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OLD BOSTON 
 
 
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 BY 
 
 A. DB GRASSE STEVENS 
 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Eontfon : 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MAESTON, SEAELE, & EIVINGTON, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
 [All rights reserved .] 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PBINTED BY GILBERT AND BIVINGTON, LIMITED, 
 
 st. John’s square. 
 
fa 3 
 
 ^ <r 
 
 v < I *“3 
 
 Pciucaicb 
 
 MY MOTHER, 
 
 WITH 
 
 LOYINO RESPECT. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/oldbostonromance13stev 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The historical characters and events intro- 
 duced in the following story are drawn 
 from the most authentic and reliable 
 resources, furnished, in some cases, by the 
 British Museum and old records of Boston, 
 United States of America. 
 
 The locale, setting, language, and colour- 
 ing of the social life duxing the rule of 
 Governor Gage in Massachusetts, have 
 been obtained from contemporary docu- 
 ments and private information. 
 
 It may be of interest to mention that the 
 play of “Zara,” followed by Bourgoyne’s 
 farce, “ The Blockade of Boston,” did occur 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 a 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 as it is represented, and the unexpected 
 attack of the patriots was announced in 
 that dramatic manner. 
 
 Owing to the wrath of the puritan 
 citizens when Otway’s “ Orphan ” was 
 produced in 1750, all theatrical perform- 
 ances were thenceforth prohibited, by order 
 of the State Congress, for the space of 
 five-and- twenty years ; and it was a strange 
 coincidence that the term should have just 
 expired when, under Bourgoyne and 
 Howe,- Faneuil Hall was converted into a 
 play-house. 
 
 It may not be amiss, also, to state that 
 the part played by Lady Gage in supply- 
 ing news to the American Congress, and 
 in using her influence with Cleaveland, 
 through his known weakness for the 
 “ Schoolmaster Lovell’s pretty daughter,” 
 is substantially correct. She was a patriot 
 at heart, and did not scruple to use her 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 kinsmen and her friends to forward her 
 schemes. 
 
 In the fiction woven about the de Grasse 
 name and lineage, no measure of truth has 
 been retained or aimed at. The story of 
 Anais is in all respects one of romance 
 only; both in her name and her beauty, 
 she remains a creature of the imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 To the kindness and the toleration of 
 the public I appeal in behalf of this tale of 
 Old Boston ; where they are most inclined 
 to criticize, I supplicate their generosity 
 and magnanimity, asking them to view 
 both its faidts and its virtues through the 
 kindly medium which the halo of “a 
 hundred years ago ” sheds upon all crude 
 efforts of to-day. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Childhood 1 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Inheritance — The two pictures . . . 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Ann’s past ....... 23 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lady Troubridge and Anais de Grasse . . 30 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 The mystery of Majorie ..... 48 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Storm — The old book — The lost violets . . 54 
 
X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Laddie — Mrs. Bidwell — Pop is lost — The 
 
 violets again . . . . . . 63 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Lady Troubridge begins the Battle of Oldtown . 75 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Battle of Oldtown continued — Lady 
 
 Troubridge’s “banns ” . . . . 89 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The old MS. — Dot and Anais — The two roses . 98 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The old MS. continued — Dot’s childhood — 
 
 Manor Farm — The young soldier . . 109 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Good-night, little Dot — The squire’s visit — 
 
 His love . . . . . .125 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Supper at the Hall — An evening walk with the 
 squire — “ For Anais ! ” . 
 
 140 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lady Troubridge becomes very feeble . . 154 
 
 CHAPTEE XIY. 
 
 Lady Troubridge’s legacy — Little Dot again — 
 
 Death 163 
 
 The funeral- 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 -Home again at Manor Farm . 182 
 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 October — The squire’s second visit — Ann’s 
 
 child-task begun . . . . .189 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 1775 — May at Manor Farm- — Little Dot and 
 Hanon — A young officer — Maidenly com- 
 
 passion 
 
 205 
 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Dot’s tambour-frame — A rival — “ The Manly 
 
 Heart ” 224 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER SIX. 
 
 A letter from Boston — Joseph Warren — The 
 Old South Church — A nosegay of violets . 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Dot learns the old lesson — Tais — Gilder oy 
 Buncombe . . . . 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The sisters — Duncombe finds them fair . 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 237 
 
 250 
 
 266 
 
 Penelope Dudley — Jealousy . 
 
 276 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The romance of my great-grandmother ! 
 That was what during all my youthful 
 days I thought about, dreamed over, 
 wondered at. 
 
 In childhood so little suffices to create 
 a mystery. A locked door, a darkened 
 room, a lowered voice, and immediately 
 all the undeveloped love for the unknown 
 leaps to the fore, the more eagerly because 
 it has so little to feed upon, and because 
 all the emotions are, as yet, fresh and 
 unplayed upon. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 So as a child my one absorbing topic of 
 speculation was my great-grandmother ; 
 her figure among the familiar ones of his- 
 tory or tale stood out most boldly, and 
 assumed an almost magical brilliance. 
 Her presence always visited me in a fur- 
 tive, subtle way, as on hearing a sudden 
 strain of stirring music, or looking on 
 some glowing sunset, or inhaling the 
 sweetness of some pungent perfume; any 
 such intense physical emotion evoked her 
 personality in a curiously distinct manner ; 
 and at such times I would instinctively 
 draw closer to the fire, or seek the sunniest 
 corner, not because I altogether disliked 
 the sensations thus called forth, but be- 
 cause I felt the material necessity and 
 comfort of outward heat. 
 
 I was a very lonely little girl, knowing 
 neither father nor mother, brought up in 
 solitude by my grandmother Truesdale, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 3 
 
 whose passionless, colourless face always 
 checked what little springs of affection 
 human nature stirred, from time to time, 
 in my heart ; yet she it was who, all un- 
 wittingly, opened to me the mystery of my 
 child-life, and awakened in my little heart 
 the keen desire to unravel the tangled 
 skein, and to unfold the story of my great- 
 grandmother. 
 
 Grandmother Truesdale called me one 
 day to help her put to rights a great 
 carved oak chest, whose heavy drawers 
 were kept jealously locked, and whose 
 very key was awe-inspiring, so large and 
 ponderous was it, so grim and twisted its 
 knob and wards. 
 
 She gave me this to carry, and though 
 I was a girl of five years, and tall for my 
 age, it took both my hands to fit it into 
 the lock, and their united efforts were 
 insufficient to turn it. I remember so 
 b 2 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 well how white my grandmother’s hand 
 looked as she put it over mine to force the 
 refractory key, and how a ruby ring she 
 wore flashed and glowed in a sunbeam 
 that was dancing about over the grim old 
 chest, and attracting all the unwary little 
 motes that Amanda’s duster had left un- 
 disturbed. 
 
 Out of the delicious obscurity of the 
 deep drawers my grandmother took many 
 things : rich brocades, with threads of silver 
 and gold interwoven, over whose loveliness 
 I gave little cries of delight, and at whose 
 brightness the sunbeam darted away from 
 the foolish motes, catching eagerly at the 
 shining, gleaming meshes ; filmy laces, 
 done up in soft blue paper whose very 
 colour suggested the creamy tint of the 
 delicate fabric it protected ; fine, sweep- 
 ing feathers ; a pair of long russet leather 
 gloves, embroidered with curious stuffed 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 5 
 
 figures — these I instantly drew over my 
 little hands, the stiff fingers standing 
 out beyond my small digits in a melan- 
 choly, helpless way; one or two cases in 
 stamped morocco, holding gems and a 
 fillet of pearls, the velvet beds on which 
 they rested discoloured and frayed, and 
 then some old letters tied in separate 
 bundles. 
 
 But all these did not interest me in the 
 least ; my little soul was absorbed by a 
 burning curiosity, and my little brain filled 
 with an eager desire. 
 
 My grandmother had seated herself 
 upon a low ottoman, and was looking 
 over the letters one by one ; she had quite 
 forgotten me, nor had she noticed a small 
 oval case that had slipped from among the 
 letters and lay on the folds of her dress at 
 her feet. This case I felt I must possess. 
 With the courage born of a great desire, 
 
6 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 not daring even to withdraw the cumber- 
 some gloves, I crept noiselessly along the 
 intervening space, and cautiously secured 
 my coveted prize. But the clasp was 
 peculiar, and my hands, awkward and 
 embarrassed by the heavy gloves and 
 trembling from a sense of wrong-doing, 
 fumbled uselessly at its intricacies ; waxing 
 bolder as my patience grew short, I gave 
 it a sudden jerk; the case fell from my 
 grasp with a sharp ring upon the polished 
 floor. 
 
 My grandmother started and looked up, 
 caught sight of my crimson face and my 
 hands in their ridiculous coverings; she 
 did not smile — my grandmother never 
 smiled — but a less grave expression 
 gathered in her eyes as she gazed at me ; 
 then she said slowly, 
 
 “ What now, Ann, could you not rest 
 quiet for one little while ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 7 
 
 “ It was — it was — this, grandmother,” 
 I stuttered, too proud to tell anything 
 but the truth, yet knowing well she 
 had not seen the case at her feet, 
 which I now picked up and held 
 towards her : the clasp had given way 
 in the fall, and lay open in my hand, 
 but I would not cast one glance at 
 what only a moment ago I craved to 
 inspect. 
 
 My grandtn other took the case, half 
 open as it was, and scanned it earnestly ; 
 in one hand she held the letter she had 
 been reading, but she did not speak. At 
 last I could bear it no longer, curiosity 
 got the better of pride, and in an eager 
 whisper I said, 
 
 “ What is it, grandmother ? ” 
 
 “ A picture,” she answered involun- 
 tarily. “ A picture of your great-grand- 
 mother.” 
 
8 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Oli, let me see ; do let me see, 
 grandmother,” I pleaded. “ Oh, please, 
 what was her name ? was she beau- 
 tiful?” 
 
 “Was she beautiful?” echoed my 
 grandmother in a tone I now know to 
 have had an exceeding bitter ring. “ Yes, 
 she was very beautiful, but — she was 
 false, and her name was Anais de Grasse. 
 That is all you need know,” she continued 
 in an altered voice, shutting the case 
 energetically, but not before I caught a 
 glimpse of a fair face and a long white 
 throat. “ It is all you are ever likely to 
 know, and better so — better so — since you 
 sometimes have a look of her about your 
 eyes. Now, Ann, take off those gloves, 
 and go down to Amanda.” 
 
 I obeyed her, as I always did, but from 
 that moment all my loyal little heart went 
 out to my dead, unknown great-grand- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 9 
 
 mother, and I longed passionately to show 
 my loyalty by proving my grandmother 
 Truesdale’s words false, and so bestow 
 a tardy justice upon the fair face whose 
 charms I had beheld in so fugitive a 
 manner. 
 
 Years came and went. I grew from a 
 shy girl into an equally shy maiden. My 
 grandmother died, even as she had lived, 
 without a sigh of love for the orphan child 
 of her only son, whom she had sheltered 
 for so many years. 
 
 At her death sad vicissitudes became 
 my lot. I found myself thrown suddenly 
 out into the world, without home or kin- 
 dred, my only legacy a box of old letters 
 and papers, and one or two quaint articles 
 of jewellery; the remainder of my grand- 
 mother’s property passed by will into a 
 branch of her mother’s family, the 
 Carrolls. 
 
10 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Thus there was no other outlook for me 
 but earning my own living, for I gave no 
 heed to an old, worn-out claim on certain 
 property held by my great-grandmother, 
 which for generations had supplied the 
 courts of equity with a case when they 
 lacked one. 
 
 To those circumstanced as I was, I say, 
 recall what you have endured in the 
 struggle, single-handed, of a woman for 
 life in this over-burdened century of 
 women, and you will know what isolation, 
 what despair was mine. 
 
 To those who cannot understand through 
 like suffering, I say nothing. There are 
 eyes dead to the fairest picture in God’s 
 earth, ears dull to the sweetest symphony 
 of sound ; why then should they listen to 
 my humble cry ? 
 
 But always and ever in my heart the 
 old desire lingered — the old quixotic long- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 11 
 
 ing, born on that summer afternoon long 
 ago, to give back to the veneration and 
 love of future generations the memory of 
 my great-grandmother. 
 
 At last I have accomplished my self- 
 imposed task, but whether it has made me 
 happier or sadder, wiser or better, I must 
 leave others to judge. The tale is old, 
 but what life-history is not, since that 
 severely simple one of the garden of 
 Eden ? 
 
 It is made up of pleasure and passion, 
 jealousy and high courage; the lights 
 in it are fierce and crude, the colours 
 deep and glowing; but through it all 
 there run chords of honour and self- 
 sacrifice, devotion and self-abnegation, 
 and a love that truly gave unto the 
 grave. 
 
 My childish work is completed, and my 
 great-grandmother’s romance lies before 
 
12 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 me. Her memory can never again be 
 sheathed in mystery. For good example 
 or evil, Anais de Grasse stands forth in all 
 her beauty. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was on a certain warm day in early 
 June that I, Ann Trues dale, came into my 
 unexpected inheritance — unexpected, be- 
 cause for so long a time forgotten, and 
 then at last, by one of the many turns and 
 twists of the law, suddenly laid at my feet. 
 
 It was not a very large one, but it 4 was 
 something better to me than many broad 
 acres or much gold, for it meant independ- 
 ence and a home, and a cessation of all 
 the petty daily struggles for a decent sup- 
 port. This was a past evil now, and not 
 likely to rise again from out its grave, to 
 vex me with unquiet eyes. 
 
 Also it meant the ending of a long and 
 
14 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 wearisome law-suit, in which many years 
 had dragged out their ever-lengthening 
 chain of hope deferred; and many lives 
 had gone down in the great fluctuating 
 whirlpool of expectancy and disappoint- 
 ment. However, that was all over now, 
 and I, the last repi’esentative of a family 
 of brave sons and fair daughters, no longer 
 young and with the lines of sorrow and 
 care plainly written on my face, became 
 sole possessor of the disputed claim, and 
 for the first time in my life stood within 
 my own home, and looked out upon my 
 own land. 
 
 For generations the property had lain in 
 abeyance, and from the days of my great- 
 grandmother the house had been unin- 
 habited, save by care-takers put in by the 
 lawyers. 
 
 Looking back now, it seems but one link 
 in the chain of circumstance that con- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 15 
 
 nected me, from my childish, days, with 
 my dead great-grandmother ; though at 
 the time it appeared in no way strange 
 that I should have fallen heir to this 
 legacy, which since her death, and even 
 before, had remained unsettled. 
 
 We accept good fortune as our just 
 reward for some hitherto unrecognized 
 virtue, tardily acknowledged by capricious 
 fate : and it never occurred to me that 
 as 1 entered upon my new life, so too 
 would I enter upon my childish crusade. 
 An undefined feeling of pity I know 
 I had for the one whose life must so 
 long ago have had finis written across 
 its last page ; but beyond that — well, 
 as one grows old it requires powerful 
 agencies to rekindle the fire of bygone 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 The house was a large rambling old 
 place, half farm, half manor, with a 
 
16 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 hanging thatched roof, and small deep-set 
 windows ; within, the oak rafters ran 
 across the long hall from end to end, and 
 the high wainscot reached almost to the 
 beams ; the chimney was deep and broad, 
 and had above the swinging cradle a row 
 of eight small panels, painted in different 
 scriptural subjects, but so dimmed by age 
 and mould that only here and there an 
 arm, a hand, or a bit of bright-coloured 
 drapery was discernible. 
 
 On one side of the hall there opened a 
 low, long withdrawing-room, panelled in 
 pale sea-green ; the west front of this 
 salon was formed by six windows, with 
 deep cushioned seats beneath, of faded 
 green and gold damask; on the inside 
 wooden shutters, of the same tint as the 
 panels, were painted flowers, birds, and 
 butterflies ; these were scattered about at 
 hap-hazard without any set design, as if 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 17 
 
 drawn at odd moments or as fancy 
 dictated. In most of them the execution 
 and detail were particularly delicate and 
 elaborate, but occasionally a hurried and 
 variable touch testified to the artist’s 
 changeful mood. 
 
 The furniture was all in green and gold ; 
 chairs, sofas, and tables carved elaborately 
 and gilded, though little of the pristine 
 brightness remained. At the far end 
 stood an elaborate harpsichord of Louis 
 XY.’s time, the gilt key still in the 
 lock, with a bit of frayed rose ribbon 
 attached. 
 
 It was all very melancholy and very 
 dreary. 
 
 I felt, as I stood in the midst of these 
 my household gods, a depressing chill of 
 loneliness creep over me. Surely I had 
 no place in this faded, elegant chamber ; 
 other dreams, hopes, and fears had been 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 £ <* 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 born, withered, or fulfilled within these 
 silent walls ; but all so long ago, so very- 
 long ago. What had I to do with them ? 
 and was it not sacrilege to bring my life, 
 with its prosaic, matter-of-fact routine, 
 into this dimly haunted abode ? 
 
 On the wall opposite the row of windows 
 hung two pictures — portraits, as they 
 appeared at first sight, of one woman, 
 wrought by the same master-hand. In- 
 deed, so alike were the faces, so exactly 
 similar the height, bearing, form, and 
 colouring, it seemed impossible that any 
 two human beings could so resemble one 
 another. 
 
 The costumes were in the severely 
 simple style of the Puritans ; gowns of a 
 soft pinkish hue, falling to the ankles in 
 straight full folds ; muslin neckerchiefs 
 crossed over the white, rounded necks, a 
 square-shaped cap of mull confining the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 19 
 
 plenteous rippling brown hair, divinity 
 cuffs turned back from the shapely hands, 
 and grey stockings, with square, low shoes, 
 and a silver buckle on the instep. 
 
 Under one portrait was written in easy, 
 flowing characters, Majorie ; under the 
 other, in a more prim and pointed penman- 
 ship, Dorothy. 
 
 The faces were beautiful ; oval in con- 
 tour, with a broad low forehead and well- 
 defined eyebrows; a straight nose, with 
 clear-cut rather wide nostrils ; a round, 
 dimpled chin, and a mouth vivid in colour, 
 and full and generous in the sweep of the 
 corners. 
 
 A closer scrutiny brought out distinct, if 
 trifling, differences in the two counten- 
 ances. In Majorie’s the eyes were colder 
 and harder in expression ; her lips curled 
 more scornfully, and lacked the look of 
 firmness and patience worn by Dorothy, 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Her dress, too, bore marks of coquetry that 
 the other’s staid simplicity lacked ; about 
 the muslin kerchief fell filmy lace, the cap 
 was thrust further back upon the pretty 
 head, and the dark curly locks were not 
 restrained by band or fillet. 
 
 Each maiden held a flower, a rose : 
 Majorie’s a flushing crimson beauty, deep- 
 toned with hot colouring; Dorothy’s a 
 pure and spotless white, with creamy 
 petals like softest satin. 
 
 Later I came to read aright the riddle 
 of the two flowers ; even then the mean- 
 ing came to me in an uncertain fashion, 
 that while the crimson beauty would glow 
 in brighter splendour than her pale sister, 
 she would withstand and endure what her 
 rival in colour would bend and break 
 beneath. 
 
 Who were these two beautiful women ? 
 For how many years had their pictured 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 21 
 
 images hung on the walls of this deserted 
 chamber ? What was their history ? 
 Through what chances and changes had 
 they looked down from their vantage- 
 ground? On how many broken hearts 
 had they gazed, what dreams seen vanish, 
 what bright prospects wither, what proud 
 ambitions laid low, what weary souls seen 
 put to rest beneath the ever-sighing yew- 
 trees whose sombre branches I could see 
 thrown out against the pale, amber band 
 of light in the western sky ? 
 
 In vain I speculated. But during the 
 long, silent evening, as I sat within the 
 echo of the past, I watched those beautiful 
 faces, now blooming into fresher loveliness, 
 almost into life, as the sun, dying in all the 
 splendour of an eastern sultan, cast his 
 kingly rays upon their flushing cheeks 
 and brows; now fading into colder colours 
 in the dim starlight, and finally gleaming 
 
22 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 spectrally from out the shadows, as the 
 moon, climbing high the deep vault of 
 heaven, robbed them of her pale radiance. 
 
 I dreamed of them that night, and paid 
 them a visit early the next morning. 
 
 There they hung, sweet-smiling dumb 
 things, in all their simple finery, with the 
 gilt of their massive frames tarnished and 
 dull ; but guarding with quiet inviolability 
 the secret of their lineage and their fate. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It is a month, or more since I came to 
 Manor Farm, and already I have become 
 strangely at home in the dark old house. 
 
 I have discovered all the loveliest spots 
 in the meadow-land, where the white 
 clover, the pink periwinkles, the blue 
 aster, and the tall golden-rod bloom safely 
 hidden from the destroyer’s hand that 
 comes grimly armed with a scythe. 
 
 I have penetrated the deepest shadows 
 of the maple wood that lies behind the 
 house, and brought therefrom treasures 
 untold of feathery “ traveller’s joy,” gay 
 tinted lichens, and soft grey moss, known 
 as “ old man’s beard,” and from the marsh- 
 
24 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lands beyond, the white cotton-grass, the 
 tiny modest eyebright, and the red-flower- 
 ing arum. 
 
 I have learned by name the cows — dun 
 Jersey, white shorthorn, and russet Alder- 
 ney, who whisk their tails and stop their me- 
 ditative, retrospective aspect when I appear. 
 
 So quickly does one fall into pleasant 
 habits that my other life seems dim and 
 unreal, and this, the present, teems full of 
 interest and deep delight. 
 
 My home is but a little way — a short two 
 miles — from Oldtown, that quaint, world- 
 lost sea-port on the Massachusetts Bay, 
 whose history tells of strange scenes of 
 fanaticism, and of acts of violence done 
 in the name of religion ; when helpless 
 women, young and old, fair and ugly, 
 suffered martyrdom at the hands of God’s 
 so-called ministers, because, less bigoted 
 than their neighbours, they used their gifts 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 25 
 
 and powers in unorthodox customs, and 
 gained thereby the reputation and punish- 
 ment of witchcraft — about whose deserted 
 streets and quays linger memories and 
 traditions of better and brighter times ; 
 when the tall ships and slender-masted 
 merchantmen coming from the distant 
 Indies were laden with all the mysterious 
 fascinating commodities of eastern trade : 
 pungent perfumes, strange sweet scents 
 in crystal finger-bottles ; soft silken tex- 
 tures ; delicate muslins enwrought with 
 golden and purple embroideries ; carved 
 ivory boxes, cunningly devised to hold the 
 dainty fan of painted feathers ; tall jars 
 with curious dragon-monsters clinging to 
 their sides and forming the covers, that, 
 lifted, revealed spices and comfits of deli- 
 cious flavour — and to each article there 
 clung a subtle memory of that land of sun 
 and luxury far away beyond the cold grey 
 
26 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Atlantic, that neither time, nor being 
 placed in the best corner cupboard of the 
 strictest New England matron, could ever 
 dim. 
 
