, if you put yourself intheir way."
'Bitha shook off his hand as she gave her small head a belligerenttoss. "If they tried to do that, Uncle Joseph, I'd push them over therocks, as Mary Broughton did that redcoat we met in the cave. And oh,Dot,"--turning to her--"that 'minds me that the other day when I waswith Leet and Trent, down in the ten-acre lot, that same redcoat wasthere, sitting in the door of the shed, with his horse stand
ing nigh.And when he saw us coming, he hurried away. And Trent said 't waslucky no sheep were within the shed for him to steal."
"He is a gentleman, 'Bitha, and would no more steal my father's sheepthan would you or I!"
Dorothy's voice was full of indignation, and the child's eyes openedwide at its unusual sharpness. But this, as well as her heightenedcolor, her father and Aunt Lettice ascribed to embarrassment at beingreminded of her exploit of the past summer.
All the outside world lay flooded in the warm golden sunshine thatblunted the cold edge of the wind rushing from the north, where sullencloud-banks were piling up in a way to threaten a change of weatherbefore night. The sea lay a floor of molten silver and burnishedsteel, and the crows called incessantly from the woods.
Dorothy chose to take a short cut across the fields to old Ruth'sabode; and while skirting the ten-acre lot, she cast a furtive glancetoward the large shed, as if expecting to see a scarlet coat in thedoorway.
But only the homespun-clad form of Trent was there, letting out a largeflock of sheep, who came gambolling about him, and then dispersed overthe dry brown grass, where a bright green patch showed here and there.
"'T was queer, Mist'ess Dor'thy, dat we nebber foun' de two cows datstrayed so long 'go, don't ye t'ink?" inquired Pashar, who followedclose behind her with a big basket on his arm.
Dorothy, intent upon her own affairs, did not reply, and the boy wenton: "Trent say now dat he b'leebe de redcoats stole 'em, fo' sure."
"How could that be," she asked sharply, "when the cows were missingbefore any soldiers came down here?"
"I dunno, Mist'ess--on'y dat's what Trent say, an' what we all b'leebe."
Here Dorothy was startled by a wild, shrill yell from the boy, andturned quickly to see the cause of it. The sheep had discovered abroken place in the fence, and were trooping through it en masse; andif once out of the field, there was nothing to bar their way toRiverhead Beach.
Trent had already started in pursuit, but it was easy to see that manyof the flock would be on the other side of the fence before he couldstop them.
"Give me the basket," Dorothy said to the negro boy, "and go to helpTrent. Then come to Ruth's after me."
She had scarcely spoken when he, giving her the basket, uttered anotherwild yell and was off, speeding after the wayward sheep. He was soonalongside Trent, who had stopped to put some bars across the opening,at which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses.But these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, chargedthrough them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side witha speed that quickly carried him out of sight.
Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which shecrossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in anarrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness wasbroken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear ofthe intruder.
The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led indifferent directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tallpine-trees standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothypursued brought her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took asharp turn, and then ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, aboutthe door of which grew a honeysuckle vine.
In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden;everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in theunshuttered windows were spotlessly bright.
Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within theliving-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, andlow-ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls,bedimmed with age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was theopen hearth, back of which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling infront of the logs was a girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair ofbellows to blow it into a brisker flame.
She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, butstarted quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your grannythis morning?"
"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing toher feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally oldand worried face.
"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down theheavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhatdisarranged the curls over which it was drawn.
"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, shesays. An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. Shewas sayin' last evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."
Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her oldnurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with anopen Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.
"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunnyface, that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devouredits every feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill,for sure. An' what a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be afine day outside. Ah," with a deep sigh, "if I could only get about asI used to, my lamb!" The old woman's voice faltered, and the moisturewas showing in her eyes.
"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set,"Dorothy said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always makeyou feel poorly."
"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday Iwas runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an'but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An'here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poorgranddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her.An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."
Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shallalways live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all shecan for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who hadthat moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted foranything.
She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and saidwith an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Onlyshe be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."
The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise hershoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.
As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket ofthings I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from youanother time."
"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now thatye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your oldnurse."
"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in thatfashion, I'll go straight home again."
The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingersnervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcherwas here yesterday to see me."
"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath;for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.
"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for itafterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. Shedid not want to tell me, either; but I made her."
"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just whatshe said, Ruth."
The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then herrestless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "Shetold me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no onecould change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with ascarlet color."
"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming tous." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyeslooked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back uponthe pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still moreimpressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside.But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she saidthat naught could change it,--that his heart was set to ye as theflowers to the sunshine,--that ye held h
im to wind about your littlefinger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow,would come to ye with it."
Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thoughther own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. Fora moment--only a moment--she felt frightened and almost helpless, eventurning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outerroom, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.
Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and shelaughed with joyous disbelief.
"Nonsense, Ruth,--nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, andmaking yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."
"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wipingher wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what timewill bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me someherbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night,an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone toLynn to 'bide."
"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make youfret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, andget well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he andMary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."
Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, mylamb, if ye married the right man."
Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,--did Molltell you where he was?"
"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'dbest keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I hadto open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,--keep all the redcoatsaway from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only tothe true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys--he be mostfit for ye."
Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, heis almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing toany one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marryHugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."
"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and herlips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl makea jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.
"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; andso don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curlyhead threateningly.
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