Daughters of the Revolution. Charles Carleton Coffin
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can I say that will interest her, what talk about?”
“She will enable you to find your tongue. The chances are that you will fall in love with her just as everybody else does, — colonels, majors, captains, lieutenants of the army and navy, besides widowers and bachelors; but Ruth is too sensible a girl to throw herself away. Her mother would like her to marry some nobleman, or lord of ancient family. Ruth does not care much for coats-of-arms or titles, but would rather be sure of what a man is, rather than who were his ancestors. But we are almost there.”
Many guests had already arrived. Ladies and gentlemen were strolling beneath the trees in the orchard, and along the garden paths. Pompey showing his white teeth, his dusky countenance beaming with pleasure, bowed very courteously as they entered the mansion.
“Massa and Missus Newville will welcome de ladies and genmens in de garding,” he said.
Berinthia led the way and introduced Robert as her relative from New Hampshire.
“And so you are from that dependency of the crown? What news do you bring from that Province?” Mr. Newville asked.
“I do not know that there is anything particularly new or interesting. Not much is going on there. We have had a good crop of hay, the corn looks middling well; the rye is not much rusted. I think we shall not want for bread,” Robert replied.
“It is excellent news. Bread is the staff of life, and I trust the people will be grateful for the bounties of Providence, and rest in peace and quiet under the rule of our gracious sovereign, King George.”
“I hope we shall be truly thankful for all that is good,” Robert replied.
“It is very kind in you to accompany our friend Miss Brandon to our entertainment this afternoon; we gladly welcome you, Mr. Walden,” said Mrs. Newville, who ran her eyes over him, and, so far as Robert could judge, rather liking his stalwart form and figure, while saying to herself that he was no hawk or eagle to bear off her chicken.
“Ruth, daughter, this way, please,” said Mrs. Newville.
Robert saw a young lady wearing a white muslin dress turn towards them from a group of ladies and gentlemen; but it was not the snowy whiteness of the garment, neither her dark brown unpowdered hair in contrast to that of the ladies around her, that attracted his attention, but the hazel eyes and the lips that had said, “I never shall forget your kindness, sir.”
“Mr. Walden, allow me to introduce my daughter,” said Mrs. Newville.
There was a startled, wondering look in the hazel eyes. She courtesied, with the fresh blood suffusing her cheeks.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walden,” she said.
“I took the liberty of bringing him,” said Berinthia. “I was sure you would extend to him the same cordial welcome you give to everybody.”
“Certainly, anybody whom you may invite will always be welcome. Mr. Walden, shall I serve you with a cup of tea? What kind will you take — shall it be Old Hyson, Bohea, or Twankey?”
She stood with a salver ready to serve him.
“I will take Old Hyson, if you please,” he said.
The pink slippers tripped across the lawn to a table where Phillis in white apron and cap, with smiling countenance, was pouring tea from silver urns into dainty cups. So this was the young lady whom he had rescued from the clutches of the villains. What should he say to her? By no word or look must she know that he was conscious of having befriended her.
The sun was shining through the branches of the melocotoon tree beneath which she was standing. It seemed to him that the rich bloom of the ripening fruit by some subtle process of nature was being transmuted to her face. He recalled the description of the pure-hearted damsel that welcomed the Pilgrim of Bunyan’s allegory to the beautiful palace in the land of Beulah. She soon returned bringing with steady hand the salver with the tea, sugar-bowl, and pitcher of cream.
“Shall I serve you with the sugar and cream, Mr. Walden?”
He could but notice the graceful movement of her deft fingers as she picked the sugar from the bowl with the silver tongs, and poured the cream.
“I will bring you some confections,” she said, and tripped away once more, returning with a plate of cake and bonbons.
“I hope you find the tea to your taste?” she said.
“It could not be better,” he replied.
He could see she was scanning his face with an inquiring look, as if endeavoring to solve a perplexing question — whether the stranger in working clothes who rescued her from the arms of the assaulting soldiers and this gentleman in fitting costume for genteel society were one and the same. “Can it be he?” was the question revolving in her thoughts. The countryman was tall, stout, and broad-shouldered; so was Mr. Walden. She saw resolution and indignation in the face of the stranger. Could not the face before her exhibit like qualities under like provocation? She must find out during the afternoon, if possible, whether or not Mr. Walden was her benefactor. If so, what should she say to him — how make known her gratitude?
“And so you are from New Hampshire, Mr. Walden?” she said inquiringly.
“Yes, and this is my first visit to Boston.”
“I dare say you find things somewhat different here from what they are there.”
“Oh yes. In Rumford the houses are scattered; but here they are as thick as spatter. There isn’t near so many things going on there as here.”
“I think it must be delightful to live in the country, among the green fields and pastures, and have chickens and goslins, and see the lambs play.”
“Yes; but we have to look sharp, to see that the foxes, and hawks, and weasels don’t get ’em.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Berinthia, who introduced him to Miss Lucy Flucker27, daughter of the secretary of the Province, Miss Dorothy Quincy, Miss Mary Shrimpton, and to Isaac and John Coffin28, sons of his majesty’s receiver-general.
“Do you have garden tea-parties in Rumford?” Miss Flucker asked.
“No, not garden parties, but the ladies get together in a parlor, sip their tea, take pinches of snuff from each other’s boxes, talk about the number of cheeses they have made, how much salt they put into the curd, how much yarn they have spun, how many yards of linen they have woven.”
“Such a party must be very enjoyable,” said Miss Quincy.
“Yes, I think they like to find out what everybody else is doing, and how they do it. Their tongues wag lively when they get to talking about what has happened and what they expect will happen; who was cried the Sunday before, and who probably will be the next Sunday.”
The ladies smiled at Robert’s vivacious conversation.
“Does the town clerk cry the proposed marriages?” Miss Shrimpton asked.
“Yes. The moment the minister finishes the benediction Sunday afternoon, Squire Fellows breaks in, shouting that marriage is intended between Hezekiah and Mehitable. Of course there are blushes on Mehitable’s face, while Hezekiah looks kinder sheepish.”
Again the ladies laughed.
“Do all the ladies take snuff?”
Miss Flucker asked the question.
“Nearly all the old ladies carry their snuff-boxes in their pockets or work-bags. There’s one lady, however, who does not — Aunt Hipsy Jenkins. Perhaps I ought to say she is well along in years, and that the town clerk never has cried her. She carries her nose as she pleases. She says if the Lord had intended it for a dust-hole, he would have put it on the other end up.”
A merry peal of laughter rang through the garden — so joyful that several ladies and gentlemen joined the group, to hear what the young man from the