 Even now, as I hold such treasures in 
 hand, they seem to speak eloquently across 
 two centuries of time, and to hold within 
 their glowing reds and yellows, their royal 
 purples and golden browns, a reflection of 
 the richer colouring of their eastern land. 
 
 But Oldtown’s days of youth and ac- 
 tivity are over now, as well as its days of 
 usefulness. With age comes decay, and 
 such has been its fate. The green sea 
 wanders at will among the fast-decaying 
 piles, and forces its way unchecked up 
 the slippery grass-grown steps that once 
 echoed all day long to the tramp of sailors’ 
 feet and the shout of sailors’ songs. The 
 black-mouthed cannon no longer belch out 
 a hot welcome or blessing to in-coming and 
 
OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 27 
 
 out-going ship or schooner. At best a 
 lazy lugger drops into one of the many 
 empty slips for fresh cargo, or a smart 
 tight little sailing-craft comes round from 
 Plymouth or Cape Ann, and, with a saucy 
 defiant air, makes her bob-curtsy to the 
 stately old custom-house, and then bowls 
 away from out its shadow into the vast 
 possibilities of New Brunswick. 
 
 However, the dull old place suits me 
 and my tired heart, tired from long waiting, 
 from weary expectancy, from sickening 
 deferment of life’s great hope and joy. 
 
 Ten years ago my lover sailed away over 
 the sparkling blue water, left me with a 
 kiss on my lips and tears in my eyes. 
 
 “ For the last time, Nan, the very last. 
 After this one voyage, my little woman, 
 we will be married and settle down into 
 Darby and Joan for the rest of our lives.” 
 Poor blue-eyed, yellow-haired laddie ! 
 
28 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Where do you rest now, and on what 
 coral-reef does the salt sea wash her pearls 
 from out your curling, bonnie locks ? He 
 never came back to me. That is all. Just 
 the ending of a life’s romance; the breaking 
 of a woman’s heart; the darkening of all 
 God’s earth for evermore ; and the deep 
 dreamless sleep of two honest eyes ; the 
 stilling of one brave heart; the helpless 
 folding together of two strong hands. 
 
 Ah, me ! some tragedies are never 
 written; some saddest love-poems never 
 sung. 
 
 And yet even to me has come with age 
 the lesson we all must learn — endurance 
 and humility ; and as I wander by the sea, 
 watching the white sails that far away 
 against the faint blue line of sky and sea 
 seem like creatures of some brighter clime, 
 who, shunning the desolate grass-grown 
 quays of Oldtown, spread their pure wings 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 29 
 
 towards the great unknown world beyond ; 
 or when I sit within my sea-green parlour, 
 surrounded by the faded furniture of a 
 century ago, while occasionally a feeble 
 string will snap in the tinkling old spinet 
 with a low despondent wail ; and above 
 me, smiling ever, are the faces of those two 
 beautiful women, I feel I am content, and 
 ask for nothing more, only just to live my 
 life out so, and, dying, go to meet my true- 
 hearted sailor in the better world beyond. 
 
30 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 At last I have learned something concern- 
 ing one of my two beauties. 
 
 There lives • in Oldtown a very very old 
 lady, the mother of Squire Tronbridge, 
 who has already more than completed her 
 century, and who speaks of her son of 
 seventy years as a growing boy, and grieves 
 that her only daughter, dying at the imma- 
 ture age of fifty, never lived to grow up 
 and be a comfort to her mother. 
 
 She is a very wonderful old lady ; very 
 tiny, with a small waxen face shaded by 
 plenteous white hair, drawn off from her 
 narrow brow ; small, twinkling black eyes ; 
 and slender, thin hands, on which her heavy 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 31 
 
 old rings jangle like weird castanets. She 
 dresses always in the fashion of her youth, 
 when she was a belle in Boston, and went 
 to the king’s chapel and prayed loyally 
 for King George III., and secretly added 
 a petition that his enemies might not 
 prevail against him. 
 
 A stout royalist then, and with all the 
 prejudices of her order, she is the same 
 to-day ; and her old eyes will brighten, her 
 old hands quiver, and her old voice grow 
 high and shrill, as she recalls the good 
 old days of church and state, of fine 
 manners and frail morals, of patches and 
 powder, of simpering beauties and dandi- 
 fied men, when she was young, and before 
 General Washington gained his last 
 victory over Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown 
 in 1781. 
 
 It was told of her in lowered tones that 
 whenever she went to church — twice a year 
 
32 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 at most, on Christmas Day, and, if it fell 
 on a Sunday, King George’s birthday — at 
 the rendering of the prayer for the presi- 
 dent of the United States, she, rising in 
 her seat, with her fragile figure drawn to 
 its full height, would read in an audible 
 voice, phrase by phrase, as the clergyman 
 proceeded, the petition for her King George 
 and his Queen Charlotte. 
 
 They never stopped her; after all it' 
 mattered very little, and here in sleepy 
 Oldtown it took a long time to rouse into 
 action the drowsy consciences of the 
 clergyman and wardens, especially when 
 they were friendly disposed towards one so 
 respected and venerated by all in the town. 
 And as Lady Troubridge, as she was 
 always styled, grew more aged, her loyalty 
 to a lost cause grew more harmless, until 
 finally it was accepted as only a vagary, 
 and then looked forward to with a certain 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 33 
 
 sense of excitement, as children do to the 
 days when, according to rubric, the Atha- 
 nasian creed is repeated. 
 
 To a stranger the scene presented must 
 have seemed odd indeed, and one not easily 
 forgotten ; the old church with its high 
 pews, its tablets of the commandments 
 over the communion-table, the royal arms of 
 England, draped with the stars and stripes 
 of America, above the gallery, and the 
 shrill, piping tones of Lady Troubridge 
 croaking out her version against that of the 
 revised edition of the Book of Common 
 Prayer. 
 
 Lady Troubridge sent for me one day, 
 and of course I went up to the great house 
 immediately. 
 
 She received me in the grand hall, wain- 
 scoted from floor to ceiling, and hung 
 with portraits of the old king’s generals. 
 There was Sir Henry Clinton in ruffled 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 shirt and scarlet coat, with powdered wig 
 and queue tied with a flowing black 
 ribbon ; and that jolly old Scotch lieu- 
 tenant who, on the eve of Yorktown battle, 
 shouted for General Washington to “ come 
 on that he might see him,” and even as he 
 said the words fell dead, killed by the 
 first bullet from the enemy, sent on its 
 deadly message by the great chief on whom 
 he called ; there was the spirited head of 
 the boy-officer, Lieutenant Tarleton, with 
 his open brow and laughing eyes, an Apollo 
 and a Mars combined ; and then, far down 
 the long hall, in the uncertain light, I 
 caught a glimpse of a tall, handsome 
 woman, proud and beautiful, with feathers 
 in her hair, and shining robes gathered 
 about her ; it was too dark to see more ; 
 only, as the flames leapt up about the 
 hickory logs, I caught reflections of colour 
 and the sheen of jewels. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 35 
 
 “ Come here, my dear,” cried a clear, 
 imperative voice, as I hesitated in the 
 middle of the long, carpetless chamber, 
 “ since I am too old to come to you. Can’t 
 you see me, child, that you open your big 
 eyes so wide ? ” 
 
 Yes, I could see her very plainly, seated 
 in her tall straight chair, with the crown 
 carved upon its canopy and the royal arms 
 upon its back ; a fragile little figure, 
 habited in black velvet, with a kerchief and 
 stomacher of point d’ Angleterre ; her white 
 hair drawn over a cushion, its silvery sur- 
 face lightly powdered ; her shapely finely- 
 modelled hands encased in long white mitts, 
 through whose meshes the gems in her 
 rings shone with clear cold brilliancy ; the 
 falling sleeves shaded her slender arms ; 
 her little feet, clad in silk hose with gold- 
 embroidered clocks, and pointed satin shoes 
 with tall red heels and diamond buckles, 
 
8G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 reposed upon a high footstool ; by her side, 
 in easy reach of her hand, rested her staff 
 of polished ebony with its round amber 
 knob. Without this sign of office Lady 
 Troubridge was never seen ; it was to her 
 even as Venus’ zone or Mercury’s cadu- 
 ceus ; with it, she was all powerful, without 
 it, a mere helpless feeble old dame. 
 
 By this time I had drawn near to her, 
 and she had risen from her chair, and, 
 touching my shoulders with the tips of her 
 fingers, looked me steadily in the face for 
 several seconds. 
 
 “I knew your great-grandmother, 
 child,” she said abruptly; “ Anais de 
 Grasse she was then, and niece to the 
 count, who, along with Monsieur le 
 Marquis de la Fayette, thought it mon- 
 strous brave work making war against his 
 Majesty in a foreign land. She was very 
 beautiful — oh, yes, very; but she didn’t 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 37 
 
 last as long, for all her brave looks, as her 
 friend Penelope Dudley. I was Penelope 
 Dudley then, and closely related by descent 
 to Joseph Dudley, governor, under her 
 gracious Majesty Queen Ann, over this 
 very province ; and though you may not 
 think it now, we were the two most 
 favoured belles in all Boston. The * rival 
 queens,’ they called us, and sometimes it 
 was the * fair Bourbon,’ and sometimes the 
 * witty Hollandaise.’ She was all for the 
 white lilies of France, and I would have 
 died for the cause of my king. 
 
 “ Ah, well ; she didn’t come to great 
 good fortune after all, though ’twas said 
 even Mister Washington looked not un- 
 favourably upon her beauty ; and that my 
 Lord Percy made no secret of his admira- 
 tion, while his excellency the governor 
 was well known to favour her, in spite of 
 his wife’s over-ripe charms, and indeed 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 3S 
 
 ’Was reported that Sir William Howe 
 might better have served his Majesty had 
 he paid less attention to the whims of the 
 fair French demoiselle. Ah ! bonne dame ! 
 those were gallant days, child, when one 
 lived more in a few weeks than one does in 
 as many years now. 
 
 “We were at many a ball together, and 
 right well do I mind me of the last that 
 was ever given in Oldtown in honour of his 
 Majesty’s four-and- thirtieth birthday; that 
 would be in seventeen seventy-four, Ann, 
 and ’twas a. grand affair, I warrant you, 
 for all our beaux and dandies from Boston- 
 town were dwelling here then, and had 
 been since the Boston Port Bill, which 
 closed that harbour, and drove all the fleet, 
 as well as the merchantmen and schooners, 
 into Oldtown haven. 
 
 “ The governor had taken up his resi- 
 dence in Mister Robert Hooper’s elegant 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 39 
 
 mansion at Danvers, four miles out of the 
 town, and he and my Lady Gage would 
 drive in each day in their state coach, with 
 four horses and two running footmen, 
 and clatter up and down the streets, my 
 lady saluting this one and that, and his 
 Excellency bowing to right and left, and 
 all the world a-gaping and staring and 
 wishing them well ; ’twas close upon 
 Hutchinson’s withdrawal, you see, child, 
 and we all looked forward to peace and 
 happiness under the new governor. 
 
 “ And then came the ball given at the 
 assembly-rooms, which were decked out 
 gaily, and festooned with rare elegance and 
 taste. ’Twas summer-time, you know, 
 for bis Majesty’s birthday falls upon the 
 4th of June, and as fine a night as 
 could be found, had we picked the almanac 
 from May to December. Their Excellencies 
 arrived in state, and my father and aunt 
 
40 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Pris were in their company to help receive 
 their guests ; and there too was the French 
 dancing man, Regnier, from Boston, to 
 order the ceremonies of the minuet and 
 country-dance, and to settle other affairs, 
 relating to a sword and rapier, that might 
 arise between the gallants, at least so 
 ’twas rumoured. 
 
 “ Ah, well, Ann, Anais outshone them 
 all when she led off with his Excellency, 
 with my father and Lady Gage for vis-a-vis, 
 in the court minuet ; and she queened it 
 right royally over them, with her soft 
 southern beauty, and her grandmother’s 
 diamonds flashing on her white throat. 
 
 “ Ah, bah ! Do you tell me it was 
 right or just to upset all the old traditions 
 of family and lineage, of state and throne, 
 to cry war upon God’s anointed king, be- 
 cause a few, a very few, malcontents in 
 these colonies thought themselves misused 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 41 
 
 and unappreciated, and because the tax on 
 tea came a little heavy on their empty 
 pockets ? 
 
 “ It was easy to call it patriotism, child, 
 but for my part I think to be a good 
 patriot is to fight for one’s king and 
 constitution, and not set by the ears all 
 Europe to please Mister Washington’s 
 conceit.” 
 
 The old lady stopped short in her rage, 
 rapping loudly with her stick upon the 
 oaken floor, and shaking her old head 
 until the powder flew in a light cloud from 
 her snowy hair. 
 
 I gazed at this Cassandra of a hun- 
 dred years in speechless amazement — 
 that after so many, many decades the 
 fire should burn so fiercely in her heart, 
 and her ire flame out so impetuously 
 over a question and a cause settled long 
 ago, and proved by the subsequent events 
 
42 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of history to have been fairly fought for 
 and fairly won. 
 
 She looked at me presently, her cheeks 
 paling, the bright light dying out of her 
 eyes, and said very quietly, 
 
 “ There, there, child, one should not 
 heat oneself over old wrongs. Give me 
 your arm, and we will have a look at your 
 great-grandmother before it grows too 
 dark.” 
 
 She arose from the tlirone-like chair, 
 and, stepping down to my side, her tiny 
 figure scarcely reaching above my elbow, 
 but with all the dignity of the vieille cour 
 in her bearing, rested her slender hand 
 upon my arm, and led me down the long 
 hall, the polished floor echoing to each 
 tap, tap of her high heels. 
 
 Quite at the far end we paused. She 
 had passed unnoticed the portraits of 
 “good men and true” who had served 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 43 
 
 under “ farmer George,” not even be- 
 stowing a glance upon tbe handsome boy- 
 face of young Tarleton, to whose beauty 
 and bravery I could not withhold an in- 
 voluntary word of praise ; but in front of 
 the picture I had so imperfectly beheld in 
 the distance, she halted and bade me look. 
 The face upon which my eyes rested was 
 that of an exceedingly beautiful woman. 
 
 She seemed alive, so cunningly had the 
 great master’s hand pictured her ; so fresh 
 and vivid was her loveliness — a loveliness 
 enhanced by every accessory that dress 
 and jewels could bestow. 
 
 Her fair stately throat was encircled by 
 a riviere of diamonds ; the deep red of her 
 velvet robe swept back from her faultless 
 shoulders in a full court train ; upon her 
 head above the braids and curls of dark 
 brown hair, which were but lightly pow- 
 dered, rested a coiffure of feathers, ribbons, 
 
41 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and jewels, such as Marie Antoinette 
 delighted in ; the oval of her face was per- 
 fect ; the lips like a scarlet pomegranate- 
 flower; the eyes large and beautiful, but 
 cold — beautiful indeed was the entire 
 countenance, though marred by its ex- 
 pression of scornful hauteur , repelling in 
 intensity. 
 
 I stood spell-bound; yet not so much 
 from the effect of her exceeding beauty, 
 as from a strange, inexplicable conscious- 
 ness of familiarity with it previously, and 
 therefore not being in the least surprised 
 by it ; yet to my own knowledge I had 
 never looked upon this face ; then why 
 should it seem so little strange to me that 
 I found myself examining each feature 
 separately to see if it had changed ? 
 
 Changed from what ? 
 
 I had never in all my life beheld the 
 countenance of my great-grandmother 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 45 
 
 Aniiis de Grasse, for the glimpse caught 
 as a child of the old miniature had 
 been far too furtive to give birth to this 
 bewildering sensation of a former ac- 
 quaintance with her beautiful face. 
 
 I was so lost in this uncomfortable maze 
 of perplexity that I started violently when 
 old Lady Troubridge, tapping my hand 
 with her fingers, said, 
 
 “ Well, Ann Truesdale, is she not fair 
 enough for men to have perilled their souls 
 and honour to win her? For my part I 
 cannot quite believe all the scandals and 
 pot-pourris of jealousy and anger that were 
 recounted against her, though I might tell 
 a tale myself not over friendly on her part. 
 You see, Ann, she possessed greater 
 beauty than any of the women of her day, 
 and that, my dear, is fatal to any woman 
 in any age. Her favour was counted well 
 worth risking the world’s goods of reputa- 
 
46 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tion, honour, or fame, to gain. There are 
 no such women now-a-days, they went 
 out, my dear, with royalty, when Mister 
 Washington came into power, with his 
 jealous Dame Martha, to set a narrow code 
 of morals for his glorious republic ! But 
 Anais had a story, child, and a tragic one, 
 though even I do not know it all ; there 
 was only one, I think, who did, and she is 
 dead. Anais loved, you see, as she lived, 
 selfishly and passionately, and all must go 
 down before her will and pleasure, and 
 then, poor thing, she reaped the whirl- 
 wind.” 
 
 The old lady nodded her head very 
 slowly, folding her two hands upon her 
 ebony stick, looking, in the quick-gather- 
 ing shadows that stole up about us from 
 out the dim corners of that memory- 
 haunted hall, like a phantom of another 
 world. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 47 
 
 And in this mood I left her. She 
 would not talk any longer, but dismissed 
 me with a stately curtsey and a distant 
 smile. 
 
 She was very far away from the present; 
 back, far back in the past. Through what 
 other visions was her spirit wandering, in 
 what scenes of other days was she taking 
 part ? 
 
 In respectful silence I withdrew, leaving 
 her happy and at peace, because so far 
 removed from life and its realities that its 
 fret and fever passed her by and left no 
 mark upon her. 
 
48 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 As I walked through the quiet lanes, and 
 past gardens full of blooming flowers and 
 fruit fast ripening on the trees, my heart 
 was sad. 
 
 Once more I had caught, only to lose 
 again, some faint threads of my great- 
 grandmother’s life. 
 
 I had looked upon her face, and felt 
 again the influence of her personality, as 
 my grandmother Truesdale’s voice seemed 
 to ring in my ears, 
 
 “Yes, she was very beautiful, but — she 
 was false.” 
 
 All the old childish love and veneration 
 awoke once more in my heart, and again 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 49 
 
 the eager wish took shape within me*to clear 
 from that lovely face all taint of treachery, 
 to restore to that proud form the dignity 
 and honour which all seemed so anxious 
 to rob it of. 
 
 Even beauty could not bring happiness ; 
 for was not Anais most beautiful, and yet 
 her fate was an untoward one. 
 
 And surely love could not hold the 
 scales against his twin brother, sorrow, for 
 had I not loved beyond the wont of most 
 women, and yet what had it brought to me? 
 Not even a grave to weep over, but some 
 nameless resting-place beneath the cruel 
 green waves. 
 
 Thus meditating I reached my home, 
 lying so still and peaceful in the late 
 evening light. The door stood open, and 
 over it, swaying gently to and fro, my 
 favourite rose gave out in richest abun- 
 dance its sweet perfume. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 OLD BOSTON 
 
 As I entered, I wondered dimly whose 
 was the hand that once plucked fair 
 blossoms from this very tree, to place in 
 the brown hair or at the girlish throat of 
 the sweet puritan maid with the pretty 
 old Devonshire name of Dorothy. 
 
 The hall was dark save for the gleam of 
 the red embers, glowing like an evil eye, 
 in the swinging cradle. I turned mecha- 
 nically into the drawing-room ; all that' 
 remained of daylight was concentrated 
 here, and came in through the six long 
 windows that, guiltless of curtains, faced 
 the west. One last ;gleam of dying sun- 
 light, “ straight as a finger,” shone with 
 vivid brilliancy upon my picture-maidens. 
 
 With a sudden thrill at my heart, a 
 sudden catching of my breath, I recognized 
 the likeness that had stirred within me so 
 strange and so vague a remembrance. 
 
 Anais de Grasse and Majorie were one. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 51 
 
 Here was the same flashing eye, less 
 defiant, maybe, than in the grande dame de 
 cour, but holding in its depths a lurking 
 look of boldness and high temper ; here 
 were the same scarlet lips, dewy with the 
 freshness of youth, but full of subtle power 
 and pride ; the same plenteous brown hair, 
 though shaded by the demure mob-cap ; 
 the same full throat held so haughtily ; 
 the same lithe, graceful figure, and the 
 same long, slender fingers, cruel even in 
 their light clasp of the red rose. 
 
 This then was the mystery. For weeks 
 I had been living in daily contemplation of 
 my great-grandmother, feeling the fascina- 
 tion of the exquisite face, but not alive to 
 the reason of that fascination. 
 
 No wonder the grander portrait held 
 me speechless, since, without realizing it, 
 every feature of the proud face was im- 
 printed on my mind, as the countenance 
 e 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY 0? 
 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 
52 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of one known, but forgotten, in early girl- 
 hood. 
 
 Was my whole life laid under some 
 strange spell by my great-grandmother, 
 whose very pictured image held such sway 
 over my emotions ? 
 
 As I gazed in mute astonishment, the 
 face before me seemed to stir to life 
 beneath my look ; the eyelids contracted 
 until the pupils gave forth a gleaming, 
 yellow light ; the full lips took a softer 
 curve ; the pretty bosom rose and fell in 
 hurried breathings beneath the lace necker- 
 chief ; the pulses in the rounded throat 
 gave little eager throbs, as the impatient 
 blood coursed from heart to brain. 
 
 She raised one hand, that which held 
 the rose, and pointed through the open 
 door into the hall beyond. 
 
 At that moment a low wail swept 
 through the salon , like a minor chord 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 53 
 
 evoked from some long-disused instru- 
 ment, and as it died upon the air, the sun- 
 liglit faded suddenly, shrouding the room 
 in the dense shadows of the coming night. 
 
 I turned hurriedly away, shaking in 
 every limb; in vain saying to myself it 
 was my foolish nerves that were unhinged 
 by listening to old tales ; in vain asserting 
 that a string had snapped in the dreary old 
 harpsichord ; in vain determining not to 
 dwell farther upon the subject ; for even 
 as I so resolved, I saw that silent smiling 
 face, the upraised hand, the strangely 
 scintillating eyes. 
 
54 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 The week that followed my strange optical 
 delusion was one of constant storm. 
 
 Very early in the morning, “before the 
 pipe of half-awakened bird ” stirred the 
 young leaves of the maple-trees, I heard 
 the rain beating against the windows, 
 and the wind warring in the wide old 
 chimneys. 
 
