CHAPTER V

On Riverhead Beach, at the extreme southwest end, the Devereux family

kept sundry boats, for greater convenience in reaching the town proper,

without going around the Neck, by the open seaway; and some distance

from the boat-house was their home, the way being along the shore and

across the thriftily planted acres and through the woodland.

The same low stone house it was that had withstood the pirates' raid

over one hundred years before. But the forests were now gone, although

a noble wood still partially environed it. And beyond this were

sloping hills and grassy meadows, through which ran a stream of pure,

sweet water, wandering on through the dusk of the woods until it found

the sea.

Here fed the flocks and herds of Joseph Devereux, the grandson of John

and Anne.

There had been some additions to the original building, but these were

low and rambling, like the older portion. And before it, broader of

expanse and to the vision than in the early days, stretched the sea, a

far-reaching floor of glass or foam, to melt away in the pearly dimness

of the horizon.

The hush of lingering twilight was over the place, and now and then the

note of a thrush or robin thrilled sweet on the golden-tissued air.

But from the vine-draped door of the low stone dairy came sounds less

inviting, uttered by Aunt Penine, the widowed sister-in-law and

housekeeper of Joseph Devereux, as she goaded her maids at their

evening work.

In sharp contrast with her, both as to person and manner, was her

invalid sister Lettice, who was sitting on the porch before the open

door, with little 'Bitha, her orphaned grandchild, hanging lovingly

about her.

Opposite these sat Joseph Devereux, smoking his evening pipe; and

crouched on the stone step, her curly head resting against his knee,

was Dorothy, now gentle and subdued.

There was an irresistible charm about the girl's wilfulness that

blended perfectly with the sacred innocence of her childish nature.

She was impetuous, laughter-loving, and somewhat spoiled; but she was

possessed of a high spirit, strong courage, and a pure, tender heart.

Her father's idol and chief companion she had always been since, in his

sixtieth-odd year, she was laid in his strong arms,--vigorous as those

of a man half his own age. And he was looking into her baby face, so

like his own, when he heard that she was all he had left of his

faithful wife.

He had lost many children; and such sorrow, softening still more a

never hard heart, had made him dotingly fond of those left to him,--his

twenty-seven-year-old son John and the wilful Dot.

The girl's education had been beyond that of most maids in those times,

as had also that of her only friend, Mary Broughton; and for much the

same reason. Both girls had been carefully trained by their fathers;

and Aunt Penine, at Nicholson Broughton's request, had taught Mary

housewifery in all its branches, at the same time she was undertaking

the like portion of her niece's education.

But this was an art in which Mary far exceeded Dot; and Aunt Penine

lectured her niece unceasingly, while seeming to find nothing but

praise for Mary's efforts.

It was pretty sure to be something of this sort: "Dorothy, Dorothy!

Ye'll ne'er be a good butter-maker; ye beat it so, the grain will be

broke. Why cannot ye take it this way?" and Aunt Penine would show

her. "See how fine Mary does it! Ye have too hot a hand."

Dot would give her head a toss, and remind her aunt that it was not she

herself who had the fashioning of her small hand, nor the regulating of

its temperature. And then Aunt Penine would be very sure to go to her

brother-in-law with complainings of his daughter's disrespectful

tongue, and it would end in Dot being persuaded by her father to beg

Aunt Penine's pardon, which she would do in a meek tone, but with a

suspicious sparkle in her eyes. And after that she was very likely to

be found at the stables, saddling her own mare, Brown Bess, for a wild

gallop off over the country.

Aunt Penine was one who never seemed to remember that she had ever been

young herself; and this made her all the more unbending in her

disapproval of Dorothy's flow of spirits, and of the indulgence shown

her by her father.

She was now coming across the grass from the dairy,--a tall, lithe

figure, from which all the roundness of youth (had she ever possessed

anything so weak) had given way to the spareness of middle age. Her

hair, still plentiful, was of a dull, lustreless black; her complexion

sallow, with paler cheeks, somewhat fallen in; and she had a pair of

small gray eyes that seemed like twinkling lights set either side a

very long, sharp nose.

Her gown was now pinned up around her like that of a fishwife; a white

cap surmounted her severe head, and her brown arms were bare above the

elbows, where she had rolled her sleeves. She well knew that her

brother-in-law in no wise approved of her going about in such a

fashion; but this was only an added reason for her doing so.

There was a silken rustling of doves' wings, as the flock scattered

from in front of her on the grass, where, obedient to Dorothy's call,

they had come like a cloud from the dove-cote perched high on a pole

near by.

"Joseph," she cried, sending her shrill voice ahead of her as she

walked along, "do you know that the last two new Devonshires have

either strayed or been stolen?"

"So Trent told me." He spoke very calmly, letting several seconds

intervene between question and answer, puffing his pipe meanwhile,

while the fingers of one hand rested amongst the curly, fragrant locks

lying against his knee.

"Told you! Then why, under the canopy, did n't ye tell _me_?" she

demanded, as she now stood on the stone flagging in front of the

veranda, her arms akimbo, while she peered at him with her little

twinkling eyes.

He looked at her gravely, and as if thinking, but made no reply.

Her eyes fell, and she seemed embarrassed, for she said in a lower

tone, and by way of explanation: "Because, you see, Joseph, I cannot

look after the pans o' milk properly, if I know not how many cows there

be to draw from. There was less milk by twenty pans, this e'en; and I

was suspecting the new maid we've taken from over Oakum Bay way of

making off with it for her own folk, when Pashar came in and said he

was to go with Trent, to hunt for the missing Devonshires. And that

was the first I'd heard of any strayed cattle."

"And even had they not been missing, Penine, you had no right to think

such evil o' the stranger," Joseph Devereux said reprovingly. "'T is a

queer fashion, it seems to me, for a Christian woman to be so ready as

you ever seem to be for thinking harsh things o' folk you may happen

not to know well. Strangers are no more like to do evil than friends,

say I."

He now handed his pipe to Dot, who rapped the ashes out on the ground

and returned it to him. He thanked the girl with the same courtesy he

would have shown an utter stranger, while Aunt Penine, looking very

much subdued, turned about and went back to the dairy.

Joseph Devereux was still a handsome man, with a dark, intellectual

face, framed in a halo of silvery hair, worn long, as was the fashion,

and confined by a black ribbon. About his throat was wrapped snowy

linen lawn, fine as a cobweb, and woven on his own hand-looms by the

women of his house, as was also that of the much ruffled shirt showing

from the front of a buff waistcoat, gold-buttoned.

The same color was repeated in his top-boots, that came up to meet the

breeches of dark cloth, fastened at the knee with steel buckles.

His tall figure was but slightly bowed; and there was a mixture of

haughtiness and softness in his manner, very far removed from

provincial brusqueness, and belonging rather to the days and

surrounding of his ancestors than to the time in which he lived.

John, his son, was a more youthful picture of the father, but with a

freer display of temper,--this due, perhaps, to his fewer years. But

father and son were known alike for kindly and generous deeds, and as

possessing a high ideal of truth and justice.