When Dorothy left the dining-room, it was by a door opposite that by
which Aunt Penine had made her angry exit,--one leading to the
storerooms and kitchen.
The one through which Dorothy went opened directly upon a small
platform, whose flight of three steps descended into the main hall,
which was part of the original building, and was now lighted dimly by a
ship's lantern swinging from the low dark-wood ceiling, or
"planchement."
A pair of handsome antlers were fixed against the wall about midway
down the passage, and underneath these was a long mahogany table, piled
with a miscellaneous collection of whips, hats, and riding-gloves.
Directly opposite hung the family arms, placed there more than a
hundred years before by the hands of John Devereux, the "Emigrant," as
he was called. They were: Arg., a fesse, gu., in chief three torteaux.
Crest;--out of a ducal coronet, or, a talbots head, arg., eared, gu.
And the motto was "Basis Virtutum Constantia."
Other than this the long, wide hall was bare of furnishing.
Dorothy came out with her usual impetuous rush, and closing the door
quickly behind her, was startled by seeing a form rise, as it seemed,
from the platform, and then, as if retreating hastily, stumble and fall
down the steps.
The girl looked with astonishment, and saw Aunt Penine prostrate upon
the floor of the hall, her upturned face pale and distorted, as with
pain.
It was quite evident that she had been eavesdropping; and Dorothy
remained at the head of the steps regarding her scornfully for a
moment, before asking if she were hurt.
"Yes, I have done somewhat to my ankle, drat it!" gasped the sufferer,
but in a low voice, as if fearful of attracting the attention of those
on the other side of the door.
"Shall I call Jack?" Dorothy inquired, a faint smile of sarcasm
touching her lips; and she made a movement as though to reopen the door.
"No, no,--oh no!" exclaimed Aunt Penine in great alarm, as she
endeavored to regain her feet.
This she at length succeeded in doing, and stood with one hand against
the wall, while she groaned, but in a suppressed way.
Just then Mary Broughton came from a room farther down the hall, where
she had been delighting Aunt Lettice with soft melodies drawn from the
spinet, upon which both she and Dorothy were skilful performers.
"What is it--is anything amiss?" she asked quickly, coming up to Aunt
Penine, and laying a hand on her trembling shoulder.
But Aunt Penine only continued to groan dismally, while her niece, with
a laugh she did not try to hide, now came down the steps.
"Aunt Penine was evidently anxious to be of my father's council," she
said to Mary; "and I chanced to open the door too quickly for her, so
that she slipped down the steps and has twisted her ankle."
Her aunt straightened herself and glanced angrily at the girl, who only
laughed again, while Mary Broughton stood regarding her with a puzzled
look.
"Shall I help you to your room, Aunt Penine?" Dorothy asked with
elaborate politeness, holding out her arm.
"No," snapped her aunt. "I wish no assistance from you, whose sharp
tongue seems ever ready with insult for your elders. Mary will help
me; and ye may find Tyntie, and send her to my room." With this she
hobbled away, leaning heavily upon Mary, who looked back reproachfully
at Dorothy.
But Dot only laughed again, as she turned and went to a door at the end
of the hall which communicated with a side passage leading to the
servants' quarters; then, having summoned Tyntie, she came back and
seated herself upon a lower step of the main staircase to await Mary's
coming.
Her friend's first words were full of reproof. "Oh, Dot, how could you
seem so heartless?" she said. "You should see Aunt Penine's foot; 't
is swollen fearfully, and her ankle is discolored."
"If you but knew how it came about, Mary, perhaps you'd be less ready
to scold me," Dorothy replied, making room on the step. "There are
weighty matters being talked of in the dining-room yonder, and I was to
tell you what Jack took me in for. Aunt Penine came in with the punch
while I was there, and she tried to have me sent away. She was angry
that father would not do this, but bade her mind her business and let
me alone. When I opened the door just now, she was trying to listen to
what they were saying, and I came out so suddenly as to frighten her,
so that she stumbled and hurt herself. I am sorry she is hurt; but if
it had befallen me, she'd have been ready enough to say I'd but
received my just deserts."
"Why should she try to listen at the door?" asked Mary with surprise,
as she twisted one of Dorothy's short curls about her slender fingers.
But Dorothy gave her head an unruly toss, to release the curl, as she
had ever a dislike for being fondled or touched in any way, unless it
were by her father or brother.
"There is really to be a war, and that soon," she replied. "The
soldiers, they say, are coming down to the Neck in a few days--perhaps
even to-morrow; and the people propose--and rightly, too--to fight
them, if needs be, should they try to interfere with our doings. Aunt
Penine sides with the English, I take it from what I've heard her say;
and I know for a surety she has been slyly making tea to drink, for all
that father has forbidden it. He and Aunt Lettice miss their tea as
much as ever she does herself, and yet they have never touched a drop.
I intend to tell him to-morrow that I know of a canful of tea in the
store-closet. I was talking with Aunt Lettice about it when you came
this evening. She supposed there was not a grain of it in the house,
and I am sure father has been thinking the same. Aunt Penine is
deceitful and disloyal to him--and so I shall tell him, if I live,
to-morrow morning."
"Whatever did she expect to hear, that she did so mean and dishonorable
a thing as to listen at the keyhole?" Mary spoke musingly, a fine
scorn now touching her lips, and it was clear that her sympathy for the
afflicted one was greatly dampened.
"Perhaps she intends to play spy, as she disapproves so entirely of the
feeling the townsfolk all have. Spies are well paid, so I've heard;
and Aunt Penine would do anything for money." Dorothy's eyes flashed,
and she stared straight ahead, pulling at her front locks in an
absent-minded way, as though she were speculating over all the mischief
her aunt might have in view.
"She may mean nothing, after all, Dot," Mary said, after a moment's
thought. "It may be that she was only curious to know why you were
admitted to the room, while she and all the rest of us were kept out.
Still, if I were you, I'd tell my father of her listening."
"Indeed I shall," was the emphatic reply, "and of the tea as well. I
have a notion she got it all from Robert Jameson. You know what they
tell of him; and he and Aunt Penine seem to have a deal to say to one
another these days. She has sent Pashar to him with notes ever so many
times, as I know; and Pashar seems to have more silver nowadays than
father gives him, for he has, more than once, brought 'Bitha sweets
from the store."
Mary nodded significantly at the mention of Robert Jameson's name. He
was the nearest neighbor of Joseph Devereux, and had come to be
regarded with distrust--enmity, indeed--by most of his former
associates.
He was a widower of some wealth, and had no family; and Aunt Penine had
long been suspected of cherishing a desire to entrap him into a second
matrimony.
A few months before, an exceedingly complimentary, almost fulsome,
address to Hutchinson, the recent Governor, had appeared in the columns
of a newspaper known as the "Essex Gazette," to which were attached the
names of some residents of the town, Jameson's amongst them. It
endorsed all that had been said in praise of his administration, and of
his aiming only at the public good; and it asserted that such was the
opinion of all thinking and dispassionate citizens.
This manifest untruth had raised a storm of indignation. A town
meeting was held, and a committee appointed, with instructions to
inform the signers of this false and malicious statement that they
would be exonerated only by making a public retraction of all
sentiments contained therein; and that upon refusing to do this, they
would be denounced as enemies of the province, desiring to insult both
branches of the legislature, and to affront the town.
Jameson had been one of the few who refused to comply with the
committee's demand; and he had since been shunned as an enemy to the
cause, and looked upon with suspicion and distrust.