 As the dawn gave place to day the leaden 
 sky appeared heavy with moisture ; the 
 branches of the trees tossed wildly in the 
 east wind ; my poor trailing roses, so gay 
 in last evening’s golden glow, were broken 
 and storm-beaten, their long finger-like 
 spires waving desolately, as if appealing 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 55 
 
 to some friendly hand to protect them 
 from the cruel elements. Afar off the sea 
 beat up against the old wooden piles of 
 the harbour, breaking into angry protest 
 as the stout timbers resisted its onslaught ; 
 and the sullen roar of the waves struck on 
 the ear in monotonous cadences. The fields 
 of waving grain, and meadows of clover- 
 grass were wrapped in a heavy grey 
 shroud ; the cattle, poor patient things, 
 stood beneath the largest trees, their dun 
 sides steaming in the humid atmosphere, 
 their handsome eyes asking mutely for 
 shelter. 
 
 Within the old house the gloom was 
 even more intense. I shunned the draw- 
 ing-room with instinctive repugnance ; its 
 pale greens and whites were well enough 
 on a hot summer day, but dreary indeed 
 on such a morning as this; besides, I 
 dreaded to look upon the face of Anais 
 
56 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 — what new change might my facile imagi- 
 nation find in her lineaments ? 
 
 The great hall was the only habitable 
 spot, with its fire of hickory logs, and 
 bright dancing flames rushing half-way up 
 the capacious chimney. 
 
 It was at all times my favourite sitting- 
 room, and on the space before the hearth, 
 covered by a faded Turkey rug, I had 
 collected one by one my lares and penates 
 about me. Here Laddie, my amber-eyed 
 colley, sought refuge or dreamed away 
 long hours in that blissful state of beatitude 
 dogs seem to assume at will, his pointed 
 nose resting on his slim paws, with their 
 fringe of russet hair; and here Pop, my 
 jackdaw, hopped about in solemn content, 
 meditating, with evil eye intent, the next 
 hiding-place for my thimble. 
 
 The day dragged its length of long 
 hours in some fashion ; I was restless and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 57 
 
 busy by turns. At one time earnest over 
 my work, at another mounted on the 
 library-steps, turning over listlessly the 
 old books in their musty leather bindings, 
 whose leaves, as they parted, emitted a 
 faint, sickly odour. 
 
 Here and there between the pages I 
 found a withered leaf or flower, and once, 
 laid against a folded bit of paper covered 
 with quaint musical characters and pointed 
 penmanship, a little bunch of violets, tied 
 together by a flimsy, narrow, yellow ribbon. 
 
 Their perfume was gone, their colour 
 faded, the ink on the paper pale and dim ; 
 only the little gaudy ribbon retained its 
 bright tint, like vanity, the one human 
 passion last to die in mortal breast. Love, 
 friendship, anger, hate, time may quench 
 them all ; but vanity, who dare say, with 
 truth, that it ever departs so long as life 
 throbs within us ? 
 
58 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 It was very pathetic, this nosegay of 
 withered flowers, plucked long ago, when 
 dim eves were unclouded, tired feet rest- 
 less and eager, quiet hearts overburdened 
 with life and joyousness. 
 
 I came down from my perch with the 
 leather-covered volume in my hand. It 
 proved to be a book of sonnets of the 
 Elizabethan poets, and the violets lay 
 against Wither’ s song : — 
 
 “ Shall I, wasting in despair, 
 
 Die because a woman’s fair 1 ” 
 
 The evening was drawing in now ; if I 
 wanted to read the words upon the dis- 
 coloured paper I must kneel down close to 
 the flames that shed forth such welcome 
 rays of heat and light. I laid the little 
 nosegay on the hearth-rug, with my thim- 
 ble beside it to mark the spot by its shin- 
 ning golden disk, then unfolded the large, 
 thin, crackling sheet upon my knee. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 59 
 
 The paper was smooth and satiny, 
 sealed with a motto — one of those pretty, 
 fanciful conceits our grandmothers de- 
 lighted in, a torch in flames, with the 
 words “ I burn ” beneath it — around this 
 seal the paper had been carefully cut away. 
 Across the upper half of the sheet were 
 some bars of music, a plaintive refrain in 
 the minor; the words beneath the notes were 
 those bitterly mirthful, terribly sad ones 
 of Madame Blanchecotte’s “ Demain — 
 
 “ Lon Ion la ! comme on se leurre 
 D’etre, et d’etre tier ! 
 
 Lon Ion la ! qu’on ne qu’on pleure ! 
 
 Demain recommence hier. 
 
 Ou l’on est tombe, l’on tombe. 
 
 'Nous ne cessons d’etre fous 
 Que les deux pieds sons le tombeau, 
 
 Lon Ion la ! dessons ! dessons !” 
 
 As I finished reading a shiver of appre- 
 hension seized me ; my hands grew cold, 
 my forehead moist. Instinctively I turned 
 
60 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 my eyes towards the door in the dark 
 corner that led into the drawing-room 
 where Anais stood, her bright eyes alert 
 and watchful, her arm and slender hand 
 raised in command. 
 
 Gathering my sinking courage with an 
 effort, I hastened to shut away the flowers 
 and the words that had renewed within me 
 the emotions of yesterday. I would put 
 them back into their old resting-place where 
 for years they must have reposed unmo- 
 lested, perhaps from the very day that 
 some fair hand had laid them against the 
 cynical outburst of The Manly Heart. I 
 would take up my plain sewing, have the 
 candles lighted, and cease dreaming over 
 dead treasures. 
 
 I folded the paper carefully and laid it 
 in the book, stooped down to replace the 
 violets, but they were gone. 
 
 In vain I searched diligently, assisted by 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 01 
 
 Laddie, who arose from his nap and fol- 
 lowed my actions with attentive eyes, lift- 
 ing his paws gingerly from time to time as 
 he waxed impatient at my unusual antics. 
 In all his experience he had never before 
 seen his mistress, with flushed face, gro- 
 velling amidst the ashes, or traversing, on 
 hands and knees the length and breadth of 
 the hearth-rug, seemingly in distress and 
 perturbation. He evidently thought me 
 something more than kin to him, for he 
 followed me step by step, moving his head 
 from side to side and slowly waving his 
 bushy tail. 
 
 “ It’s no use, Laddie,” I cried at last in 
 a vexed tone. “ It’s that naughty Pop, I 
 feel sure.” 
 
 At this outburst a hoarse, croaking 
 laugh answered me, followed by Pop’s one 
 distinguishable word, “ Look ! look ! ” 
 
 I turned angrily towards the noise. The 
 
62 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 jackdaw was sitting on the top of the 
 clock-case, looking very wise, with a wicked 
 leer in his eye. 
 
 “ Oh, you naughty Pop ! ” I called out. 
 “ What have you done with the flowers ? ” 
 
 Laddie added his view of the case by a 
 short sharp bark, but Pop only cocked 
 his head on one side and repeated his re- 
 frain. I was too exasperated to say any- 
 thing more, and resumed my normal posi- 
 tion on the hearth-rug in dignified silence, 
 Laddie keeping close to my side and look- 
 ing at me with his big yellow eyes full of 
 sympathy. 
 
 I returned the book to its place on the 
 high shelves, but all the long evening I was 
 haunted by a sense of guilt, as of having 
 played traitor to some dead and gone 
 friend, and of having stolen and betrayed 
 a secret entrusted to my keeping from out 
 the history of a bygone life. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The next day and the next were wet and 
 wild ; no hope of getting out ; but towards 
 the close of the fourth afternoon a dull 
 gleam in the west and a partial cessation 
 of the steady down-pouring rain tempted 
 me to brave the outer world, well wrapped 
 in waterproofs. Laddie accompanied me 
 with extreme satisfaction, evincing his 
 pleasure by darting into every pool and 
 then jumping upon me with his wet paws, 
 fairly laughing, in his fashion, from pure 
 delight. 
 
 Laddie was very dear to me. My sailor 
 lover had brought him to me on his last 
 home-voyage, and, apart from any senti- 
 
61 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ment, the dog had won a place in my 
 heart by his constant and friendly com- 
 panionship, never leaving me for long at a 
 time, and sleeping outside my door at 
 night. 
 
 At times it almost seemed my dead 
 lover’s spirit must in some mysterious way 
 control him, for though he loved me so 
 faithfully and was so watchful in his care, 
 I had but to whisper Roy’s name in ever- 
 so low a tone and he stood quiet directly, 
 his ears lifted, his pointed nose quivering, 
 and in his beautiful eyes an expression of 
 undying fidelity. 
 
 We did not prolong our walk very far, 
 only down to the mill-stream, that was 
 usually most placid and well-conducted, 
 but to-day dashed past in a highly turbu- 
 lent fashion, tossing its wavelets against 
 the grass-grown banks with angry force. 
 
 When we reached home, wet and tired, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 65 
 
 but refreshed by our bufferings with the 
 wind and rain, we were met by Mrs. Bid- 
 well. Amanda Bidweli was her full title, 
 and Mrs. was added by courtesy. As far 
 back as I could remember anything, 
 Amanda Bidweli formed a prominent figure 
 on my memory’s horizon. As a child she 
 had nursed me and petted me, scolded me 
 and caressed me, by turns. I used to 
 regard her presence in life as a matter of 
 course. All little girls needed Amandas, 
 and in the natural care of an all-wise 
 Providence they were provided for them. 
 
 The first time this faith in a good and 
 beneficent power was rudely shaken in my 
 child-heart, was on the occasion of a visit 
 to a cousin who lived very far away in 
 the country, in a pretty farm-house, but 
 who, to my intense surprise and be- 
 wilderment, seemed to do everything for 
 herself, and, what was more astonishing, 
 
 VOL. 
 
 p 
 
<313 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 not to desire nor look for aid from any 
 one. 
 
 In my helpless bewilderment when 
 asked the first morning, by my energetic 
 young cousin of eight years, why I didn’t 
 get up ? I said ] I was w’aiting for 
 “ Mandy.” 
 
 “Well, I guess you will have to wait a 
 long time,” was the contemptuous re- 
 joinder; “we don’t have any nurses here 
 for little girls six and a half old, and we 
 don’t expect babies, when we ask ’em to 
 come and visit us ! ” 
 
 At this involved but scornful reply, my 
 little heart grew very heavy. I had a sor- 
 rowful comprehension of the immense in- 
 justice shown in this life, as evinced by my 
 being sent away to a land where there was 
 no Amanda to tuck me up in bed, or bring 
 me a cup of milk in the morning, and tell 
 me exciting tales of her marvellous expe- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 67 
 
 riences as she dressed me. I made up my 
 small mind, then and there, to return to my 
 own special Mandy at once, and never to 
 part from her again. The latter part of my 
 resolution I fulfilled to the letter, and from 
 that day Amanda became my constant 
 companion, friend, adviser, and consoler. 
 She it was who first heard my love- 
 whispers, and on her capacious breast I 
 wept out my first wild burst of sorrow and 
 despair, as the days grew into weeks and 
 months, and my lover did not return. 
 
 She was a handsome woman, even in 
 these her old days, with a large finely- 
 moulded form, a kindly face, shrewd dark 
 eyes, and black hair put down against 
 her cheeks in flat loops. She always wore- 
 a thin very shiny, black silk “ Marce- 
 laine,” she called it, and a head-dress 
 formed by a succession of small bows 
 made of narrow black satin ribbon ; a 
 
63 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 long gold chain that wandered over her 
 bosom, and on very grand occasions a pair 
 of black mitts. 
 
 I could never remember her attired in 
 any other fashion, and it was my secret 
 belief that she intended being buried in 
 the same. 
 
 In the door, then, as we approached, 
 stood Amanda, looking hopelessly up to 
 the sky, and as hopelessly down at the wet 
 earth ; she had as great an aversion to 
 soiling her feet as any well-bred pussy- 
 cat. 
 
 “ Dear heart ! 5 5 she exclaimed in her 
 kind, homely, provincial accents; “but 
 you air wet ! Mussy sakes, Miss Ann, 
 tew think of yewer goin’ out sich a day ! 
 Why, mussy me, ’tain’t fit for niggers, let 
 alone Christian folks. But it don’t matter 
 to you, Ann, nothing matters so long as 
 you git out ; and Pop has gone and lost 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 09 
 
 himself, and I kin hear him a-calling and 
 a-calling, and yit can’t for the life of me 
 find where he has mislaid himself.” 
 
 “How ridiculous, Mandy; he’s in the 
 clock-case, I saw him investigating the 
 works this morning when you wound it 
 up.” 
 
 “Well now, I dew say, I know you air 
 terrible smart, Miss Ann, but if you kin 
 find him in the clock-case, I’ll give in. 
 Bless yewer soul, I’ve looked everywhere, 
 and he can’t be found. He’s worse than 
 a screeching methody, is that bird, for the 
 vagaries he takes to.” 
 
 We entered the hall in solemn proces- 
 sion, Amanda, Laddie, and I. As we 
 approached the fireplace I heard a muffled 
 sound as of flapping feathers, followed by 
 hollow accents which only my tutored 
 ears could translate into poor Pop’s 
 familiar formula of “ Look ! look ! ” 
 
70 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 We looked into every conceivable corner, 
 but to no purpose, Pop was not forthcom- 
 ing, though all the time, like the refrain of 
 a song in a nightmare, we could hear his 
 monotonous chaunt. Mrs. Bidwell was 
 reduced to tears, and Laddie wandered in 
 ceaseless anxiety from door to door in 
 search of his usually much-hated com- 
 panion ; for, however truly one objects to 
 a daily grievance, it is a still greater 
 misery to have that grievance removed 
 without one’s consent. 
 
 As the night drew in, the storm in- 
 creased in violence. I thought, as I sat 
 by the bright fire, of how many brave ships 
 would go down to-night, how many 
 gallant hearts grow cold in death’s relent- 
 less embrace. 
 
 The house was very still, not a sound 
 save the ticking of the tall clock, and the 
 click, click of the ship which adorned the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 71 
 
 dial, tossing on an unnaturally green sea, 
 with the cliffs of Dover and Calais almost 
 meeting, and which moved responsive to 
 each swing of the pendulum ; varied by 
 the occasional dreary, muffled sound of 
 Pop’s “ Look ! look ! ” 
 
 Presently one of [the logs fell from out 
 the cradle. I stooped down to put it back, 
 grasping the moulding above the cross- 
 jamb to sustain me ; as I did so something 
 gave way beneath my fingers, and as I 
 lifted my head I received a blow full in 
 my face from a soft but heavy substance ; 
 Laddie burst into a ringing bark, and I 
 heard strangely near my ears the call of 
 my poor Jack. 
 
 This unusual outburst brought Amanda 
 to the scene, who with regularly repeated 
 cries of “ Dew tell ! ” “ Sakes alive ! ” ren- 
 dered confusion worse confounded. When 
 we had all come somewhat to our senses, I 
 
72 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 found Pop stationed upon Laddie’s head, 
 calmly smoothing his ruffled feathers ; 
 Amanda, sunk breathlessly into a chair, was 
 fanning herself with a large pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 “Where in the world — ” I began, but 
 stopped short in open-mouthed amaze- 
 ment, for one of the eight painted panels 
 that formed the front of the mantle was 
 gone, and in its place yawned a blank 
 space, with something grey and indistinct 
 in the background. 
 
 “ It’s Sisera’s head that’s given way,” 
 said Mrs. Bidwell, answering my wonder- 
 ing eyes. “ And it’s that unchristian bird 
 that’s done it.” 
 
 “Done what?” I asked in amazement. 
 “ Indeed, Mandy, I think it’s your own 
 head that’s gone daft.” 
 
 “ Helped Jael in her murder,” continued 
 Mrs. Bidwell solemnly; “and if I was 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 73 
 
 you, I wouldn’t laugli, Ann, for it’s my 
 opinion that there bird knows a deal more 
 than most mortals.” 
 
 “What nonsense you do talk,” I said 
 crossly, “ about Sisera and Jael and Pop, 
 mixing them all up together like a pot- 
 pourri ! ” 
 
 “ All the same if you will but look, Ann, 
 it is Sisera’s head that’s gone, and it were 
 Pop that did it, likewise Jael that wished 
 for it.” And here Mrs. Bidwell subsided 
 into as near a state of offended dignity as 
 she was capable of assuming. 
 
 Meantime I examined the panels and 
 found that some of them were movable ; 
 this fact Pop had also discovered and 
 turned to good account, but going in once 
 too often, the spring had given way, the 
 panel slid into its place, and Pop was his 
 own prisoner. 
 
 I found no end of lost property here : 
 
74 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 my pen-wiper, a pair of sleeve-links, a 
 knitting-needle, a bit of cake, Amanda’s 
 spectacle-case, and last, but not least, tbe 
 little bouquet of withered violets that had 
 caused me so much anxiety. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The something grey and indistinct, lying 
 near the violets, that had caught my atten- 
 tion as foreign to Pop’s miscellaneous art- 
 collection, proved to be, on closer investi- 
 gation, a square packet of papers tied 
 together carelessly by a bit of ribbon ; they 
 were discoloured and musty, and evidently 
 had not seen the light for many a long year. 
 I put them by carefully and almost as 
 reverently as I had restored the faded 
 nosegay to its home between George 
 Wither’ s verses ; later, when I had time, I 
 would look them over, but it so happened 
 that the required time did not come to me 
 for several weeks. There followed an 
 
76 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 interval of beautiful weather after the long 
 storm, and I was busy over a thousand 
 other matters, more healthful, if less in- 
 teresting, than dreaming in the firelight, 
 and growing fanciful over my great-grand- 
 mother’s portrait, which I forced myself to 
 look at long and steadily, one morning in 
 the searching July sunshine, until my 
 terror of it fell from me, and the face lost 
 all ulterior meaning and became simply 
 that of a fair and lovely maiden. 
 
 Late one afternoon I went again to see 
 old Lady Troubridge, whom I was told had 
 been ailing, and to carry down to her some 
 particularly fine early peaches that Manor 
 Farm was celebrated for. It was Sunday, 
 and as I passed through Oldtown’s streets 
 they were completely deserted, ail the good 
 people were at meeting, and not even a 
 truant school-boy skulked aboutthe corners, 
 or dodged around the stately customs- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 77 
 
 building ; I had only the wasteful sunshine 
 of generous July for company. 
 
 When I reached the Hall I found the old 
 lady awaiting me in her chair of state, as 
 unchanged in dress and appearance as 
 though she had never moved her position 
 during the interval of four weeks since I 
 had seen her. 
 
 “ Well, Ann,” she called out, “ so you 
 have come to the old woman at last. Eh, 
 ma certes ! but thou hast ta’en thine own 
 time to it. Nay, but ’twas always so with 
 Aniiis — ‘ as I will, so please you, Pen,’ in 
 her imperious fashion, and then we all gave 
 up to her, oh yes, always.” 
 
 At the mention of my great-grand- 
 mother’s name I started; once again she 
 was thrust upon me, and once again, 
 whether I would or no, I felt her presence 
 near me ; or was it only that the hot sun- 
 shine brought out more strongly than 
 
78 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 usual the keen, spicy odour of Lady Trou- 
 bridge’s pot-pourri of rose-leaves and 
 aromatic scents imprisoned in the quaint 
 priceless bow-pots, which rekindled, in my 
 imagination, the old childish phantasy of 
 her especial influence under certain cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Lady Troubridge spoke again. 
 
 “ "What day is this, Ann, and wliat 
 month ? ” 
 
 “ It is Sunday,” I answered, a little 
 startled, “ and we are well on in the mid- 
 summer month of July.” 
 
 “ Sunday ! ” She repeated the word 
 sharply. “ So thou hast not caught the 
 trick of saying ‘Sabbath,’ Ann? Well, 
 well, I am fain glad of it. ‘ Sunday ’ we 
 always called it in the King’s time ; and 
 what was good enough for royal lips and 
 ears, might sure suffice for those of his 
 subjects. So, ’tis Sunday ! Nay, but I re- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 79 
 
 member a Sunday when the work done 
 was less peaceful than that of drowsing 
 over dull sermons. I can tell of a Sun- 
 day when the spark then set alight took 
 seven long years of bloodshed to extinguish, 
 and that lost King George his fairest 
 colonies. 
 
 “Ninety-five years ago, Ann, and we were 
 all in fever-heat over the new Governor sent 
 out by our king to take the place of 
 Hutchinson, whom Ben Franklin chose to 
 find fault with and to beard Wedderburn 
 concerning, even as he dared to stand in 
 his Majesty’s presence without so much 
 as doffing his quaker hat from off his 
 ungodly head. It was General Thomas 
 Gage who came; a pleasant-spoken man 
 enough, and loyal, child, loyal ; that is,” 
 with a short chuckle, “as loyal as his wife 
 would let him be. She was Mistress 
 Kemble, you know, Stephen Kemble’s 
 
80 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 daughter, of New York, and so wondrous 
 
 handsome that the general was wax in 
 
 her hands, and let her fill all the best 
 
 places on his staff with her foolish brothers 
 
 and cousins-german. And well she paid 
 % 
 
 for it, for I don’t think scarce any one, not 
 even we Tories, regretted it when the 
 royal command came for them to set sail 
 for England before the year was out. Well, 
 Ann, ’twas not so long after General Gage 
 came amongst us, that the events occurred 
 marking the Sunday I so well remember ; 
 it was the twenty-sixth day of February, 
 seventeen hundred and seventy-five, and I 
 was then sixteen, and Anais was my senior 
 by a year. There had been many mur- 
 murs of discontent heard through the 
 length and breadth of the land, while for 
 years, as one may say, a very small party 
 was constantly working against the King, 
 and in favour of the malcontents. It is 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 81 
 
 useless to tell the tale to thee, Ann, thou 
 know’st it well enough ; how things grew 
 from bad to worse, and how at last the 
 Americans tossed the precious freight 
 brought by the Dartmouth into the 
 waters of Boston Bay, before the very face 
 and eyes of the governor, and how those 
 who tried to save a pound or two were 
 caught and soundly bastinadoed. I mind 
 me well of the sorry figure cut by Captain 
 O’Connor, who thrust some of the fragrant 
 bohea into his big pockets, and being 
 caught left his coat-tails in his enemies’ 
 hands and ran for his life ; while for many 
 a day there hung his coat-pockets, stuffed 
 full of tea, and sti*etchedto the breeze, from 
 Charlestown whipping-post, with all the 
 lads and lasses poking out their fingers at 
 them as they passed. 
 
 “But, there, this is not about the Sabbath 
 in 1775, as I promised ; give me your arm, 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 Q 
 
82 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Ann, and help me to yon window, then I 
 can show ye where it all happened.” 
 
 I assisted her carefully, and leaning 
 rather more heavily on my arm than on her 
 ebony stick, we crossed the polished floor 
 and stood within the deeply-recessed 
 window that looked out upon the long 
 broad street, and beyond to the water 
 lapping lazily up in a quiet refrain against 
 the piers and the keels of the few crafts 
 moored in the harbour. 
 
