Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to join
her, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to see
your father."
At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had left
her father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisible
writings upon the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings against
the oaken polish.
He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing a
moment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.
"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and as
though not wishing to be disturbed.
Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who was
waiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into the
sunshiny morning.
They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pashar
coming from a side door of the house. His black hand held something
white, 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 to
her, 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 stood
before 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, remonstrative
fashion; but Dorothy cut him short.
"Give me that letter," she repeated, stamping her small foot, "or
you'll be sorry!"
Trained like a dumb beast to obedience, the negro boy fumbled in his
pocket and took out a folded paper which he handed to his imperious
young mistress.
"What'll I say ter Massa Jameson when I sees him?" he asked
tremblingly, 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, if
you 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 flashing
of her dark eyes bore witness to her sincerity.
"Now," she added, "go about your work,--whatever you have to do. And
mind, don't you dare stir a step--no matter who bids you--to Jameson's
place; else you will get into trouble that will make you wish you had
obeyed 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 he
looked 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's
uncomforting reply, as she glanced over her shoulder at the trembling
boy.
The two girls walked quickly toward the house, while Pashar betook
himself off with a very downcast air, digging his black fists into his
eyes as if he felt only too certain of being punished for his
wrongdoing.
Joseph Devereux was ascending the stairway, bound for his
sister-in-law's room, when the two girls came in from outside. Dorothy
called 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 herself
to do, adding, "I was fearful of what she might have told him, if
perchance she overheard anything last night of the gunpowder and arms."
"Wise, trusty little maid," he said, a slow smile touching the gloom of
his 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 so
grave, 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 somewhat
subdued, bade him.
Penine was lying back on a settle, a bright-hued patchwork of silk
thrown 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 face
grave 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; then
her eyes fell, and she began to pluck nervously at the edge of the
covering, while her face became filled with an expression of guilty
embarrassment.
"Penine," he began, in a voice quite low, but full of severity, "these
be times when, as you well know, it behooves a householder to look most
carefully to the doings of those about him. He must see to it that all
appearance, as well as doing, o' wrong be most strictly avoided. And
so I have come to ask you, as one o' my own household, how is it that
you have been brewing tea for yourself, after all that's been done and
said; and how 't is that you have such a supply of the stuff in my
house?"
Penine flushed angrily, and tried to look him in the eyes, while her
lips half parted, as though to make some retort. Then she seemed to
alter her mind, for she remained silent, her eyes falling guiltily
before his stern, searching gaze.
"Do not seek to hide your fault by another one--o' falsehood," he
warned her, more sternly than before. "I know what I am accusing you
of to be the truth,--more's the pity. And it surprises and grieves me
that a woman o' such years as you should set a pernicious example to
those who, younger and inferior in station to yourself, look to you for
a 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 seem
disloyal and false to my word of honor," he replied with increasing
sternness. "And this you have no right to do, while you abide under my
roof."
"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, angry
eyes, "and I have never heard that he forbade his loyal subjects all
the 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've
suspected as much since I had knowledge o' the fact o' your sending
notes 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 me
to presume to. If things be not so black against ye as they surely
look, take this note that ye sent my servant with just now, to be
delivered to our country's avowed enemy, and read every word aloud to
me."
He held the letter toward her; but she made such an eager clutch for it
that a sudden impulse led him to change his mind, and he drew back his
hand.
"No," he said, "on second thought, 't is best that ye give me permit to
read it myself, aloud."
"No, no!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly; and the unmistakable
terror in her voice and eyes confirmed him in his determination to see
for himself the contents of the letter.
"I have to beg your pardon, Penine," he said with formal courtesy, "for
seeming to do a most ungallant act; but your manner only proves to me
what is my duty."
With this he deliberately broke the seal and ran his eyes over the
paper, while Penine cast one terrified glance at him, and then fell
back, 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 send
word of the matter to the Governor, hoping in this way to win honor and
reward for the man she expected to lure into speedy wedlock.
He read the letter once more, and then sat silent, as though pondering
over all her selfish treachery and disloyalty. And while he was thus
musing, the clock on the mantel ticked with painful loudness, and some
flies 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 gone
from his voice, "that you should have realized to the full all you were
doing when you took such a step,--that you were bringing the British
guns down to slay my son, an' like as not my innocent little maid; a
fate which now, thank God, has been kept from them."
His voice had become husky, and he paused to clear his throat. Then he
resumed, speaking in the same deliberate manner: "Because o' their
deliverance from death I will try and forgive what you have tried to
do; 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. But
so 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 to
hold converse or communication of any sort with this man Jameson while
you 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 direction
went out of the room, leaving Penine in tears.