"Do you suppose, Joseph, that Jack will have had his supper?"
Aunt Lettice asked the question a little anxiously, as she drew about
her shoulders the soft shawl that little 'Bitha's impetuous clasping
had somewhat disarranged.
"Aye; I think the lad is sure to have taken it at the inn." His voice
was very gentle, as it always was when he addressed her.
"There he is!" shouted 'Bitha. And she darted down the steps to wave
frantic arms at two horsemen coming up the wooded way to the house,
while Dot lifted her head from her father's knee, as he now sat more
erect in his chair.
"Have a care, 'Bitha, or we may run you down," called out John
Devereux, laughingly. And at this the little maiden made haste to
speed back to the porch.
It was Hugh Knollys who accompanied him,--a stalwart, broad-chested
young fellow of twenty-five or six, with blunt features and a not
over-handsome face. But for all this he had an irresistible magnetism
for those who knew him; and no one could ever associate evil or untruth
with his frank, keen-glancing gray eyes and clean-cut, smiling lips.
"Good-evening, Hugh, and welcome," said Joseph Devereux, rising to
extend a friendly hand as the young man came up the steps.
Hugh removed his hat and nodded to Dorothy, glancing at her askance as
she arose and with a demure greeting passed him and went to her
brother, who was now giving some orders to old Leet.
"Jack," she whispered imploringly, under cover of the talk going on in
the porch,--"Jack, tell me, please, that you will not speak to father
of Mary and me seeing Moll Pitcher this afternoon."
He looked at her smilingly, and then took her chin in his fingers and
gave her head a gentle shake, in a way he had of doing.
"If I do as you ask, will you promise not to go over to that part of
the town again without telling me first, and then not to go unless I
say you may?"
"Yes, yes," she answered eagerly.
"Well, then, 't is a bargain." With this he put an arm around her, and
they turned toward the house.
"Did Mary go home?" he asked, as they walked slowly along.
"Yes; but she is coming soon to stop with us, as her father is to go to
Boston on business of some sort."
"He is like to go this very night," the young man said.
"This very night!" Dorothy echoed. "Why, then, Mary might have come
home with me, as I wished. But how do you know that, Jack?"
"Never mind now," was his evasive answer. "You will hear all about it
later."
They were now at the porch, and his father, who had been conversing
earnestly with young Knollys, said: "Hugh tells me that ye both had
supper at the inn. So come within, Jack,--come, both o' ye, and let us
talk over certain matters of importance. Hugh will stop with us for
the night; and, Dot, do you go and tell your Aunt Penine, so that his
room may be prepared." And leading the way, the old gentleman went
inside, followed by his son and their guest.
"Grandame," asked 'Bitha, as Dorothy arose and went in quest of Aunt
Penine, "what did Hugh Knollys mean by his talk to Uncle Joseph just
now, of the King's soldiers at Salem?" The child spoke in an awed
voice, drawing closer to the old lady, and looking up at her with
startled eyes.
Aunt Lettice tried to give her delicate features a properly severe cast
as she answered, "Hush, 'Bitha! you should not listen to matters not
meant for your hearing."
"But I've heard it before, grandame," 'Bitha persisted. "Johnnie
Strings said the same thing, this afternoon, to Dot and Mary Broughton.
He said the soldiers were coming all over here, clear to the shore, and
that we best have guns ready to shoot them."
Aunt Lettice's expression had now become really severe, for she still
had the old-time reverence for King and Parliament dwelling in her
heart.
"Johnnie Strings is seditious and rebellious, to speak so of His
Gracious Majesty's army," she said with marked disapproval; "and he
shall sell no more of his wares to me, if he goes about the country
talking in such fashion. But you must have mistaken his meaning,
child."
But 'Bitha shook her small head wilfully, in a way to remind one of her
cousin Dorothy, and took herself off to the charms of the kitchen
regions, where old Tyntie was ever ready to listen to her prattle, and
tell her charming tales when work was out of the way.
And this is how 'Bitha came to know that the bright green spots showing
here and there in the meadows were the rings made by the dancing feet
of the Star-sisters, when they came down in a great ball of light from
their home in the sky, striking the ball about as they danced, and
causing it to give forth most ravishing music.
And Tyntie told her, also, that the flitting will-o'-the-wisp lights
that showed on dark nights over the farthest away marsh-lands were the
wandering souls of Indian warriors, watching to keep little children
from getting lost or frightened; that the cry of the whippoorwill was
the lament of Munomene-Keesis, the Spirit of the Moon, over
dead-and-gone warriors vanquished by the white men; that the wild winds
coming from the sea were Pawatchecanawas, breathing threatenings for
bad men and their ships; and that the frogs hopping about in the cool
dusk were all little Iiche, with a magic jewel in their ugly heads.
All this was imparted as they sat out on the great stumps of hewn-down
trees, while the twilight gathered and the stars came out in the vault
overhead, and the two were at a safe distance from Aunt Penine's
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.