 Lady Troubridge gazed for some mo- 
 ments without speaking ; the beauty of the 
 fair, still, July day seemed to strike a 
 chord even in her restless spirit, and when 
 she turned towards me again, her voice 
 rang less shrill, and her clear eyes shone 
 less bright. She folded her hands upon 
 the top of her staff and said, 
 
 “ Nay, Ann, but ’twas not such a win- 
 some day as this, the Sunday I recall ; it 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 83 
 
 bad been a bard cold winter, and though 
 we, who lived well, felt it but little, the cry 
 of the poor was exceeding and very bitter. 
 It was Parson Thomas Barnard who held 
 the discourse on that morning, and I was 
 sitting with my father and aunt Priscilla 
 in the high Dudley pew, with my grand- 
 mother’s own little foot-stove under my 
 feet, and wearing my new blue satinette 
 pelisse with its fur boa and muff. Aniiis 
 was in Boston, I remember that quite 
 well, because I felt such chagrin that she 
 should not see the fine clothes Master 
 Thomas Brown had brought me in his last 
 sailing trip of the SuJcey from London. 
 Mister Barnard had not gone more than 
 into his sixthly when I heard the great 
 door open — for we could not see in those 
 days every one that came in or out, on 
 account of the decent privacy in which 
 a gentleman’s family worshipped — but my 
 
84 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ears were very sharp, and as I heard the 
 tramp, shuffle, tramp, of a pair of boots, I 
 knew whose feet were in them. Sure 
 enough, all the way up the long aisle came 
 the sound, nearer and nearer ; presently 
 Mister Barnard stopped in his discourse, and 
 in the silence all one could hear was the 
 breathing of those nearest, and the regular 
 tramp, shuffle, tramp, growing louder. 
 
 “ At length, over the top of our pew-door 
 I caught sight, as I had expected, of the 
 head and shoulders of Robert Newman, the 
 sexton and head clerk of Christ Church, in 
 Charlestown; then we all knew he brought 
 bad news, for he looked worn and tired, 
 and his long riding-boots were splashed 
 with mud and snow. As he neared the 
 pulpit all the men arose in their places, 
 the parson leaned anxiously over the 
 carved rail, and Adam Likeley, the clerk, 
 stared as though his goggle eyes would 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 85 
 
 drop out of his head. Under cover of my 
 father’s burly frame, I stood up cautiously 
 upon my grandmother’s brass foot-stove, 
 not heeding in my excitement either 
 aunt Priscilla’s shocked motions, or the 
 scorching of my best kid ankle-shoes. I 
 always liked to see for myself, Ann, then 
 I knew just how much to believe of the 
 story told to me the next day. 
 
 “ Robert Newman gave up into the 
 down-stretched hand of Parson Barnard 
 a square parchment with the then unusual 
 admonition of * Speed, speed, speed,’ 
 written across it. Breaking the cumber- 
 some seal, the parson rapidly read the 
 contents, while Robert Newman, hat in 
 hand, stood drooping and fatigued at the 
 pulpit-steps. Mister Barnard, as he 
 finished, gathered his Geneva gown 
 about him, and, descending from his 
 vantage-ground above us, came into 
 
80 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 our midst and stood confronting Robert 
 Newman. 
 
 “ ‘ Thou bringest strange tidings, my 
 honest friend,’ he said, his grave voice 
 rather hurried ; * and who is it thus puts 
 pen to paper ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Master Paulding, sir ; and should ye 
 not believe, I was to say he is one with 
 those who know Paul Revere.’ 
 
 “ The minister started, and he answered 
 quickly, 
 
 “ ‘ Say you so, Robert Newman ? then I 
 must needs doubt no longer. My friends, 
 in this parchment we have but troublous 
 matters, for here we are informed by those 
 who watch the King’s-men as they lie at 
 Charlestown under my Lord Percy, that 
 to-day, ere ever the sun reach high noon, 
 Colonel Leslie, acting under the Governor 
 Gage’s orders, will enter our brave town- 
 ship and carry therefrom our cannon. The 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 pretext given is that raised by the royalists 
 at Marshfield, to wit, that we harass and 
 worry our Tory neighbours in unnecessary 
 ways. Methinks, my friends, we can 
 scarcely let this outrage take place, though 
 I say to you all, this is not the time for us 
 to judge those set over us for our govern- 
 ment, and to the God of Israel belongeth 
 justice and the vengeance of wrongs, as 
 you well know ; but to protect and to save 
 one’s property, by fair means, is always 
 lawful, and methinks there is no just cause 
 why Colonel Leslie should have more 
 pressing need of our cannon than have we. 
 Let us then sing the final hymn and I will 
 dismiss you, asking the strong men and 
 youths to meet me before the church-door 
 so soon as convenient after bestowing 
 their women in safety, for it were not 
 seemly that they should join in such a 
 scene.’ 
 
88 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ The hymn we sang was one of Zinzen- 
 dorf’s, and we all joined with a thrill of 
 deeper feeling than ordinary in the last 
 verse — 
 
 “ Order all our way] 
 
 To eternal day ; 
 
 In our toil with aid be near us, 
 
 In our need with succour cheer us, 
 
 When life’s course is o’er, 
 
 Open thou the door. 
 
 “ After the blessing, all walked forth 
 quietly and gravely ; there was no ex- 
 change of greetings between the elders, 
 and no words of compliment passed 
 between the young maids and gallants ; 
 the men hastened the women home in 
 silence, and hurried back as quickly as 
 possible. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ My father shut aunt Pris and me into 
 this very hall, and, with a sudden unex- 
 pected embrace, left a kiss upon my fore- 
 head, turned away, and presently, from 
 where I now stand, I saw him cross the 
 street and mingle with the sober crowd 
 hastening to join Mister Barnard. 
 
 “ I could not see what took place in the 
 churchyard, but very soon another sight 
 met my wandering gaze, that caused my 
 heart to throb wildly and the vapours to 
 rise before my eyes. 
 
 “ In the opposite direction, coming from 
 Marblehead, and making straight past our 
 door, advanced a gay party of red-coated 
 
90 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 soldiers, their bayonets catching every 
 pale gleam of sunlight and reflecting it 
 a thousand-fold ; at their head rode 
 Colonel Leslie. My heart fluttered wild 
 as a falcon as the brilliant throng passed 
 on in a quick even march, meeting seem- 
 ingly with but little resistance. 
 
 44 4 Tal, val ! ’ cried out my aunt Pris 
 sharply, 4 where be the townsmen, I 
 wonder, that yon King’s reds take place 
 so confidently. Pen, hast seen thy 
 father ? ’ 
 
 “ But I had no time to answer her, for I 
 was in a strange mix of vexation and 
 pleasure. I liked the king’s men mightily, 
 though I thought them fairly easy-man- 
 nered to ask no leave of my father ere 
 they crossed his bridge, which he had 
 built to convenience the townspeople. 
 
 44 4 My certes ! then, and will they do 
 nothing, Pen ? ’ cried aunt Pris once 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 91 
 
 more. ‘ Canst not see if they move 
 forward ? ’ 
 
 “‘Yea, yea, aunt Pris, there be move- 
 ment enough now. ’Tis father and Parson 
 Barnard make forward to meet the colonel, 
 and, oh, young Phil Troubridge heads a 
 party who guard the north bridge ; yea, 
 and look, aunt, they have raised the draw 
 in the centre that the King’s-men may not 
 pass. See, the Colonel Leslie turns back 
 and moves towards my father. I will open 
 the sash, then we may hear what passes 
 betwixt them.’ 
 
 “ The February air blew cold and keen, 
 but neither aunt Pris nor I heeded it, and 
 we leaned as far out as we dared. It was 
 Parson Barnard who was holding speech 
 with Colonel Leslie, while my father stood 
 near. 
 
 “ * The bridge is private property,’ I 
 heard him say, ‘ and may not be traversed 
 
92 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 or made use of without permission from its 
 lawful owner.’ 
 
 “ ‘ And that I may not give,’ my father’s 
 voice struck in, cold and sharp. 
 
 “ ‘ Oddsfish ! ’ was the rejoinder, ‘ and 
 thou a Dudley ! ’Twill be sorry nouvelles 
 for his Majesty that ’tis thus his wishes 
 are regarded by those who should know 
 better.’ 
 
 “ ‘ That is well said, Colonel Leslie,’ 
 returned my father ; ‘ but look that ye 
 
 cause no deeper wound than this of mine 
 in his Majesty’s heart. Thou, and those 
 like to thee, may rive one so deep and wide 
 that ’twill ne’er close up again.’ 
 
 “ Leslie turned on his heel at this re- 
 joinder, and with a slight motion of his 
 hand, signalled to his men to take to the 
 gundolas 1 that lay in the harbour. 
 
 1 Gundolas were large open boats, fragile in con- 
 struction, but much used at that time. They were, 
 peculiar to Massachusetts. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 93 
 
 “ ‘ What a soldier may not gain by force 
 let him take by strategy,’ he cried, with a 
 mocking laugh ; and then, Ann, there 
 began forsooth a rare scene of confusion ; 
 the King’s-men leapt into the scows and 
 seized the oars, but the townsmen pressed 
 them hard, leaping in after them and 
 wresting the oars from their hands ; there 
 were oaths and cries and stern w'ords, and 
 a heaving struggling mass of colour, while 
 the large open boats, and more fragile 
 gundolas, rocked from side to side on the 
 quiet water, as if some sudden gale had 
 struck them : truly it was the gale of 
 human passion, hatred and revenge. 
 
 “ Then suddenly there was a deep hoarse 
 groan, and one voice cried out clear and 
 firm, and I knew it for young Phil 
 Troubridge’s, 
 
 “ Shame upon ye ! be ye King’s-men 
 
 or no ! * 
 
94 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ For Colonel Leslie had ordered his 
 soldiers to use their bayonets against our 
 men, who were unarmed, and as the water 
 grew streaked with blood, they fell back, 
 and so were forced to draw off to land, leav- 
 ing the redcoats in possession of the boats. 
 
 “ How it would have ended I know not, 
 but that Parson Barnard, drawing up his 
 tall figure in its straight black gown, and 
 accompanied by my father, whose face 
 looked troubled and sorrowful, approached 
 Colonel Leslie, and after a short parley 
 Leslie marshalled his men into line, the 
 drawbridge was let down, and the troops 
 marched over and back again, our towns- 
 men looking on in bitter silence. 
 
 “ On returning, Colonel Leslie shook 
 hands with Parson Barnard, saluted my 
 father stiffly, and then he and his King’s- 
 men marched down the road again, as empty- 
 handed as they came, towards Marblehead ; 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 95 
 
 wliile the townspeople watched their re- 
 treat until the redcoats were but as haw- 
 berries on the roadside ; then they sepa- 
 rated silently, save for one low terrible 
 groan of undying hate. 
 
 “ That was the battle of Oldtown 
 Cannon, Ann; and the crimson stain that 
 streaked the placid waters of the bay was 
 the first blood shed in the cause that 
 raised all Europe in alarm, and over which 
 Mister Washington ruled and governed, 
 for ought I see, full as imperiously as 
 any King of them all, be he Tudor or 
 Brunswick.” 
 
 Lady Troubridge was silent. She had 
 told the old tale with a curious mingling 
 of pride and scorn in her voice, as though 
 proud, against her will and convictions, of 
 the part her native town had played in the 
 contest, however little she loved the cause. 
 
 There was a slight flutter in her voice 
 
96 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and a light flash of colour in her cheeks 
 when she spoke again. 
 
 “ ’Twas father said, Ann, that same 
 evening, that young Phil Troubridge bore 
 himself the bravest through it all, heeding 
 neither threat of word nor bayonet ; and it 
 ’twas next Sunday that our banns were 
 cried, for the first time of asking.” 
 
 Dear old Lady Troubridge, how her 
 voice grew young, and her heart leapt up 
 at the mention of that other time, so far 
 away to me, so near to her ! 
 
 At one touch of love’s sacred flame she 
 lost all remembrance of the darker figures, 
 the more tragic scene, the strife and 
 anger, the blood-stained water ; she trea- 
 sured but the one memory from out that 
 fateful day, it had given to her the lover 
 of her maiden heart. 
 
 The span seemed very short to her 
 between that Sunday when her banns 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 97 
 
 were cried and this one, when she stood 
 alone, haying seen twenty years ago the 
 grave close over the husband who had 
 been so brave, and whom she still called 
 “ young Phil Troubridge.” 
 
 What other passion of our human souls 
 can so give back to us the light, the hope, 
 the glory of our youth ? 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 With the echo of that old tale in my 
 heart it was not greatly to be wondered at 
 that I chose this Sunday evening to look 
 over the papers I had found in the 
 panelled recess. 
 
 I took the packet from my desk and 
 carried it into the long drawing-room ; 
 Laddie followed me and lay down at my 
 feet when I took my seat within one of 
 the windows. Opposite to me smiled Anais, 
 with her puzzling alias of Majorie, and at 
 her side her counterpart, of whom I know 
 nothing save her sweet old name. 
 
 I laid the papers on my knee and looked 
 out. All nature lay hushed in that strange 
 
Or.D BOSTON. 
 
 9D 
 
 garment of peace that seems sometimes to 
 wrap the outer world, and to liold captive 
 even the turbulent emotions of human 
 souls. The sky was cloudless — the deep 
 blue of a midsummer evening, — the sha- 
 dows fell long and slanting, the birds 
 were silent save now and then for some 
 sweet half-note ; the flowers in my garden, 
 sweet peas and jonquils, spice-pinks and 
 musk, threw out a stronger perfume as the 
 faint evening breeze waved forth their 
 hidden treasures, and the roses, with 
 drooping heads, added their portion to 
 the incense that mother nature’s dumb 
 children offer up ceaselessly and un- 
 weariedly at her shrine. 
 
 With a deep sigh of content I untied the 
 faded ribbon, and the packet fell apart 
 upon my lap. There were some eight or 
 ten letters addressed to Mademoiselle cle 
 Grasse, several sheets of closely-written 
 n 2 
 
100 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 manuscript stitclied together lightly, and a 
 bit of folded silken tissue-paper contain- 
 ing a lock of brown hair and a tiny minia- 
 ture of a young officer in the uniform of 
 King George III.’s famous 52nd. The 
 letters were all in one handwriting, and 
 in French, signed by a twisted cipher 
 that looked like L. de V., as nearly as I 
 could decipher it. On the back of the 
 miniature was engraved a crest, a boar’s 
 head, with the motto “ True.” 
 
 The letters were difficult to read, written, 
 as they were, in a fine, flowing hand, and 
 composed in the pompous, mythical style 
 of Louis XY.’s court. They were evidently 
 addressed to my great-grandmother Aniiis, 
 by some very ardent lover, who compared 
 her to Diana for coldness, Venus for 
 beauty, and Julie de Rambouillet for 
 wit. There were some political intrigues 
 mentioned, and dubious hints thrown 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 101 
 
 out as to M. le General Washington’s 
 intentions. 
 
 It was impossible to reconcile these 
 high-flown love-letters with the open, boy- 
 ish face that looked out of the miniature. 
 Such a face could be but English, and 
 should know little of the artificial court- 
 life of France. Some other hand, less 
 frank than his, had penned these lettres de 
 boudoir. The bright face looked ridicu- 
 lously young above the stiff military stock 
 and high rolling collar, and the brown hair 
 had something rebellious in its curls as 
 they twisted themselves free from the 
 braided peruke and fell a little over the 
 fine forehead. The tress in the silken 
 paper was alike in colour, only with its 
 golden gleams somewhat dimmed. 
 
 I took up the manuscript ; it appeared 
 to be but the fragment of a larger volume, 
 and began abruptly. The hand was that 
 
102 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of a lady, minute and careful ; the language 
 chosen and sometimes a little stilted, as of 
 one writing in a foreign tongue. 
 
 “ I ask myself each morning, Is it to- 
 day my beloved sister shall return ? — she 
 whom I call my star, she is so beautiful, 
 and her eyes shine so clearly. I go often 
 into the new withdrawing-room to gaze 
 upon her portrait, the one that Monsieur 
 Stuart did execute of her when he also 
 made one of me, her little sister. 
 
 “ That was a wondrous event for us, and 
 my sister did so vex Monsieur Stuart by 
 her fantasies. She liked not that Monsieur 
 le Comte willed that we should be dressed 
 like the demoiselles of this place. 
 
 “ ‘ They are bourgeoises,’ she said, and 
 curled her pretty lip ; but we knew ’twas 
 all in vain. Mon oncle was not to be 
 gainsaid, and so Monsieur Stuart must 
 needs paint us in our toilettes of every 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 103 
 
 day, but when Anais pouted he did 
 laugh. • 
 
 “ * Choose, then, mademoiselle,’ he re- 
 marked, ‘ a flower, and that shall be your 
 symbol. I question if les filles puritaines 
 would dare add nature’s jewels to their 
 attire.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Then Dot shall do the same,’ cried out 
 my sister. And so we went forth to- 
 gether into the garden. 
 
 “ ‘ I will have a rose,’ said my Anais, 
 ‘ and it shall be as red a one as ever 
 bloomed, and as full of sweetness as all 
 the perfumes that Master Will Shake- 
 speare prates of so glibly. Dost know, my 
 Dot, what a red rose signifies in posie- 
 language r ’ 
 
 “ { It was Saint Elizabeth’s flower,’ I 
 answered, c and she died a martyr ; roses 
 of paradise, mesdames les soeurs called 
 them.’ 
 
104 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ My sister laughed. 
 
 “ * Thou art a daisy-flower for innocence, 
 nay Dot. The red rose means love, and 
 love means life, not death.’ 
 
 “ * Thou art very wise, ma soeur,’ I an- 
 swered; ‘but siuce love means life, why, 
 then, does love so often bring death? La 
 mere superieure did often say to us, “ Love 
 always, mes enfants, but love generously 
 and honestly ; he who thus loves fears not 
 death.” ’ 
 
 “ ‘ La mere was right, Dot, and thou art 
 mine own sweet rose of paradise. Hast 
 chosen thy flower ? How, ma foi ! ’tis a 
 white rose thou hast taken.’ 
 
 “ * And what means it in thy posie- 
 language, tres-chere ? ’ I asked. 
 
 “ My sister looked at me quite in silence 
 ere she raised my chin with her pretty hand. 
 
 “ ‘ Dear heart, its message is the same ; 
 ’tis love it means, and — constancy.’ 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 105 
 
 “ ‘ Does that mean to be ever faithful ? ’ 
 I asked again. ‘ Then I am very happy 
 in my choice. Toujours fidele, ’tis on the 
 old seal, Tais, dost remember, that we 
 played with long ago. 5 
 
 “ Then came running out Pen Dudley in 
 great commotion and said Monsieur Stuart 
 was sadly angered that we tarried so long; 
 and as we hastened back she caught my 
 arm and cried out, 
 
 “ ‘ Good lack, Dot ! why take a white 
 rose ? Sure you cannot know its mean- 
 ing?’ 
 
 “ * Nay, but I do, Pen,’ I said. ‘ ’Tis 
 love and constancy. My Tais told me so.’ 
 
 “ ‘ ’Tis love if you like,’ she said sharply. 
 * But ’tis love unrequited. Thou wilt 
 dress Saint Catherine’s tresses after all, 
 Dot.’ 
 
 “ There was no time to make reply, for 
 we were at the door, and ma soeur was 
 
106 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 already finishing her amendes to Monsieur 
 Stuart as we entered. And this is what I 
 think upon when I go in to look at nay 
 darling’s portrait where she holds the red 
 rose in her hand. 
 
 “ It was Pen Dudley who said, in her 
 sharp voice, when Monsieur Stuart had 
 completed the two pictures, and we all did 
 stand before them in a row and the sun 
 came in and rested on ma soeur’s brown 
 hair, 
 
 “ * Sure, they are monstrous fine, Mister 
 Stuart, and rarely done ; but will ye say, 
 save for the roses, which be Tais and which 
 Dot ? 5 
 
 “ Now that was nought but foolishness 
 for Pen to say, and I felt sore chagrined 
 lest Tais should think her little sister strove 
 to be ike her in beauty and loveliness. 
 
 “ £ Thou sayest baboulettes, Pen,’ I said ; 
 ‘ ma soeur can never come to look like me.’ 
 
OliD BOSTON. 
 
 107 
 
 “ Tlien Monsieur Stuart and Pen Dudley 
 smiled each to each, but Tais came and 
 put her arms about me. 
 
 “ * Dot, thou thinkest me beautiful ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Tres-chere, ’tis not I alone ; ’tis all 
 the world,’ I cried. 
 
 “ Then my sister kissed me. 
 
 “ c Petite Dot,’ she said, ‘ thou too art 
 beautiful. ’ 
 
 “ * But not as thou art, Tais ; nay, I 
 will not be. Thy mirror if thou wilt, 
 tres-chere, but never more than thy re- 
 flection.’ 
 
 “ I did not heed those who stood 
 
 by- 
 
 “ ‘ No other one shall doubt,’ I cried, and 
 there lay Monsieur Stuart’s pen, and I 
 caught it up and wrote my own long name, 
 Dorothy, along the golden frame. 
 
 “ ‘ Nay, then, I too will write,’ said ma 
 soeur, ‘ but not my French nom de bapteme. 
 
108 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 I also will be English, and take thy mother’s 
 name, Pen ; ’twill better accord with my 
 toilette and Dot’s simplicity.’ 
 
 “ And then, with a laugh, she wrote 
 
 Majorie.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ioa 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “ But all this seems now to me long ago, 
 though of a truth ’tis scarce a year, and 
 Tais has been gone to Boston for half that 
 time; she makes a visit there upon the 
 Governor Gage’s lady, where she is thought 
 mightily of, and all ces messieurs gather 
 about her and make pretences to her. I 
 know she likes it well, for she has the 
 mopes in this old house, and says she finds 
 no pleasure amidst the trees and flowers, 
 that all is triste with only old Xanon to 
 speak to, and le bon pasteur Barnard to 
 try her wits with ; but when I tell her 
 this she only shakes her head and laughs, 
 saying, 
 
110 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ ‘ Yes, but that is because she first saw 
 the light in fair France, while I was born 
 in England ; and while she grew up among 
 the grandes dames de faubourg, I was 
 learning my Ave and Pater with the Dames 
 Reparatrices in Provence. 
 
 “ And when she recounts all this, I have 
 no answer ready, for of a truth I remember 
 me of so little in my child-days, only of the 
 sea, green and blue in the morning, golden 
 and purple in the sunset rays, as it broke 
 against the hard steep cliffs, whose grey 
 rocks seemed to beat back all its colour 
 and glory. 
 
 “ This, ma soeur says, is my memory of 
 North Devonshire, where I was born, and 
 where with my mother we lived when we 
 were wee babies. Then I think of long 
 corridors, and a narrow room full of little 
 white beds, and a garden built about by 
 high walls, where I played with other little 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ones, and a tall lady in a black robe and 
 a long blue veil, whom we called our 
 “ Ange,” and a vaulted chamber, whose 
 walls were covered with pictures, all 
 seeming to lead to one grander than any 
 other, where our Lord hung upon the cross, 
 and about His feet knelt men and women, 
 hiding their sad faces in their garments of 
 blue and crimson, and far away in the 
 distance lights gleamed, and a sweet keen 
 odour floated down to us and we saw les 
 dames religieuses kneeling, wrapped in 
 their dark mantles and pale-blue veils, 
 while further yet, from out the shadows, 
 we listened to the music that seemed to 
 come from a thousand glad hearts. 
 
 “ This, ma soeur tells me, is my memory 
 of life at the convent where I was taken by 
 my mother when we left Devonshire. And 
 then there comes a long time when I can 
 think of nothing, save a flat country and 
 
112 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 long, long miles of fields, and a dull lane, 
 on either side of which arose high hedges of 
 close-clipped box ; and days passed in 
 tasks of needlework and psalm-learning; 
 of a tall figure dressed always in black, 
 with a not unkindly face, who taught me 
 the shorter catechism, and told me sternly 
 that my Ave and Memorce were arms of the 
 evil one and who frowned and sighed when- 
 ever my mother’s name was mentioned. 
 
 “This I know, is the memory of my girl- 
 life, with my other aunt, in the fen-country 
 of England, who was a devotee of the order 
 of Monsieur Calvin, and to whom I came 
 when my happy convent-days were over. 
 
 “ Then one evening, more vividly than 
 aught else, I remind me how my aunt 
 called me from my chamber above to the 
 quiet drawing-room, with its hushed, silent 
 air, as if one dared not laugh therein, and 
 I saw she had tears in her eyes, and her 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 113 
 
 Land shook when she did place it upon my 
 shoulder and bade me look up and make a 
 reverence to Monsieur le Capitaine ; and 
 when I dared to raise my head, I saw a 
 dark face above a tall figure, and heard a 
 soft, sad voice say, in my dear French 
 tongue, 
 
 “ ‘ Thou hast done well, Madame Prouz. 
 Monsieur le Comte will owe you his devoirs 
 for this sweet flower.’ 
 
 “ I looked then to see, but ma tante held 
 no flower, so I listened once more, and ma 
 tante made reply, 
 
 “ ‘ Monsieur le Comte needs but to leave 
 this child with me, I should then ask no, 
 further devoir at his hands.’ 
 
 “ Then the stranger did laugh and say, — 
 “ ‘ Surely, madame, but since Monsieur le 
 Comte desires both ses fillettes to accom- 
 pany me to the land of barbarians, where 
 he would pleasure liimself, and mayhap 
 
 vol. r. 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fight once more for the glory of France, 
 and where, should he fall in his venture, 
 ces demoiselles would be better arranged 
 for than in la belle patrie, or this triste 
 England, where he who dwells long becomes 
 d’une maniere farouche.’ 
 
 “ ‘ It is sufficient,’ said ma tante ; then, 
 turning to me, ‘ Dot, it seems you and I 
 ^re to part. Your uncle has sent me 
 nouvelles by this gentleman that you are 
 to go with him and your sister to the 
 Americas.’ 
 
 “ Ma tante seemed to be much overcome, 
 for she covered her eyes with her hand, 
 and we were all very quiet, and I felt how 
 wicked must be my heart because I rejoiced 
 to think of seeing my beautiful sister once 
 more, and to leave the dull house, the long, 
 straight lanes and flat fields, and ma tante, 
 who never laughed, but always wore so sad 
 a face and plied her hooking-pins, or read 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 115 
 
 long hours in the heavy Bible, with its iron 
 clasps, that had written on the yellow page 
 the short, harsh name of John Knox. 
 
 “ In the evening when Monsieur le 
 Capitaine had left us and the maids had 
 set the candles, and drawn out the table 
 of ma tante, upon which lay her bag of 
 saffron silk, her mitts and hooking-pins, 
 she called me to her, and in a voice more 
 tender than I had ever heard from her, 
 bade me seat myself at her knee upon my 
 little buffet; she put her delicate hand 
 on mine, and thus we sat in silence. 
 
 “ ‘ Tante,’ I made so bold at last to say, 
 { when shall I go to Monsieur mon oncle, 
 and where is l’Amerique ? and when, oh 
 tante, when shall I see my Tais ? ’ 
 
 “ She answered me slowly. 
 
 “ ‘ Glad to fly from tire quiet nest, are 
 you, Dot ? Eh, but one is born to sorrow 
 as the sparks fly upwards. Thou art thy 
 
 i 2 
 
116 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 mother oyer again, Dot, save for thy 
 French blood and thy papist training.” 
 
 “ So during the long evening we sat to- 
 gether, and she answered my questions, 
 and I learned all I ever knew of my young, 
 dead mother. 
 
 “ She was English and of Devonshire, 
 and she loved and married a young French 
 noble, for whose sake she endured many 
 hardships, and in whose country she forgot 
 the puritan gods of her fathers, and went 
 back to the old faith of her husband, and 
 in whose belief she passed away, only three 
 short years after his death, leaving her 
 two little daughters to the care of their 
 uncle, Monsieur le Comte de Grasse. 
 
 “ Ma tante de France sent for Anais to 
 come to her at her grand hotel in Paris, 
 but I was left with les Dames Reparatrices 
 in Provence, where my mother had placed 
 me; then after a few years ma tante 
 
OIjD boston. 
 
 117 
 
 Anglaise took me away from the convent 
 to live with her in England, but always 
 ma soeur remained with la vieille Made- 
 moiselle de Grasse ; and now, after all these 
 many years, Monsieur le Comte, our uncle, 
 claimed us both, and we were to go under 
 the care of this sad young captain to 
 l’Amerique, where already many of our 
 nation were flying, feeling that the edge of 
 the storm was bad enough for them, and 
 shunning to encounter the full fury of its 
 blast; and where mon oncle held a pied 
 de terre, and where we could be more 
 advantageously fiancer than m France or 
 England. 
 
 “I can remember me now how dull and 
 cheerless was the early dawn next day, 
 and how ma tante looked very pale, as 
 with shaking hands and quivering lips she 
 blessed and kissed me, warning me never to 
 part with the true religion and to keep 
 
118 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 always sacred the virtues of honesty, 
 courage, and fortitude to my life’s end ; and 
 then, putting her hand over her eyes, 
 turned from me and went within the 
 drawing-room, shutting the door and leav- 
 ing me with ISTanon, who put me into the 
 heavy coach; and we drove away, with 
 endless creakings, down the long lanes and 
 over the flat, dusty high-roads, until I fell 
 asleep with great fatigue, and awoke not 
 again until I found myself on a soft couch 
 in a room full of light, and heard a gay, 
 sweet voice calling to me in quick 
 sentences, 
 
 “ ‘ Dot ! petite Dot ! Arouse thyself ; hast 
 not slept sufficient, ma mouchette ? Ya! 
 See, ’tis ta sceur calls to thee ! ’ 
 
 “ And in my waking eyes I saw a fair, 
 gracious vision of a beautiful face, mirthful 
 and daring, shadowed by the dark counte- 
 nance of Monsieur le Capitaine, and felt 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 119 
 
 the arms of my only sister around me, 
 with her kisses, like soft rose-leaves, fall- 
 ing on my cheeks and lips. 
 
 “ But all this that I have written seems 
 very long ago, since it is now three years 
 and more since we came to l’Amerique 
 and to Manor Farm, and in all this time 
 we have not seen mon oncle once, though 
 often Monsieur le Capitaine — but he is 
 Monsieur le Marquis now — -comes to give 
 us news of him, and when I ask, ‘ Shall 
 we soon see mon oncle ? ’ he smiles 
 and says, ‘ Mademoiselle, does the peach 
 in your garden ripen the quicker for your 
 watching ? Monsieur le Comte shall come 
 when and how he wills — du reste, I am at 
 mademoiselle’s disposition.’ 
 
 “ But ’tis Aniiis he looks at when he 
 answers, and Anais he follows, even as 
 the little stars fill the train of Venus when 
 she rises in this clear, dark northern sky. 
 
120 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ But now, indeed, I have much to tell 
 my Aniiis ; news of mighty importance, at 
 which I am sure she will greatly wonder, 
 and cease to laugh or put up her fine 
 eyebrows in a little Cupid’s bow, as she does 
 when I have only bits of prittle-prattle for 
 her ears, which she does call echantillons ; 
 and over which she will have to use her 
 wits to aid Nanon and me in our secret ; 
 for she does not know whom it is that we 
 have sick in the house, nor how it came 
 about that we entertain such an one, for I 
 may not write it to her in a billet, Nanon 
 says, lest it bring great trouble to us ; and 
 he lies very sick and weak, but no one is 
 to know, and, above all, not Monsieur le 
 Marquis, who comes to us for my sister’s 
 sake, and who is lie with Monsieur Wash- 
 ington, though he is so silent concerning 
 his affairs; but young eyes see far, as 
 Nanon says. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 121 
 
 “ It was one evening that it all occurred, 
 and on a Friday, which, Nanon says, makes 
 it to mean much sorrow to us all, and it was 
 the twenty-first of April, for I had set the 
 date down upon my tablets that morning, 
 when, for the first time, I found in our 
 own maple-woods a bit of trailing pink 
 arbutus-flower hidden under the warm 
 mantle of the grey beard moss, and I 
 carried it home and put it in the slender 
 glass, set about with coloured beads, which 
 Monsieur le Marquis did bring to my 
 sister from Yenice ; and all day long I 
 had been much employed at my tambour- 
 frame, wishing to finish the muslin scarf 
 I am embroidering in little sprays and 
 leaves to give my Tais when she comes 
 home. 
 
 “ So when it came evening and was grow- 
 ing dark, Nanon stood at the door, whilst 
 I did pluck the sweet marjoram and thyme 
 
122 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 for the spice-cupboard, and as I turned to 
 go within, something dark came out of the 
 shadows under the trees, panting, and fell 
 at my feet in a fit of the faints. 
 
 “ I cried out, but Nanon bade me hush, 
 and not stand so foolish, but come to her 
 assistance; and then we raised him up 
 and carried him within ; but he did not 
 Speak. His face was very pale and his coat 
 was torn and dusty, but I could see it was 
 of the same colour as those of the king’s 
 men who came marching through our 
 town with Colonel Leslie at their head, 
 and at this my heart stood still, for was he 
 not one of those against whom Monsieur 
 le Marquis and young Phil Troub ridge 
 said such bitter words, and were so eager 
 to make war ? And what then would 
 Monsieur le Marquis say, to find we had 
 taken in, out of the cold and dark, one 
 who was a king’s man and an enemy ? 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 123 
 
 “ But he was so much like death, how 
 could one do other than compassionate 
 him ? And was it not la mere superieure 
 who told us to turn no stranger from our 
 doors, lest, like Saint Christopher, we 
 missed our first blessing ? And had not 
 ma tante Anglaise bidden me keep courage 
 as a virtue ? 
 
 “ It was to Nanon I said all this in 
 whispers, for I was fearful, and com- 
 manded that she should put the poor 
 young gentleman to bed in the east room, 
 where she should nurse him back to life 
 again. And as I spoke, he opened his 
 eyes, and they were beautiful eyes, and 
 raised his hand and said, but very softly, 
 ‘ An angel ! ’ and then, ‘ I thank you,’ 
 relapsing once again into the faints. 
 
 “ But I am sure he scarce knew of 
 what he spoke, or mayhap ’twas his angel 
 guardian of which he dreamed. 
 
124 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ That is now two weeks ago, and he is 
 better, and sends me daily messages ex- 
 pressive of his gratitude and progress ; 
 but I am in much disturbance, for what 
 will my Aniiis say, and what will Monsieur 
 le Marquis do, when he comes next month 
 on his tour di inspection, and finds ’tis one 
 of the subjects of le Roi Georges whom we 
 have guarded ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Here the old record ended, as if suddenly- 
 interrupted, and the pen laid down with 
 the ink scarce dry upon it, but never 
 taken up again to finish the romance thus 
 begun of the young life so innocent and 
 so guileless, so loving and so untried by 
 sorrow or sin, so fearless in its innocence, 
 so strong in its purity. 
 
 Gently I laid aside the yellow pages. 
 The light and glory had faded from the 
 western sky; the moon shone now over 
 the sleeping landscape, putting to shame 
 the lesser light of the stars, as she travelled 
 slowly up the great vault of heaven. 
 
 The tall hollyhocks stood like slender 
 
126 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 phantoms in the garden-borders ; the roses 
 drooped their heavy heads; the daffodils 
 and narcissus gleamed spectrally in the 
 pale light, their gold and silver petals 
 shining as the moon’s rays caught them 
 here and there. The birds were silent; 
 not a note came from out their joyous 
 throats, save now and then some plaintive 
 call of the whip-poor-will, answered by 
 the little night-owl in its one sad, low 
 note. 
 
 Had little Dot looked out, on such a 
 night, over this self-same scene, dreaming 
 of all the wonderful promises laid up for 
 her in the bright radiance of to-morrow’s 
 dawn ? 
 
 Had her sweet face and gentle presence 
 filled this old drawing-room with the subtle 
 poetry of youth and the deeper pathos of 
 expectancy, even as my grave counte- 
 nance and quiet demeanour dominated it 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 127 
 
 now with calm, middle-aged, dispassionate 
 emotions ? 
 
 “ Poor little Dot ! ” I murmured ; “ and 
 yet she may have been a most happy little 
 Dot.” 
 
 Only there had grown upon me, as I 
 read her quaint chronicle, a prescience of 
 evil for her, of love betrayed, of courage 
 wasted, of compassion and fidelity strained 
 to the utmost, and then thrown aside as 
 useless grown. 
 
 I took up the little miniature. The 
 young officer’s bright blue eyes looked 
 defiantly into mine ; he wore an expression 
 of modest, yet self-appreciated, worth, as 
 of one born in the purple and accustomed 
 to accept as his due the homage of the 
 weaker vessels and the appreciation of the 
 stronger members of his caste. 
 
 Was this the young gentleman with 
 the beautiful eyes, who came out of the 
 
128 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 shadows and fell in a fit of the faints at 
 little Dot’ s feet a hundred years ago ? and 
 oyer whom she poured out all her pretty 
 axioms, garnered from her convent-train- 
 ing and strengthened by her tante anglaise’s 
 sterner creed, to reassure her own heart 
 and the more doubtful one of JNanon; 
 while they took him in, like good Sama- 
 ritans, to dress and heal his wounds ? 
 
 “ Poor little Dot ! ” I murmured once 
 more, with the handsome, boyish face 
 looking up at me, and the curl of crisp, 
 brown hair, in its silken wrapper, lying in 
 my hand. 
 
 I rose slowly from my seat, rousing 
 Laddie as 1 moved, who shook himself, 
 and with his paws resting on my shoulders, 
 waited for my bidding. “ Laddie,” I said, 
 “ let us say good-night to little Dot.” 
 
 We walked, he and I, across the silent 
 room, and stood before the two portraits. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 129 
 
 The blinds had not been drawn, and the 
 moon cast a clear, soft light upon the 
 pictured maidens. But it was not Anais 
 I gazed at now — her smile was too tri- 
 umphant, her bearing far too proud ; it 
 was to Dorothy I turned, and rested 
 my eyes upon her gentle face. In her 
 hand she held the white rose, fatal 
 emblem, which she plucked all unwittingly 
 when Anais gathered its deep-coloured 
 sister. 
 
 “ Poor little Dot ! ” I whispered again, 
 as, with Laddie beside me, I crossed the 
 long salon and broad hall dark with 
 shadows, carrying in my hand the little 
 miniature and the yellow, time-stained 
 pages covered with her pointed characters. 
 
 July slipped by in long, quiet days of 
 brilliant sunshine, not too hot for me, but 
 trying to many, especially to the very old 
 and very young. I was not, therefore. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 surprised to learn that old Lady Trou- 
 bridge was ailing and confined to the 
 house. 
 
 It was her son, the squire, who came 
 down from the Hall to tell me, walking up 
 my trim garden-path between the rows of 
 blooming midsummer flowers, and entering 
 the great hall with his usual slow and 
 quiet step, his tall, spare figure habited in 
 a loose nankeen coat of an antiquated 
 pattern, a straw hat with a broad ribbon 
 set on his closely- cut grey hair, in his hand 
 a neatly-rolled, green silk umbrella, with a 
 carved ivory handle. 
 
 I hastened to make him welcome with 
 as much impressement as possible, for this 
 was his first visit to me, and, as such, to be 
 regarded with due honour. He was a man 
 to take all things quietly, therefore he 
 accepted my greeting with the calm of a 
 stoic, seating himself in silence, and poising 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 131 
 
 his broad hat upon his umbrella, which he 
 refused to relinquish. 
 
 Laddie walked up to him, and, lying 
 down on the hearth-rug, fixed his watch- 
 ful yellow eyes on the immovable counte- 
 nance above him. Pop flew away to his 
 vantage-ground, the clock-case, and hustled 
 up his feathers into a shiny black ruff, 
 from which he looked forth viciously. 
 
 “ This is a warm morning, Squire Trou- 
 bridge,” I began, by way of breaking the 
 silence, “ but not unpleasantly so to you 
 evidently. You bear no trace of the sun’s 
 too generous touch.” 
 
 “It is seasonable, Miss Truesdale, sea- 
 sonable,” he answered slowly, in a softly 
 modulated voice, but with a slight break 
 in the higher notes, and a falling inflection 
 at the end of all sentences, that had a 
 peculiarly depressing effect. “We are 
 told we shall have all things in their due 
 k 2 
 
132 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 season ; seed-time and harvest, spring and 
 summer; and he who bears the burden 
 and heat of the day shall receive a just 
 man’s reward.” 
 
 "We again sat silent for a few moments, 
 the squire’s mild blue eyes looking beyond 
 me to the open door, where the shadows 
 of the rose-tree fell athwart the broad 
 door-step. 
 
 “ This is your first visit to me,” I went 
 on, “ and I am very glad to welcome you 
 to Manor Farm.” 
 
 “ My first visit to you, surely, but not 
 my first visit to Manor Farm.” 
 
 “But, squire,” I argued, “no one 
 has lived here since my great-grand- 
 mother’s time. You did not come 
 to visit empty rooms and echoing cor- 
 ridors ? ” 
 
 “No, surely,” he answered; “but they 
 were not empty rooms nor echoing corri- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 133 
 
 dors to me. I came to see your great- 
 grandmother, Miss Ann.” 
 
 For a moment I stared at him in blank 
 amazement ; but his calm, placid face, with 
 its dreamy expression, precluded any idea 
 of a disordered brain, so I waited for his 
 own explanation. 
 
 Presently, in rather a hurried voice, he 
 continued, 
 
 “ I should like to pay my respects to her 
 now.” 
 
 And without waiting for my assent, he 
 rose and walked deliberately towards the 
 green drawing-room. Laddie followed on 
 his footsteps, and I came not far behind. 
 
 He entered the salon , and crossed 
 directly to where the two portraits hung 
 upon the wail. Before them he stopped, 
 looking up eagerly to the proud face of the 
 beautiful Anais. 
 
 As I watched him I saw the colour steal 
 
134 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 into his withered, smooth-shaven cheeks, 
 and a light gather in his pale eyes. He 
 turned a little uneasily towards me, and said 
 in a shy voice, lowered as though fearful 
 of disturbing some one, 
 
 “ She has not changed, though ’tis many 
 months since I have seen her. She grows 
 younger year by year. I have loved her 
 a very long time, Miss Ann ; quietly, you 
 know, and unobtrusively, as a gentleman 
 should, with all honour and respect, but 
 hopelessly, always hopelessly.” 
 
 He smiled and made a little deprecatory 
 motion with his hand, ere he continued, 
 
 {£ You do not believe that she is heart- 
 less, eh? Ho, surely. It has been my 
 honour and consolation to feel that, 
 wherever she is, she is aware of my 
 constancy and approves it. Miss Ann, I 
 thank you for your amiability and com- 
 placency. And now that I have made my 
 
OLD EOSTON. 
 
 135 
 
 compliments, I give you my mother’s 
 message : she is not well, and she begs 
 that you will come to her.” 
 
 I answered, a little at random, perhaps, 
 that of course I would gladly do her 
 bidding. 
 
 He smiled again, and said in the same 
 gentle whisper, 
 
 “ You are most amiable. Will you have 
 the extreme kindness not to mention my 
 visit to this room to my mother. She and 
 Anais fell out once, and they have never 
 made it up, you know.’’ 
 
 Without waiting for my reply, he waved 
 his hand and walked out of the house and 
 down the garden-path, as unconsciously as 
 if he had not just been telling me of his 
 passion for my dead great-grandmother, 
 whose life must have long passed out of 
 the circumscribed area of village existence 
 before he ever came to man’s estate. I 
 
136 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 watched his slender figure as far as I could 
 see, making his way slowly down the lane 
 that led from Manor Farm to Oldtown 
 highroad. 
 
 I was not so much surprised by this 
 interview as might have been expected, 
 for all Oldtown knew that Squire Trou- 
 bridge had “ a bee in his bonnet ” some- 
 where. He was very much beloved and 
 very much respected by every one, and 
 while he always acknowledged this 
 affection and esteem displayed by his 
 townsmen and contemporaries, he rarely 
 mingled in any of their gaieties, and 
 never descended to any familiarity or 
 intimacy. 
 
 He was Very dignified, very gentle, and 
 always courteous, but he led his own life 
 in his own way, poring over old books 
 and manuscripts, in his library at the 
 Hall, of which he had collected a vast 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 137 
 
 amount ; taking solitary walks, from which 
 he would sometimes return with a slight 
 additional colour in his face, and a more 
 buoyant movement in his usually deliberate 
 carriage. 
 
 It was a favourite superstition among the 
 old gossips of the town, that the squire 
 had been “ overlooked ” in his youth by 
 the “ evil eye ” of his tyrannous ancestor, 
 Governor Dudley, whose rule over Massa- 
 chusetts, in Queen Ann’s time, was not 
 easily, forgiven or forgotten, and that in 
 consequence he was not as other men ; and 
 his little vagaries, being quite harmless, 
 were more to be respected than condemned. 
 While another version of the story, more 
 common-place in its conception, was, that 
 he had loved, not wisely but too well, and 
 that the lady, laughing at his passion 
 and his pain, had thrown back carelessly 
 the gift of love he offered ; but as no 
 
138 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 one could give this lady’s name, and as 
 old Lady Troubridge made short work 
 of any such story that came to her ears, 
 treating the narrator of it with scant 
 courtesy, it was not looked upon as so 
 feasible as the earlier and more thrilling 
 one. 
 
 Old Lady Troubridge’s view of the sub- 
 ject was not greatly to be wondered at; 
 the squire was her youngest son, the last 
 one left out of the twelve that had been 
 born to her ; was it likely she would listen 
 with patience to any old wives’ scandal 
 concerning him ? 
 
 All this I had learned from the lips of 
 my Mrs. Amanda Bidwell, whose very soul 
 delighted secretly in all gossip connected 
 with the Hall and its occupants, and whose 
 conscience never rested comfortably until 
 she had eased it by open confession to me. 
 
 But now I seemed to hold the key to the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 139 
 
 enigma, and in the light of this morning’s 
 interview I might draw my own conclusions 
 as to the squire’s secret. He had appealed 
 to me very pathetically in regard to his 
 weakness, when requesting my silence 
 towards his mother, and I could not easily 
 forget the look of simple joy that illumined 
 his countenance when he repeated his belief 
 in Anais’s knowledge of his constancy. 
 
 She, then, was the lady of his love, and 
 to her he had consecrated all the fidelity 
 and devotion of his manhood ! 
 
 I gazed long and earnestly at the proud 
 face of my ancestress. What was this 
 subtle power she wielded that drew within 
 her life the lives of all who approached 
 her, whether in her living days, or now, 
 when all that was mortal of her beautiful 
 body had long rested in the silent grave ? 
 
140 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 With Laddie by my side, I walked down 
 later in the day to the Hall. On my way 
 I met Doctor Coffin, who for years and 
 years had physicked and dosed the youth 
 and age of Oldtown’s best families, assist- 
 ing at the entrance into this beautiful 
 world of each little life, and closing the 
 eyes of many a tired pilgrim, glad to rest 
 since all the flowers in their path had 
 faded, and all the fruits dropped rotten at 
 the touch of time and sorrow. 
 
 He was a cheerful little man, who had 
 not discarded the knee-breeches, silk 
 stockings, silver buckles, and lace ruffles of 
 a past generation, and who wore his white 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 141 
 
 hair brushed back and braided in a small 
 peruke, tied with the narrowest black 
 ribbon. 
 
 “ Good day, good day, Miss Ann,” he 
 called out gaily, lifting his hat and waving 
 it in the air, “ you are looking sweet and 
 blooming, sweet and blooming as the rose 
 of Sharon. And whither are you bound, 
 accompanied by your faithful retainer?” 
 motioning towards Laddie, from whom, 
 however, he kept at a respectful distance. 
 
 “ To the Hall,” I answered, “ to see Lady 
 Troubridge, who is ailing and has sent for 
 me. I hope it is nothing worse than the 
 heat, doctor ? ” 
 
 The smile faded from Doctor Coffin’s 
 ruddy face, and he relapsed into his con- 
 fidentially professional air as he replied, 
 “ Ah ! ah ! my dear young miss ” (all wo- 
 men were his dear young miss while under 
 fifty), “ it is very sad, very sad ! My old 
 
142 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 friend seems badly broken, very badly 
 broken for one of her years. I do not like 
 her symptoms, Miss Ann, she is too gentle 
 and too acquiescent. Why, bless my soul, 
 she did not break out at me once in the 
 old way this morning, though I tried her, 
 yes I tried her in my cruelest form ” — here 
 the Doctor lowered his voice — “ about the 
 squire, you know, and his little vagaries, 
 his little fancies; harmless, quite harmless, 
 but apt to stir up the Dudley blood in my 
 lady ; and you will not believe me, my 
 dear young miss, I know you will not, when 
 I assure you she never so much as 
 denounced me in her old spirit, nor showed 
 me the door, she only turned her back 
 upon me and thumped with her stick when 
 I tried to resume the conversation. Ah, 
 yes ! sadly broken, sadly broken for one of 
 her years ! ” 
 
 After parting with the doctor, I walked 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 143 
 
 on more quickly, and reached the Hall as 
 the clock struck four, heralded by the 
 shrill fanfare of the little marionettes who 
 emerged from the door at the top of the 
 case, blew their trumpets lustily, and 
 vanished within the mysteries of the 
 works. 
 
 I found Lady Troubridge seated in her 
 chair as usual, but though the day was 
 oppressively hot, a log fire had been 
 kindled on the wide hearth, and her chair 
 and footstool drawn close within its rays. 
 She was dressed with all the elaborate care 
 of her usual toilet, but the aged face 
 looked pinched and weary beneath the 
 flowers and lace of her head-dress, and the 
 small hands were yellow and transparent, 
 looking too feeble for the weight of 
 heavy rings they bore. 
 
 She did not heed my entrance. I crossed 
 the long hall, always dim with shadows, 
 
144 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 even on the brightest summer day, and 
 seated myself opposite her; Laddie went 
 outside to the door-step where he could 
 bask in the sunshine. 
 
 Hidden by the shadows, yet half re- 
 vealed in the furtive, uncertain light, I 
 saw the portrait of my great-grand- 
 mother — the long white throat, the 
 slender hand, the feathers in her hair, 
 and, nearer to me, the fair handsome face 
 of the boy-lieutenant Tarleton. 
 
 Why at that moment did a vision of 
 little Dot rise before me, supplemented 
 by the countenance of the young officer 
 in the miniature ? They obliterated com- 
 pletely those other faces, as when in a 
 dream one seems to look upon some 
 familiar friend, only to find on closer 
 examination the features and form inex- 
 plicably change into the lineaments of 
 another. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 145 
 
 Lady Troubridge’s voice broke in upon 
 my musings. 
 
 “ Is it you, Ann ? Come nearer, child, 
 the days grow dark apace, and I cannot 
 see ye.” 
 
 The tones of her voice were lower than 
 usual, and had an odd flat sound, as of 
 something wanting in the finer sense of 
 the speaker’s hearing. I moved my chair 
 close to hers, shielding myself from the 
 fire as best I could. 
 
 “ I am so sorry, dear Lady Trou- 
 bridge,” I said, “ to see you poorly. I 
 met Doctor Coffin on my way here ; and 
 he told me I should not find you so 
 well as we all like to have you.” 
 
 As the tally ho of the huntsman to* 
 the oldest hound of the pack, or the roll 
 of the drum to the worn-out war-horse, 
 awakening all their sleeping energies and 
 renewing all their hot youthful spirits, so 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the name of the little doctor vivified and 
 evoked into action the dormant powers of 
 old Lady Troubridge. She drew up her 
 slender form with her most dignified air ; 
 indignation shone in her eyes and rever- 
 berated in her voice. 
 
 “ The doctor is a fool, Ann, and, 
 considering his years, a very great fool. 
 I told him so, making no mincemeat of 
 my words for his ears. To harbinger a 
 pack of silly women’s gossip and bring it 
 here to me, forsooth, accounting me a like 
 simpleton to listen to his rodomontade 
 against my son. I would not hearken, no 
 not to one word; I told him to go and 
 knock nails into his own coffin, since he 
 was so over-anxious to help mine in its 
 building by tattling tales about my son, 
 the only one left to me out of my thirteen 
 babies.” 
 
 Here the old lady gave a satisfied little 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 147 
 
 chuckle, and with a shrewd glance con- 
 tinued, “ He wasn’t likely to stop long 
 after that, Ann, as you may believe ; his 
 name is his weak spot, and it doesn’t 
 bear pressing. But this time he richly 
 deserved all he got; and I added, that 
 when he saw fit to make me a decent 
 apology he should be received here again, 
 but not before — not one moment before.” 
 
 Lady Troubridge was evidently deeply 
 wounded by the poor doctor’s injudicious 
 method of rousing her, and it required all 
 my efforts to soothe and pacify her. 
 
 I remained with her during the long 
 summer evening, having supper with the 
 squire, for in Oldtown we kept to primi- 
 tive traditions in our times and manner 
 of eating. Evening dining was an insti- 
 tution undreamed of, and if introduced 
 by some radical-minded interloper would 
 have been stigmatized as a new-fashioned 
 
148 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 innovation, only to be adopted by tbe 
 fringe of Oldtown society — such beings as 
 occupied tbe modern houses of but fifty 
 years’ standing, and who held their quasi 
 position in fear and trembling. The 
 orthodox population followed the customs 
 of their fathers and grandfathers with 
 rigid exactitude, and in consequence we 
 all dined at midday, and enjoyed a hearty 
 supper at eight in the evening. 
 
 It was rather a dreary meal this that I 
 took in the squire’s companionship ; the 
 length of shining mahogany stretched 
 between us, garnished with the old Dudley 
 plate and a service of Crown Derby that 
 would have made a collector’s soul 
 shudder at its sacrilegious usage. 
 
 The squire ate but little, and talked 
 less ; he filled my wine-glass with ruby- 
 toned port that was far too heavy and 
 too luscious for my untrained palate, and, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 149 
 
 having performed this act of politeness, 
 he evidently considered his duties as a 
 host ended, and left me to my own reflec- 
 tions while he crumbled his bread in an 
 absent fashion, and stared at me in 
 silence. 
 
 As soon as possible I withdrew ; at my 
 first movement he arose, and with fine 
 courtesy opened the door for me; as I 
 passed out he bowed and murmured, 
 “ Allow me to express my appreciation of 
 your amiable society, Miss Ann.” 
 
 Then the door closed softly behind me, 
 and I stood alone in the great hall where 
 everything now was shrouded in dim ob- 
 scurity. Learning from Lady Troubridge’s 
 maid that she had retired to her room, 
 I roused up Laddie, and, leaving a mes- 
 sage for my old friend that I would 
 come again next day, I prepared to walk 
 home. 
 
150 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 I was not in the least afraid ; the even- 
 ing was warm, just touched by a light 
 refreshing breeze from the sea ; the stars 
 were brilliant above me, and I had my dog 
 and my memories for companions — faithful 
 friends both, who could not cheat me with 
 vain delusions. The past can never veil 
 itself in the illusive garb of the future; 
 what has been, cannot be rehabilitated by 
 any gloss of hope or expectancy ; and a 
 dog’s love and fidelity, are for the one only 
 whom he protects. 
 
 I was, then, rather vexed when I found 
 the squire awaiting me on the broad 
 carriage-drive, his straw hat upon his 
 head, his green silk umbrella in his hand ; 
 evidently he contemplated accompanying 
 me. I made one effort to free myself 
 from his protection by assuring him I had 
 no fear, and needed no companion save 
 Laddie, but he only smiled and made his 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 151 
 
 customary little wave of his hand, holding 
 the gate back for me to pass. 
 
 So we walked down Oldtown Street in 
 silence, like three grim shadows ; the 
 squire kept close to my side on the right, 
 and Laddie on my left. 
 
 I could but smile as I made a ridiculous 
 mental picture of a modern Una with a 
 colley for her lion, and a fanciful old 
 gentleman as a red-cross knight, with 
 a wide-awake hat and neat umbrella 
 to represent the traditional helmet and 
 spear. 
 
 I broke the silence at last, as we turned 
 into my own lane, by asking him rather 
 shortly what he thought of his mother’s 
 illness. His pale-blue eyes rested on my 
 face with pathetic gentleness as he 
 answered, 
 
 “ Miss Ann, since the fairest blossom 
 must fade in all its loveliness, we can look 
 
152 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 for no kinder fate for the flower that has 
 more than reached its full maturity, and 
 rest comes not amiss to any one.” 
 
 “Are you anxious then, squire,” I 
 asked quickly, for something in his voice 
 made my heart beat faster with a feeling 
 of strange awe. 
 
 “ My mother is very old,” he answered; 
 “ the silver cord has borne the strain of 
 over fivescore years ; we cannot wonder 
 if it slackens now.” 
 
 His voice was tender but very clear, 
 more so than mine, when I bade him good- 
 night at my garden-gate. I had given 
 him my hand, and he held it loosely in a 
 shy fashion, as if uncertain why it rested 
 in his. 
 
 “ You are very amiable,” he said ; 
 “ you will come again to my mother to- 
 morrow ? and, Miss Ann, whatever she 
 may say to you, or ask you to accept, I 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 153 
 
 entreat you to give her no denial, for her 
 sake, and — for Anais” 
 
 He was gone almost as he finished, 
 leaving on the still night air the echo of 
 his whispered prayer — for Anais. 
 
154 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 And so the fiat had gone forth. My dear 
 old friend — for she had grown very dear 
 to me — was passing from us. 
 
 The span of her life had been very full. 
 The seasons had come and gone for more 
 than a hundred years since first she 
 entered upon her pilgrimage. 
 
 She had seen loved friends of her youth 
 grow old and pass thankfully into their 
 long rest. She had felt, one by one, her 
 little babies slip from out her vainly- 
 detaining arms. She had closed the dead 
 eyes of the lover of her youth, the husband 
 of her womanhood, and for a quarter of a 
 century had lived widowed within the self- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 155 
 
 same walls, where first had sounded her 
 shrill childish laughter; where first had 
 come to her the awakening touch of 
 woman’s nature, when first her lover’s lips 
 had sought her shy ones. 
 
 From out the dark hall she bad walked 
 in her sweet bridal white, holding her 
 father’s hand, and to it she had returned 
 with the gallant stripling at her side who 
 claimed her as his wife. 
 
 Here had come to her the first sweet, 
 sharp pang of motherhood, and here death’s 
 immovable angel had sought out, one by 
 one, her dearest treasures, and carried 
 them from her, close wrapped in his dark 
 mantle. 
 
 Her life had been made up of strange 
 scenes and episodes, of war and peace, of 
 strife and victory. What we call history 
 she had taken part in. What we look upon 
 as past, she recalled as present. 
 
156 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 She had heard the greatest shout for 
 justice and freedom that ever leapt from 
 human hearts oppressed by sore distress. 
 She had lived through the fiercest struggle 
 that a weak nation ever made against a 
 powerful one ; and had listened to the 
 great thanksgiving that had rolled across 
 the length of the land, when, under God, 
 those who had fought so bravely for their 
 country and their freedom, saw the day 
 dawn upon them as an independent 
 nation. 
 
 The leaders of the conflict, king and 
 commander, statesman and soldier, had 
 long since passed beyond this woi’ld of 
 strife and envy ; and now the sands of her 
 own life were slipping fast from out the 
 feeble tenement that held her dauntless 
 spirit. And for us who watched beside 
 her, there remained only the pitifully scant 
 kindness that are all we poor mortals can 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 157 
 
 offer to those who, almost before our eyes, 
 are putting on immortality. 
 
 I had of course gone to the Hall the day 
 after the squire walked home with me, and 
 at his and Lady Troub ridge’s request I 
 remained there from day to day. 
 
 The old lady arose every morning at her 
 accustomed hour, and was attired in her 
 elaborate toilet. She would allow of no 
 change in any particular, and the stately 
 routine of the house went on exact in every 
 detail. 
 
 She sat all day long in her carved chair 
 beside the hearth, on which a fire was con- 
 stantly burning, her daintily-dressed feet 
 reposing on her high footstool, and, save 
 for the trembling of her small hands, and 
 frequent closing of her bright eyes in an 
 easily-disturbed slumber, she was little 
 changed. Her mind was as clear as ever, 
 and on occasions she would stir herself into 
 
158 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sucli vigour and action as to almost blind 
 my watchful eyes, and cheat me into the 
 belief that her strong physique would yet 
 overcome the weakness of old age. 
 
 During these long August days I came 
 to know and appreciate the goodness and 
 gentleness of the squire. His nature was 
 so painfully shy, and his manner of speech 
 so laboured, that ordinarily one little 
 dreamed of his innate purity and unselfish- 
 ness of purpose. 
 
 He was never weary in his attentions to 
 his mother. He forsook his loved manu- 
 scripts and books, gave up his lonely 
 rambles, and laid aside his habitual reserve 
 to render her the smallest service. 
 
 It was very touching to see them 
 together; the aged mother, and the son 
 whose own years were over threescore. 
 He bent his grey head each morning in 
 courtly salutation over her withered hand, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 159 
 
 and she chided him or praised, as her 
 humour was, even as when a child she had 
 scolded or petted by turns. 
 
 I only seemed an anomaly. I was 
 neither young enough nor old enough for 
 them. My years measured only three 
 decades in their counting; my life had 
 begun and continued in an era of common- 
 place peace. I owned no tragic past, I 
 cherished no visionary future, my present 
 was strangely prosaic. What then had I 
 to do with these two children of another 
 generation, and how dull would my poor 
 romance sound in their ears attuned to 
 chords of such thrilling melody ? 
 
 August passed with its burden of rich 
 harvest. 
 
 The scarlet geraniums and purple lady’s- 
 slipper and orange marigold glowed in 
 my old-fashioned garden, while down the 
 borders proud tulips and flaunting poppies 
 
160 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 took the place of my more delicate fa- 
 vourites. The lavender sent out a strong, 
 sweet odour, and the pale, blue borage 
 added its faint, subtle perfume. 
 
 The fruit hung heavy on the trees in 
 my orchard ; peaches grew mellow ; plums 
 took on a soft bloom; the early apples 
 already showed red cheeks where the wind 
 had kissed them, and the grapes ripened 
 in full clusters beneath the shelter of the 
 vine-leaves. 
 
 All day long the sea lay quiet under the 
 sun-god’s spell. In the early morning its 
 tints were deep green and tender blue, 
 then as the day advanced a dim purple 
 shade crept over it stealthily, and dyed 
 its motionless breast, until at evening 
 the departing monarch cast over it his 
 kingly garment of shimmering, molten 
 gold. Not a wave broke the vast surface ; 
 the tide crept in with low, deprecatory 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 161 
 
 murmurs against the quays and timber 
 piles, then ebbed again in silence, leaving a 
 long track of shining wet sand that re- 
 flected, as a mirage, the changing colours 
 of the sky. 
 
 And still old Lady Troubridge lingered, 
 and the summer days passed one by one 
 monotonously. 
 
 Little Dr. Coffin came each day to the 
 Hall, having made an amende honorable 
 to his friend, and, less frequently, the 
 Rev. Mr. Whitehouse called. But he was a 
 young man lately come to the parish, and 
 Lady Troubridge only tolerated him be- 
 cause he represented an order from out the 
 old traditions of her youth, when the king 
 governed both country and church, other- 
 wise, as she said to me after one of his 
 brief visits, he was no divine to give her 
 benefit from his ministrations. 
 
 “ Faith, Ann, his mother must have been 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 a babe when I had learned well the lesson 
 of suffering and enforced submission. Is’t 
 likely yon puling boy can teach aught to 
 me ? ” 
 
 All Oldtown sent for daily bulletins from 
 the Hall, for Lady Troubridge was to all 
 of us a sacred personage, ranking before 
 every one in the country-side, and second 
 to none from Oldtown to Boston. 
 
 All this little fuss and ceremony pleased 
 the old lady greatly. She had always 
 ruled, all her life long, and she thought it 
 but a just return of her tyranny that her 
 subjects should now prove themselves 
 worthy of her, and of that proud old 
 Dudley blood that still beat so restlessly 
 in her veins. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 One afternoon towards the close of Sep- 
 tember, we sat together, she and I, as was 
 our custom, in the great hall. 
 
 She had been stronger for the past few 
 days, and had talked with much of her old 
 spirit and animation ; now, as the sun 
 shone in bright and golden, flooding the 
 large chamber with light and warmth, she 
 turned suddenly to me, and said in a quick, 
 earnest voice, 
 
 “ Ann Truesdale, he who labours not 
 while it is day, knows not when the night 
 shall overtake him unprepared. I must put 
 my affairs in order. I must look over my 
 jewels.” 
 
 m 2 
 
1G4 
 
 OLD 150ST0N. 
 
 She half rose from her chair, then sank 
 back with a short, irritable sigh. 
 
 “ Good lack, that ye should come to 
 this, Pen Dudley ! Ann, ’tis thou must 
 fetch them for me. Thou know’st the box 
 of cedar-wood with brass clamps ? Bring 
 it here, child, I have no time for delay.” 
 
 Without any contradiction I arose and 
 sought the box. It was kept for safety in 
 the squire’s library, locked away in his 
 strong chest. I crossed the hall and 
 knocked lightly at a low door in the wain- 
 scot, close to where the portrait of Anais 
 hung. A gentle voice bade me enter. I 
 turned the handle and stood within the 
 squire’s sanctum ; I had never been there 
 before, few people were ever asked to cross 
 the threshold. 
 
 The squire was standing with his face 
 turned towards me, one hand leaning on 
 the table before him, which was covered 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 165 
 
 with papers and letters neatly sorted and 
 tied into separate packages. He looked a 
 little confused or startled when he saw me, 
 and moved forward quickly. 
 
 “ My mother ! ” he exclaimed hur- 
 riedly ; “is she — is she — ” 
 
 I hastened to relieve his anxiety, and 
 explained that Lady Troubridge was as 
 usual, and the errand that had brought me 
 to him. 
 
 He turned away and unlocked a heavy 
 oak chest beside the fireplace ; it was 
 quaintly carved in low relief, and bore the 
 date 1555 in rough figures. It had once 
 been the dower-chest of a dead and gone 
 Dudley bride, and had come from England 
 with the same old Governor Dudley who 
 brought the high carved chair and foot- 
 stool, that formed Lady Troubridge’s daily 
 throne, and that had been the governor’s 
 seat of honour when he represented Queen 
 
16G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Ann at the State Congress held in the 
 same old hall which now sheltered the last 
 of his descendants. 
 
 The squire came towards me holding in 
 both his hands the box I had come for. 
 His pale face was slightly flushed, perhaps 
 from the exertion of stooping on this warm 
 day. 
 
 As I took it from him he laid his hand 
 on my arm, and said in a whisper, 
 
 “ ’Tis passing strange my mother should 
 send you for this ; heed well what she says 
 to you, it concerns another life than hers. 
 Miss Ann, do you know you have Anais’ 
 eyes ? And surely this gown, Miss Ann, 
 this soft grey gown, is strangely suitable on 
 you.” 
 
 The flush on his face deepened, and my 
 cheeks caught a reflection of his colour. 
 
 A compliment from the squire ! That 
 was a thing unheard of, to be wrapped in 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 167 
 
 silver paper and only looked at on high 
 festivals. 
 
 I hastened from the room bearing my 
 rather heavy burden. Lady Troubridge 
 greeted me impatiently. 
 
 “ Thou hast taken thine own time, Ann ; 
 ’tis like Anais, her own convenience always 
 before another’s.” 
 
 I placed the box upon a small table, and 
 together we fitted the key into the brass 
 lock ; as I did so, a sudden wave of memory 
 swept away the present, and brought in its 
 place a certain day long long ago, when my 
 childish fingers strove unsuccessfully with 
 a heavy twisted key, and a soft white hand 
 Avas laid over mine, on which a ruby glowed. 
 How the little motes had danced that day 
 in the sunshine, and how my innocent heart 
 had responded to the strange unknown 
 beauty and fascination of my great grand- 
 mother. 
 
168 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Lady Troubridge lifted out the trays one 
 by one — there were three in number — and 
 on the faded, crimson, velvet linings rested 
 more beautiful jewels than I had ever seen. 
 
 With each parure she had some remi- 
 niscence ; with each bright gem some story 
 of youthful triumph or disappointment. 
 
 The first tray held a necklace and tiara 
 of yellow topaz, set in heavy silver filigree. 
 Lady Troubridge touched them regretfully. 
 
 “These were my father’s gift, Ann Trues- 
 dale, for the great ball at the Governor 
 Gage’s house in Boston. All said ’twas 
 yielding to false pride to dress Pen Dudley 
 in such a fashion ; her face was brown and 
 not over handsome. Aye, but, Ann, I wot 
 the yellow jewels looked fair seemly on a 
 round throat, and neither young Phil Trou- 
 bridge nor my father found them amiss in 
 my black hair.” 
 
 She lifted the next tray, and here lay a 
 parure of emeralds. The old lady laughed. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 169 
 
 “ See these green stones, Ann ? Nay, 
 but they were the cause of a rare quarrel 
 betwixt Anais and me. ’Twas father 
 again who gave them, and ’twas Anais 
 who laughed in her scornful fashion, as 
 she asked which ’twas they represented, 
 ‘ Phil Troubridge’s jealousy, or my eyes 
 when in a passion ? ’ then she flung the 
 necklet about her own white throat and 
 said, £ such jewels were fit only for one 
 who wedded a title.’ I was rare angry, and 
 caught at the gems as they lay about her 
 neck, but a soft hand touched mine, and a 
 gentle voice said, ‘ Nay, Tais, nay, Pen, why 
 . wrangle so ? Beauty is the gift of our 
 dear Lord, he who misuses it dishonours 
 Him who gave it,’ and the voice that said 
 this, was the voice of little Dot.” 
 
 I started violently, and the necklace that 
 I held fell from my shaking hand, its green 
 lights flashing in the sun. 
 
 “ Little Dot ! ” I repeated. “ Oh, Lady 
 
170 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Troubridge, can you tell me of little 
 Dot?” 
 
 The old lady looked at me curiously. 
 
 “ And what do you know of Dot, Ann 
 'Truesdale?” she asked sharply. 
 
 I told her then of the two portraits, 
 and my discovery of the fragmentary diary, 
 and the miniature of the young officer, with 
 his bright eyes and open brow, and of the 
 crest and motto engraved upon the gold; 
 but of the curl of brown hair, wrapped in 
 silken tissue, I said nothing. There were 
 some chords too highly set to bear the 
 touch of Lady Troubridge’s cynicism. 
 
 She watched me intently while I spoke, • 
 but made no answer when I finished. Her 
 dark eyes seemed to look upon another 
 scene than that revealed to me. 
 
 I waited patiently for several moments 
 before I ventured to lay my hand on hers 
 and ask softly, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 171 
 
 “ Dear Lady Troubiidge, you knew little 
 Dot ; tell me, was she happy ? ” 
 
 There came a faint trembling about the 
 stern lips, and the only tears I ever saw 
 dim those brave black eyes welled up as 
 she answered in a low, inward voice, 
 
 “Was little Dot happy? Child, I have 
 not ceased to ask myself that same ques- 
 tion for eighty long years, and my answer 
 has not come yet. I should not have 
 counted myself among the happy ones had 
 my fate been as hers. But I do not know, 
 I do not know; with little Dot, the more 
 she gave, the less she got in return, the 
 better pleased she seemed. I told you once, 
 I mind me, that one person only knew the 
 truth regarding Anais, and that one was 
 little Dot. But to shake her loyalty where 
 Tais was concerned would have required 
 greater torture than even the primia or the 
 rack of Spain could inflict.” 
 
172 
 
 OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 Lady Troubridge paused. Again I 
 waited before I asked, 
 
 “ And did sbe suffer because she 
 loved ? ” 
 
 But tbe old lady’s mood was changing, 
 and she answered in her old short way, 
 
 “ Surely, Ann Truesdale. Who is 
 without suffering and deception ? I’d 
 fain know if any mortal can so roll 
 himself in cotton-wool as to be deaf 
 and dumb to, what Will Shakespeare calls, 
 the slings and arrows of outrageous 
 fortune ? I trow not, Ann, and Dorothy 
 doubtless learned her lesson indifferently 
 well, as we all did in those old days. 
 Here, gather up the emeralds, and lift this 
 last tray, there is something of interest 
 beneath.” 
 
 I silently obeyed. 
 
 The bottom of the jewel-box held but 
 one case. It was covered in green leather, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 1 73 
 
 somewhat worn, stamped in gilt in the 
 form of a coronet, a boar’s head, and a 
 twisted cipher beneath the motto “ True;” 
 these were all embossed upon its flat 
 surface. 
 
 This crest and legend was the same 
 as that upon the back of the little minia- 
 ture. 
 
 Lady Trowbridge opened the case and 
 laid it before me. I could not refrain 
 from a cry of admiration. 
 
 On the green velvet rested a circlet of 
 magnificent diamonds, single stones, but 
 matched with extreme exactitude in size 
 and colour. Their setting was a light rim 
 of silver, so that as they rested on their 
 bed they seemed to cling together by 
 some invisible agency. There they lay, 
 shooting out long lines of iridescent 
 light, as if sentient and aware of their 
 faultless beauty. 
 
174 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 I clasped my hands and fell on my 
 knees before them. 
 
 I had never thought, never dreamed, 
 never realized that anything could be so 
 faultless and so dazzling that was not 
 instinct with life. 
 
 I looked up at Lady Troubridge ; 
 she was watching me with an expression 
 half - triumphant, half - reproachful. She 
 answered my unspoken question in her 
 ordinary voice. 
 
 “ So, Ann Truesdale, thou too feelest 
 the spell. Thou art not the first who 
 gazed eyes and heart away over these rare 
 gems.” 
 
 She leaned forward slightly. 
 
 “ See, child, they belonged to Anais, 
 and from the moment they clasped her 
 fair throat her punishment began. Now 
 listen to me, Ann Truesdale. I told you it 
 was time I put my affairs in order. I 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 175 
 
 have shown you these jewels because they 
 are my legacy to you. The diamonds 
 should be yours by right ; you are Anais’ 
 great-grandchild, and often have a trick 
 of her about your eyes. As to the other 
 baubles, I ask thee to accept them from 
 me. I am a very old woman, Ann, but 
 not too old to feel affection and gratitude 
 for the young heart that has cheered me 
 in my last days. Nay then, child, take 
 them, if for no other reason than that 
 once I judged Anais harshly, and who 
 knows when one casts a stone how deep 
 the hurt may prove. Shut up the gems, 
 Ann ; I am very weary ; there, lock them 
 all away and take the key. The box and 
 all it contains is yours.” 
 
 But before laying back the green case 1 
 called her attention to the crest and motto, 
 and asked an explanation. 
 
 “ Some other time,” she said irritably; 
 
176 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ I can talk no more now. Call tlie 
 squire, Ann, and give him back the 
 casket.” 
 
 All that evening Lady Troubridge talked 
 of the past, and the squire listened with 
 that rare patience that is only acquired by 
 those who live constantly in the presence 
 of old age, for whom the present holds no 
 interest in its daily chronicle, and whose 
 whole existence is bound up in scenes 
 whose glory and brilliancy shine so much 
 fairer because set about by memory’s 
 magic gilding. 
 
 I fell asleep that night almost as soon 
 as my head touched the pillow, and I slept 
 soundly ; not a dream nor a vision from 
 out the invisible world disturbed me, and I 
 awoke as suddenly into perfect conscious- 
 ness of my surroundings. 
 
 The grey light in the east was gradually 
 filling my chamber, and one by one the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 177 
 
 familiar objects in my room became dimly 
 visible. Presently outside my door I beard 
 an uneasy sighing, accompanied by a 
 monotonous thump, thump. I recognized 
 the sound as belonging to Laddie, who 
 slept upon the mat without, and whose 
 restless soul, when disturbed, was wont to 
 show its emotions by a dull, unceasing 
 thud of his tail. 
 
 I got up and opened the door; there 
 sat my dog, his yellow eyes shining like 
 little flames in the darkness. As I 
 stooped to lay my hand upon him, he' 
 raised his head and gave vent to a low,, 
 long, dismal wail. At that moment, 
 down the corridor, I saw coming hastily 
 towards me Lady Troubridge’s maid. 
 I stood quite still ; suddenly and without 
 premonition I knew why she sought me. 
 
 “ I will come,” I said in ansAver to her 
 message, and then with trembling fingers 
 
 VOL. r. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 bound up my hair and put on my dressing- 
 gown. "When I entered Lady Troubridge’s 
 room I was quite calm. The curtains were 
 drawn back, and the windows thrown 
 open. All along the horizon a pale gleam 
 of amber was visible; in the sky above 
 the stars gleamed, reflected in the sea’s 
 mirror beneath. 
 
 Lady Troubridge lay upon her bed, 
 raised high with pillows ; from off her 
 pallid face her white hair was gathered 
 loosely beneath the frill of lace that shaded 
 it ; her hands fell listlessly ; her eyes were 
 closed. At her side knelt the squire, his 
 quiet face wearing a look of trouble, one 
 hand resting on that of his mother. 
 
 Silently I approached him, and fell on 
 my knees, my eyes, like his, fixed upon 
 the calm, unemotional face before us. 
 
 The amber in the east gave place to a 
 pale, pink shade ; a thrush awaked in the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 179 
 
 beech-tree beneath the window, and uttered 
 soft sweet notes of melody ; the sea 
 rippling up upon the sands, sounded 
 afar off. 
 
 Lady Troubridge opened her eyes and 
 oolced at us with the strange intent gaze 
 of the dying. She moved her hand feebly 
 and with difficulty, touching first the bowed 
 head of her son and then mine. A clearer 
 light came in her eyes ; a rush of colour 
 to her cheeks. 
 
 “ Lift me up,” she said. 
 
 The squire raised her in his arms ; she 
 gave a short sigh. 
 
 “ Ann,” she said again quite clearly, “ I 
 have no time to tell you now; the night 
 cometh, my dear. Child, there was much 
 to say, but now it is too late. See to it, 
 Ann, and thou wilt find help from my 
 son.” 
 
 Then she was still, and the light in the 
 
180 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 east grew golden. Suddenly she cried out 
 with great distinctness, 
 
 “ Little Dot, dear little Dot, forgive 
 me!” 
 
 She sank back heavily upon her son’s 
 shoulder, over her face an expression of 
 deep peace reigned, the eyelids quivered, 
 the moisture gathered on her temples, her 
 hands dropped slowly. Old Lady Trou- 
 bridge’s spirit had passed from us ; it 
 was only her frail form that her son 
 supported. 
 
 Suddenly in the east the sun burst forth 
 in glad uprising as once more, — 
 
 “ Upon the limits far withdrawn, 
 
 God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.” 
 
 Later in the day, when all that was 
 mortal of my old friend lay robed in burial 
 garments, I wandered down to the sea- 
 washed sands. 
 
 It was evening now, and the golden 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 181 
 
 splendour of sunrise had faded into the 
 paler beauty of dying colours. Beyond 
 me lay the peaceful country bathed in 
 twilight glamour, and above me stretched 
 a sky of fairest opal tints, while, — 
 
 “ Only the lone surge at my feet, 
 
 Utter’d a soothing murmur sweet, 
 
 As every broken, weary wave 
 Sank gently to a quiet grave, 
 
 Dying on the bosom of the sea ; 
 
 And death grew beautiful to me. 
 
182 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Sevekal weeks had passed, and Oldtown 
 was settling down into its usual calm 
 routine, out of which it had been rudely 
 shaken by old Lady Troubridge’s death. 
 Like all things that have become habit to 
 us, her presence had been regarded as 
 that of a sinecurist, against which none 
 of the ills or accidents of lesser mortals 
 could prevail. 
 
 Far beyond the knowledge of the 
 majority of Oldtown’s inhabitants did her 
 memory extend, and not one of Oldtown’s 
 people, rich or poor, high or low, but knew 
 her tiny figure, her upright bearing, her 
 waxen face and keen dark eyes. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 183 
 
 She was their one cherished tradition ; 
 loved yet feared ; admired, respected, and 
 in a humble, deprecatory manner imitated ; 
 their one existing link between a past 
 that gained brilliancy by reminiscence, and. 
 a present that seemed commonplace by 
 comparison. 
 
 And now her place was vacant ; her 
 presence no longer with us ; her figure 
 already become one of memory only. 
 
 The golden bowl was broken ; the silver 
 cord severed ; she, whom we venerated as 
 all-powerful, had succumbed to the bidding 
 of One who is omnipotent ; and Oldtown 
 learned the lesson that when He calls, not 
 one on all this fair and pleasant earth 
 dare delay. 
 
 Nay, then, indeed is all their life become 
 but labour and care, and all their days but 
 few and evil, unless, with loins girded and 
 feet shod, they have awaited with listening 
 
184 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ears their summons home. Thrice happy 
 they, who so listening and so waiting, hear 
 the soft whisper : “ The night is far spent, 
 the day is at hand ; arise, let us go hence ”! 
 
 All that was mortal of Lady Troubridge 
 was laid with tender care within the church- 
 yard, over whose path her feet had often 
 passed ; in happy girlish impatience, in 
 stately womanhood, in dignified old age. 
 Side by side were the graves of her hus- 
 band — the young Phil Troubridge of her 
 youth — and of her children, who, one by 
 one, had crossed the dark river before her ; 
 and now her own long pilgrimage was 
 ended, and the kindly earth welcomed her 
 to its dreamless sleep and rest. 
 
 Friends stood about her grave, and all 
 the country-side, from far and near, came 
 to pay her their last homage. The squire 
 stood, uncovered, alone by the bier as it 
 rested on the green sward ; a slight, tall 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 185 
 
 figure, whose deep mourning rendered the 
 more impressive, and threw into stronger 
 relief, the fine delicate face, on which the 
 years of patience and endurance had left 
 such pathetic lines. 
 
 He was the last of the Dudley race, and 
 in him the fires of pride and tyranny, des- 
 potism and courage, seemed to have burnt 
 out their fierceness, and to have replaced 
 their sterner qualities by charity and un 
 selfishness, justice and gentleness. 
 
 With him the old name would die, but 
 with him be remembered with honour and 
 regret. 
 
 Sadly I left the Hall, after my last offices 
 to her who was now numbered no more 
 among the living. 
 
 The tie thus severed had become strangely 
 interwoven with my thread of destiny; 
 the life thus ended had connected mine in 
 daily intercourse with that other life whose 
 
186 
 
 OLD liOSTON. 
 
 mysterious history, more than ever now, T 
 desired to penetrate ; the heart thus stilled 
 had known and loved Anais ; the mind thus 
 darkened had judged and sentenced her. 
 
 All the more difficult then appeared my 
 task, because single-handed now I beat 
 upon the sealed door of the past, and vainly 
 bade it open to me. 
 
 Very pleasant looked my home when I 
 returned to it that September evening, and 
 very soothing was the greeting I received 
 to my over-steamed nerves. Laddie of 
 course accompanied me, and we walked 
 slowly and sadly together in the twilight. 
 My dog knew I was troubled, so he made 
 no effort to leave my side ; now and then 
 he touched my ungloved hand with his 
 warm, rough tongue, as gently as any 
 lover, or pressed his head against me in 
 mute but sure sympathy. 
 
 “Ah, Laddie,” I cried, “what is this 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 187 
 
 mystery men call death ? What is this 
 other life beyond the grave ? Shall we be 
 happy there ? And shall all the crooked 
 ways be made plain ; all the burning tears 
 wiped away from weary eyes ? ” 
 
 I did not see the squire before leaving. 
 I had gone down to the sea, and when I 
 returned he had sought his library and 
 remained invisible. I was sorry for this ; 
 I should have liked to assure him of my 
 sympathy, for not a word had passed 
 between us by that death-bed ; I had 
 silently withdrawn and left him with his 
 dead. 
 
 No one will ever know how close was 
 the tie between those two reserved natures ; 
 or how deep was the love that existed in 
 their hearts. The old, stern, puritan 
 training of repression had subdued any 
 outward expression, and the squire seemed 
 little changed to a careless eye ; but I 
 
188 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 looked below the surface and read more 
 truly the sorrow and desolation the death 
 of his mother had brought to his heart. 
 
 Amanda welcomed me with outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 “Dear heart, Miss Ann; but you do 
 look sore whisht ! And so my lady’s gone ? 
 Poor soul ! But it’s only what we all must 
 come to — death in life, Ann — and few there 
 be that air ready. Come ye in, my dear, 
 you’re needing care yourself terrible bad.” 
 
 Homely words, but precious from the 
 tone of love that sounded in them. 
 
 Taking Amanda’s hands in mine, 1 kissed 
 her, and then, as much to my surprise as 
 hers, burst into tears. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 189 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Octobee was waning, and November close 
 upon us ; and one morning as I stepped 
 about briskly, gathering my few late roses, 
 and cutting off dead leaves and withered 
 buds, that not even the treacherous warmth 
 of Indian summer could bring to maturity, 
 I sang an old refrain, only two lines, with 
 that absent repetition of the lips, in which 
 neither heart nor mind take any part. 
 
 “ Since first I saw thy face, I resolved 
 To honour and renown thee,” 
 
 I sang over and over, and between each 
 pause I snipped off a leaf or bud. Laddie, 
 from the doorstep, regarded me with in- 
 
190 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 dulgent urbanity, while Pop hopped and 
 flew about in a fever of happiness and 
 bustle, striving to pick up and hide each 
 discarded bud as it fell from my destroying 
 scissors. The sun was bright, the air 
 warm, a rare day in a true St. Martin’s 
 summer. 
 
 It owns many names, this season of 
 strange return to summer heat and colour- 
 ing, veiled by a certain mist of tender regret, 
 as if fair Ceres, struck by remorse, gave 
 back to us a few short weeks from out her 
 garnered bounty, in which to recount all 
 the glad days of generous sunshine and 
 bountiful luxuriance, we have let pass by, 
 unheeding- and unthankful. 
 
 In Italy it is dedicated to our Lady, in 
 France to St. Martin, and here we call it 
 Indian summer; but its message is the 
 same to all hearts : “ Make haste and garner 
 up what you can from out these fleeting 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 191 
 
 days, for tlieir span is short, and close 
 treading on their footsteps comes winter, 
 with its iron-shod feet, its snow-bound 
 horizon, its garment of mourning and 
 desolation.” 
 
 So I sang, and so I thought, unheeding 
 aught about me, intent only on my work. 
 
 Presently Pop called out shrilly his 
 warning note, “ Look ! look ! ” and Laddie 
 rose and moved his tail lazily, and then a 
 shadow fell along my path. I turned 
 quickly, and, shading my eyes with my 
 hand for I was bare-headed, saw the 
 squire waiting at my garden-gate. 
 
 In a moment how vividly it came back to 
 me, where and how I had last seen him : 
 standing with uncovered head, beside his 
 mother’s open grave. 
 
 I dropped my gardening tools, and 
 moved towards him with outstretched 
 hand and words of honest welcome. 
 
192 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 He looked quite like his old self again, 
 the more so that he wore his customary 
 broad-brimmed hat, and carried his neat 
 umbrella. 
 
 He smiled as I greeted him, and his 
 always easily roused colour flushed his 
 face as he took my hand. 
 
 “ Thank you, Miss Ann,” he said in his 
 simple, direct fashion ; “ it is also a pleasure 
 to be so amiably welcomed by you. I have 
 been away, absent — necessarily absent — 
 upon business concerns, otherwise neither 
 of you should have been so long neglected.” 
 
 Neither of us. Then he too classed me 
 with Anais, and like his mother drew closer 
 the chain of her life about me. 
 
 We walked up the garden-path together, 
 and entered the green drawing-room side 
 by side. I noticed then he held in his left 
 hand a square, sealed package, this he laid 
 down, with his hat, before he went forward 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 193 
 
 to pay his homage to my great grand- 
 mother. Again I noted the colour dye his 
 face, and again a gentle radiance gather in 
 his eyes. He turned with the same fami- 
 liar, deprecatory little movement, and re- 
 peated in the same carefully lowered voice, 
 
 “ She does not change. Age cannot 
 wither her. She grows younger year by 
 year.” 
 
 Then, with another little wave of his 
 hand, he stepped back from the picture to 
 my side and said, 
 
 “ I have something for you, Miss Ann, 
 from my mother.” 
 
 He took up the packet and broke the 
 seals, first bidding me note that they were 
 untampered with. The paper unfolded, I 
 saw the green leather case, stamped with 
 crest and motto, that had held the dia- 
 monds. He opened the case. and the jewels 
 flashed out upon me. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Holding them in his hand, he spoke to 
 me more earnestly than ever before. 
 
 “ It was my dear mother’s wish, Miss 
 Ann, that these gems should pass into 
 your possession, not so much as a gift 
 from her, but by right of your birth and 
 lineage. You have the He Grasse blood in 
 your veins, and these diamonds pass from 
 generation to generation in the female line. 
 Her own jewels, my mother most wisely 
 asked you to accept as a slight token of 
 her esteem and regard, and they shall be 
 sent to you, but these I desired to place in 
 your hands myself.” 
 
 He handed them to me, and I took them 
 silently. 
 
 The squire turned from me and walked 
 to the window. 
 
 A fair prospect lay before him of meadow- 
 lands and grain-fields, their harvest reaped 
 and garnered now, only the black crows 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 195 
 
 walking about sedately, seeking in a 
 haughty, arrogant manner for some stray 
 kernel of wheat or corn. Beyond, to the 
 right, were the maple-woods, all one bril- 
 liant maze of flame-colour ; having donned 
 their proud autumn livery in a single night, 
 when a sudden sharp frost changed their 
 dull greens, of late summer, into vivid 
 scarlet and deep crimson, pale gold and 
 tawny orange. In the far distance a faint 
 gleam of grey marked the sea, and at his 
 feet my garden bloomed gaily in all the 
 bravery of its dying colours. The sun 
 shone over all, and what was cold or 
 dull, dead or decaying, waked to fresh 
 life and new brilliance under its magic 
 touch. 
 
 I stood quite still, holding in my hands 
 the open case of diamonds, and as the sun 
 struck across them they shot out long, 
 straight flashes of light. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Presently the squire came back to me 
 and stood once more at my side. 
 
 “ You have a fair heritage, Miss Ann,” 
 he said, “ fair and goodly, and you make a 
 kind and gracious chatelaine. Ah, it is as 
 she would wish, I know, for she had a 
 generous heart, Miss Ann, and a grand 
 nature, capable of great heroism. Was it 
 her fault that those who guided her deve- 
 loped the weakest side of her tempera- 
 ment?” 
 
 I knew he was speaking of Anais, and I 
 feared to break the thread of his memories 
 by any jarring word, so I answered very 
 quietly, 
 
 “ You who know her so well, know best 
 how much she was sinned against, and how 
 much she sinned. We who judge by our 
 narrow code of to-day, would doubtless fail 
 to weigh justly either her temptations or 
 their consequences.” 
 
OLD BOSTON". 
 
 197 
 
 “ True, very true,” lie replied gravely, 
 “ and, if I may add, most loyally and most 
 justly spoken. Miss Ann, allow me to say, 
 that my respect for you deepens into 
 admiration.” 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and coloured 
 vividly. 
 
 Poor Squire Troubridge ! How his shy 
 nature must have recoiled to find that 
 once again his chivalry had run away 
 with his discretion, to the extent of 
 another compliment paid to me. 
 
 He recovered himself and continued, 
 
 “ You remember, Miss Ann, what my 
 dear mother said upon her death-bed; 
 how she repented that her time was then 
 indeed too short to remove, if only in 
 part, the burden of calumny that her 
 years of silence had allowed to rest upon 
 a fair fame and a fair face. You have 
 not forgotten her cry for forgiveness, and 
 
198 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 you must also remember that it was to 
 you she turned as the instrument by 
 which all her mistakes, her errors, her 
 injuries were to be rectified. In this work, 
 she paid me the tribute of association with 
 you, and in this capacity I present myself 
 before you to-day. I bring you certain 
 papers, letters, and diaries that may be of 
 use to you in the mission thus made your 
 privilege to complete. There are many 
 more needed to connect the links of cir- 
 cumstance, but I shall find them and 
 bring them to you; when you, Miss Ann, 
 will have but to bring to bear that strong 
 sense of right, that desire for justice, that 
 beautiful pity and leniency of judgment, 
 which we — my mother and I — so early 
 recognized in your character, to restore to 
 all who loved her, the vindicated memory 
 of Anais de Grasse.” , 
 
 He again paused, much agitated. He 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 199 
 
 walked hastily towards the window, hut 
 turned ere reaching it and reapproached 
 me. His face was pale now, and all the 
 faint lines graven on it by time’s finger 
 seemed curiously visible in the strong 
 noonday sun. His hands trembled slightly 
 as he sought his coat-pocket for the papers 
 he had spoken of ; these were also securely 
 sealed in an outer cover, and addressed to 
 me in the squire’s peculiarly minute and 
 legible handwriting. 
 
 As he handed them to me, he looked 
 wistfully into my eyes — wistfully and 
 searchingly. He touched my fingers lightly 
 with his unsteady ones. 
 
 “ Be gentle to her,” he said, in that 
 curious inward voice in which he always 
 spoke of Anais. “ Be very gentle, Miss 
 Ann, remember she was a woman — and an 
 exceedingly beautiful woman. Beauty and 
 frailty, we are told, go together, and we know 
 
200 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 how often the fatal gift does bring its 
 Nemesis ; but not for her, on my word as 
 a gentleman, that reproach can never 
 be brought against her. To you then is 
 committed, from out the grave, the 
 privilege of securing to her a tardy 
 justice.” 
 
 He lifted my hand to his lips, bowing 
 over it graciously, and before I could col- 
 lect myself to reply, was out of the room 
 and treading, with noiseless swift steps, 
 the well-worn path across the fields ; as 
 his figure disappeared I roused myself, and 
 with a start came back to my surround- 
 ings. 
 
 In my hands lay the diamonds and the 
 sealed packet. 
 
 At last my fingers touched closely upon 
 that other life that always, since my baby- 
 hood, had held me in its fateful fascination. 
 At last I held the key to all this century of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 201 
 
 mystery; and at last my hand was to open 
 out that drama of intrigue, deceit, and 
 ambition. 
 
 I looked at the dazzling stones. How 
 they must have gleamed and scintillated 
 about the fair, long throat of Anais. 
 
 “ When first these gems clasped her 
 neck, her punishment began;” so old 
 Lady Troubridge had said when she gave 
 them to me. 
 
 But what was that punishment, and 
 when did it begin, in all those long, silent 
 years of the past; and how came the 
 jewels into Lady Troubridge’ s keeping, and 
 what was the tale she longed to unfold, 
 only that the night of death had come to 
 her unawares ? 
 
 I walked slowly across the room and 
 stood again beneath the portraits. I 
 rested my glance coolly and critically upon 
 my great grandmother’s face. Yes, she 
 
202 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 was very beautiful, with a superb richness 
 of colour, and a pure grace of line and 
 curve, not often seen in living form. 
 
 “Be gentle,” the squire had said, 
 “ be very gentle to her, for she was a 
 woman.” 
 
 Then why at that moment, as he spoke, 
 should I remember so clearly and distinctly 
 the last, short, appealing cry of old Lady 
 Troub ridge : “ Little Dot, dear little Dot, 
 forgive me ! ” 
 
 I closed the jewel-case thoughtfully, and 
 again its crest and motto, with the twisted 
 cipher, caught my attention. 
 
 Ah ! what treachery lay hidden here ? 
 Had the young officer, with his open 
 brow and honest eyes, played false to little 
 Dot ? Had she too learned the lesson, only 
 too well known to women, of hiding a 
 broken heart beneath a gay jest or bril- 
 liant smile ? And had she too died with 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 203 
 
 the wreck of life’s choicest treasures 
 strewn thick across her path ? 
 
 But the two sweet girl-faces above me 
 gave back no answer to my questions, and 
 all in vain I strove to read the secrets 
 of their smiling lips and earnest, fearless 
 eyes. 
 
 And now there lies before me the re- 
 cord of these two lives. I give it to you 
 in all its weakness and all its strength. 
 It has been the work of months, and it 
 will be read in as many hours ; dismissed, 
 maybe, with half a laugh and half a 
 sigh, or condemned with even scantier 
 grace; but to some one soul, in all this 
 world of toilers, it may bring a word of 
 hope, a thought of encouragement, a 
 whisper of a higher life beyond this, where 
 we, who sit with eyes blinded by tears, 
 and hands clasped in mute agony, may 
 
204 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 read and learn, the justice and the mercy 
 of Him who doeth all things well. 
 
 In thus setting before you this tale of 
 a hundred years ago, I have thought 
 best to write it as if it was the present, 
 and wherever it was possible, I have 
 given the very words of those who took 
 part in all its shifting scenes. 
 
 There have been many blanks to fill, and 
 many discrepancies to make plain, and as I 
 look at the written pages, I feel that, after 
 all, I have but ill succeeded in my work. 
 Yet it must go forth ; for each life bears 
 in its keeping the germ of another, and 
 he who stays his hand from planting this 
 seed, may rob the world of a hero and 
 heaven of a saint. 
 
 It is then in the spring of 1775 that I 
 take up the chronicle so abruptly broken 
 off by little Dot. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 205 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 One balmy morning in the beginning of 
 the month of May, in the year 1775, a 
 young girl stood in the open door of 
 Manor Farm. She was tall and slight, 
 with a certain buoyant, yet modest, 
 carriage that marked her as fleet of 
 foot, and agile in all feminine pursuits. 
 Her face was beautiful; and yet it was 
 not so much the loveliness of colour or of 
 form that most impressed one — though 
 neither of these attributes was lacking 
 in her countenance — as it was the expres- 
 sion of extreme purity and innocence, 
 mingled with strength and decision, that 
 pervaded it. 
 
206 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Perhaps it was the finely-cut lips, or 
 firmly-modelled chin, or the clear outline 
 of forehead and temple that gave this 
 peculiar charm to the youthful face. Be 
 that as it may, the beauty of her counte- 
 nance was always lost sight of, by those 
 who loved her, in its nobleness. 
 
 She was dressed very simply, in the 
 fashion of France, mingled with the more 
 demure costume of puritan tradition. Her 
 gown was a flowered chintz, made over 
 a petticoat of dove-colour; the short- 
 waisted bodice cut low upon the pretty 
 girlish bosom, which, however, was 
 modestly veiled by a muslin neckerchief 
 tucked into the waistband, into whose soft 
 folds she had fastened a bunch of yellow 
 daffodils. Her waving brown hair was 
 drawn back from the low forehead and 
 gathered under a quaint little cap, whose 
 stiff, frilled border could not entirely con- 
 
OLD BOSTON*. 
 
 207 
 
 trol the soft, loose curls from falling over 
 the brow, and straying in little tendrils 
 down the back of her rounded throat. 
 
 In one hand she held an open letter — 
 one of those immensely long epistles in 
 which the news of the day, the gossip, 
 secular and ecclesiastical, political and 
 moral, was recounted, with additions from 
 the writer’s own fund of imagination. 
 
 This letter must have been an especially 
 sprightly one, for the maiden smiled as 
 she read, and once or twice broke into a 
 merry, happy laugh. 
 
 The young maiden was little Dot. 
 
 “ Hay, now, ’tis Tais’ own self,” she 
 cried as she finished the last page of the 
 closely -written sheet ; “I would stake my 
 best lace frills upon it, even if I heard 
 it blindfold and saw never a word of the 
 penmanship. Hone but my Tais could 
 e’er write in such a fashion ; so full of all 
 
208 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 her merry jibes and jests, and so mon- 
 strous quick withal to see beneath the fine 
 words and courtesies of all the gallant 
 messieurs that flock about her. Is it not 
 so, Nanon?” she called out to some one 
 within the great hall ; “ is not my Tais the 
 most spirituelle and the most beautiful of 
 all the grandes dames who crowd the 
 Governor Gage’s salons ? ” 
 
 The person thus adjured came from out 
 the inner hall and stood beside the girl in 
 the open door. She was an old French- 
 woman, with her nationality written in 
 every line of her strong face and every 
 fold of her costume. She was tall and 
 very upright, and wore the elaborate cap 
 of her province, made of rare old lace, with 
 the gold pins and a single row of gold 
 beads about her throat, that marked her 
 lineage as surely as any heirloom of greater 
 value. No Bretonne wore these ornaments 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 209 
 
 save by descent, and only when honour- 
 ably wedded. 
 
 She was taller than her young mistress, 
 and as they stood together she looked 
 down upon the fair face with an expression 
 of infinite tenderness. 
 
 “ Ya-t’en, m’zelle,” she said in the 
 familiar vernacular of childhood, “ Thou 
 go’st too fast. M’zelle Anais is most, 
 beautiful, ’tis not to be denied — but — 
 spirituelle — eh, bonne Yierge, I know of' 
 one who wears more grace in her little- 
 finger, than M’zelle Tais in her whole 
 body.” 
 
 Dot made a small grimace. 
 
 “ Now, Nanon, thou art not just. Thou 
 always seem’st to think that to say a fair 
 word for my Tais, is to rob me of one. 
 As if I would not give ma soeur all my 
 share of love, and think it not sufficient.” 
 
 “ Tiens, tiens,” replied old Nanon, in 
 
 VOL i. 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 no wise ruffled by this indignation. “ Go 
 not so fast at first, ma biche ; he who 
 starts with a run returns with a halt. 
 M’zelle Tais is fair and seemly, and I take 
 nought from any one when I give her 
 praise for beauty and for grace.” 
 
 “ I know not why it is, Nanon, you do 
 not love ma soeur,” said the girl slowly, 
 and a little sadly. “ It often seems to me 
 that no one really loves her save I, her 
 little sister, and even she does not know 
 what my love is.” 
 
 The old woman made no response. Her 
 shrewd brown eyes turned from the face 
 beside her and looked out over the prim 
 garden-borders, already breaking forth 
 in the yellows and purples of the early 
 spring flowers. Her withered hands were 
 folded over her fine muslin apron, whose 
 straight, narrow folds, from band to hem, 
 terminated in an edge of antique lace. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 211 
 
 The rose-tree, above their heads, waved 
 gently in the soft breeze ; in the stillness 
 of the early morning, the in-coming sea- 
 tide broke with a faint, distant sound 
 against the harbour-steps. 
 
 There was silence between them for 
 several moments. 
 
 The girl folded up her letter and put it 
 in the reticule that hung from her belt. 
 Her face was troubled, and a mist gathered 
 before her eyes. Her heart was a very 
 tender one, and it was wounded when those 
 she cherished most seemed slighted. Yet, 
 after all, this quarrel was an old-time affair 
 between herself and Hanon, who never 
 could be got to admit that Anais was 
 superior in anything to her own M’zelle 
 Dot ; but though the point was a mooted 
 one between them, Dorothy could never 
 refrain from pointing out Nanon’s mistakes 
 in this particular, or from using all her 
 r 2 
 
212 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sweet logic to enforce an affirmation from 
 her in Anais’ behalf. 
 
 Presently the old woman said, without 
 turning her face, 
 
 “ Ce jeune monsieur will make his 
 descent to-day, to express to m’zelle his 
 remerciments for her bounty and goodness.” 
 
 The girl’s face flushed with a sudden 
 vivid wave of colour, that sank as soon as 
 roused. 
 
 “He will come down — to-day — ce 
 pauvre jeune gentilhomme ? Hay, Nation, 
 but thou art provoking. Why not tell 
 me this at once, and not hide within thy 
 heart this brave news ? ” 
 
 “ Bien, m’zelle,” answered the old 
 woman dryly, “ I am not so sure ’twill 
 
 prove brave news when all is said and 
 
 * 
 
 done. Those whom we shelter we pity, 
 and those whom we pity we — . Ya-t’en, I 
 make but foolish speeches for young ears. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 213 
 
 See, m’zelle, it grows on to nine o’clock, 
 and thou hast not arranged thy flowers 
 nor read thine Office, and thou hast always 
 thy music and thy tambour-work to 
 practise, and thy study of the English 
 literature to make ; and I have the compotes 
 and the comfits to prepare for m’zelle’s 
 dinner. Go, mon enfant, and fret not thy 
 heart that thy old Nanon loves best the 
 child of her bosom ; thy soeur has many 
 lovers, and thou mayest one day learn that 
 the old hearts love the tenderest.” 
 
 The girl threw her arms about the 
 brown throat, and laid her fresh cheek 
 against the wrinkled one. 
 
 “ Thou art a foolish Nanon to think I 
 love thee not. See, then, what should I 
 do without thee ? I only vex myself 
 that thou knowest not my Tais even 
 as I do, then thou too would’st love her 
 best.” 
 
214 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 So with a light step and free heart little 
 Dot flew off, within the house, to begin the 
 routine of the simple daily duties and 
 pleasures, that made up the sum of her 
 hitherto uneventful life. Nanon stood a 
 moment longer, her eyes following the 
 retreating figure ; her lips moved. 
 
 “ Heaven grant she may never lose her 
 love,” she murmured, “ nor her faith. 
 Bonne Mere de Dieu, guard well thy child, 
 for in the future my old eyes see storms 
 and, maybe, shipwreck ; but not for her — 
 oh, ma mere, not for mon enfant cherie !” 
 
 Then she too moved away, and the 
 waving rose-tree, playing with the sun- 
 beams, cast flickering lights and shadows 
 across the spot where Dot’s young feet 
 had rested. 
 
 The day passed on towards noon, each 
 hour signalled from the tall clock whose 
 restless little ship upon the dial-plate 
 
OLD BOSTON. 215 
 
 tossed to and fro ceaselessly. The great 
 hall lay in silence and shade ; through the 
 open door a sunbeam ventured timidly, 
 and cast a long ray over the high oak 
 book-cases, and across the polished floor. 
 The fire burned low in the cradle; the 
 only sound heard was the occasional 
 knocking of the rose-tree against the 
 lintel, as the May wind moved its branches 
 up and down. 
 
 Into this silence and desertion, down 
 the shallow uncarpeted staircase, a figure 
 advanced, half hidden in the dark corners 
 where the landings broke the winding 
 steps. As it came nearer, moving in a 
 slow, helpless fashion, the light from the 
 high staircase-window revealed a hand- 
 some face, save for the pallor of recent 
 illness, and a distinguished presence 
 wearing the scarlet uniform of an officer 
 in the King’s Own. 
 
216 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 With faltering steps, steadied by a 
 stout stick and the handrail, the young 
 man completed his somewhat perilous 
 journey and reached the open door with- 
 out mishap. Seen in the strong sun- 
 light, he looked ill and worn, but exceed- 
 ingly handsome. 
 
 He stood for a few moments, letting the 
 soft breeze blow caressingly across his 
 head and face. In a listless way he re- 
 cognized the spot upon which his eyes 
 rested, and noted in a lazy fashion the 
 changes that the weeks of rapidly advanc- 
 ing spring had made in the landscape, 
 since that evening when he, so weak and 
 spent, had come from out the wood, and 
 fallen at the feet of a ministering angel. 
 
 He shaded his eyes with his hand, 
 grown thin and delicate during his long 
 imprisonment, and looked about him 
 curiously. All nature was very still ; not 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 217 
 
 even a bird sang in this silent, noonday 
 hour. With a half-impatient sigh the 
 young man turned from the peaceful 
 scene, and as he did so the faint sound of 
 a harpsichord floated out into the warm 
 air ; it was a plaintive melody, played in 
 a delicate, gentle manner that bespoke 
 feminine fingers. Presently a sweet young 
 voice thrilled out the words of a French 
 hymn. 
 
 The officer smiled slightly. 
 
 “ It is her voice,” he murmured, and 
 then moved slowly to the low door, that 
 stood open, far down the hall. When he 
 reached this, he pushed it open further, 
 and looked within the apartment. It was 
 a long room, with narrow windows 
 forming the west front; the furniture was 
 new, in the elegant mode of the French 
 court, pale-green and white, with much 
 gilt. Two portraits hung upon the wall 
 
218 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 opposite the windows, and at an elabo- 
 rately carved and gilded harpsichord, sat 
 the seeming original of the two pictures. 
 
 The girl played on unheeding ; her little 
 melody of prayer and praise rising straight 
 from her heart to heaven. 
 
 She was unmindful of fate in any form, 
 whether clothed in a scarlet coat, or 
 adorned in less warlike properties. Over 
 her young spirit no grief as yet had passed, 
 leaving its shadow as a legacy, and over 
 her heart no stronger love had cast its 
 resistless spell, than the pure and innocent 
 one of sisterhood. Alike untried and un- 
 sullied, little Dot awaited the coming of 
 her destiny. 
 
 In his eagerness to behold more closely 
 this pretty creature, who sat so divinely 
 unconscious of his presence, the young 
 man moved within the door, and doing 
 so struck his stick sharply against the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 219 
 
 waxed floor. The sound startled the girl 
 from her abstraction, and caused her to 
 rise hastily with a hurried exclamation. 
 
 “ Pardon me, Mistress Dorothy, if I 
 have alarmed you,” the young officer 
 hastened to say, bowing low, with his 
 hand upon his heart. “ So fair a maiden 
 deserves a more gentle awakening from 
 her orisons than my awkward movement 
 occasioned.” 
 
 This elaborate speech and apology were 
 received with a stately and gracious 
 curtsey, accompanied by a sweet voice that 
 bade him kindly welcome — the sweetest 
 voice he thought that had ever sounded in 
 his ears. 
 
 “ Your entrance, monsieur, needs no 
 apology, since it marks your progress 
 towards recovery — a consummation we 
 have greatly wished, since first you came 
 to us, ill and wounded.” 
 
220 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ To be taken in and cared for, by an 
 angel, indeed. Faith, a man would gladly 
 risk a wound or two to insure their 
 tending by such delicate fingers.” 
 
 “ Nay, I tended not your wounds,” 
 she answered gravely ; “ it is to Nanon 
 you owe your thanks, monsieur.” 
 
 “ Mistress Dorothy is better versed in 
 giving, than in tending wounds, I doubt 
 not,” replied he in half-satiric accents. 
 “ Fair hands, like hers, toy easily with 
 fatal weapons.” 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur,” she answered more 
 gravely still ; “I trust you jest. My 
 hands have never willingly given pain to 
 any living creature, and as for weapons, 
 we need them not here, where all is 
 peaceful.” 
 
 “A flower for innocence,” he mur- 
 mured beneath his breath, “ and as sweet 
 a rose as ever bloomed for man’s rude 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 221 
 
 hand to gather.” Then aloud he said, 
 “ With your permission I will rest awhile ; 
 I find three weeks in bed but a sorry 
 restorer of one’s strength.” 
 
 At this appeal all the womanly instincts 
 of solicitude and hospitality rushed to the 
 fore in little Dot’s kind heart, and she 
 hastened to make her guest welcome and 
 comfortable in the easiest chair the room 
 afforded. 
 
 He seemed greatly fatigued, and sup- 
 ported his head upon his hand, closing his 
 eyes in utter weariness. 
 
 Dorothy stood before him, her face 
 lighted with a tender radiance. How pale, 
 how very pale he was, and how deep- 
 sunken were his eyes, and how bright 
 the brown hair that waved back from his 
 broad brow and that, guiltless of powder, 
 was gathered into a curled peruke tied 
 with a ribbon ; and how transparent were 
 
222 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 his hands, and how loosely the heavy 
 signet-ring hung upon his finger ! 
 
 “ Those whom we shelter we pity,” so 
 ISTanon had said, and surely she did pity 
 this brave young gentleman, with a pure 
 and honest compassion, worthy perhaps of 
 a better object. 
 
 He opened his eyes presently and saw 
 her standing before him with that sweet 
 light of solicitude upon her face, and he 
 smiled. 
 
 Like sudden sunlight, breaking over a 
 somewhat too colourless picture, was the 
 change wrought in his face when he 
 smiled ; all the stern or hard lines of lips 
 and chin relaxed ; the boldness of the eyes 
 became subdued in their honesty and fear- 
 lessness. At all times a frank, open 
 countenance, it became dangerously win- 
 ning when the glory of his smile rested 
 upon it. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 223 
 
 Little Dot felt the blood creep up her 
 throat and flood her cheeks until they 
 burned rosy-red beneath his glance. 
 
 With fine courtesy he did not heed her 
 glowing face, but evinced his easy fami- 
 liarity with the grand monde by drawing 
 her into a less constrained conversation 
 than the strict training and education of 
 the day often afforded, even to two such 
 youthful spirits as theirs, and during 
 which she grew both mirthful and uncon- 
 sciously bewitching. 
 
224 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 After the simple noonday meal, laid in the 
 great hall, was finished — at which little Dot 
 presided with gracious dignity, and Nanon 
 served, standing silent but watchful be- 
 hind her young mistress’s chair — they went 
 again into the green drawing-room. 
 
 The bright promise of the May morning 
 had failed, and the afternoon was gathering 
 in with grey clouds that looked heavy with 
 moisture and presaged a rainfall. 
 
 Dorothy drew her tambour-frame to one 
 of the windows, and, seating herself upon 
 the cushioned recess, began industriously to 
 ply her shining needle. In and out, over 
 and under, the bright point gleamed; and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 225 
 
 in and out, oyer and under, little Dot’s fair 
 hand and fingers followed, guiding its 
 movements with now a dexterous twist, and 
 now a subtle turn, while the tiny flowers 
 grew beneath her touch with magic swift- 
 ness. 
 
 The young officer watched her, leaning 
 lazily against the window-casing, and noted, 
 with pleased eyes, the shapely throat, the 
 rounded wrist, the finely poised head, and 
 the softly tinted curve of the cheek that 
 grew from pale to red beneath his gaze. 
 Further down the room sat Nanon, silent 
 but alert ; her thin brown fingers busy over 
 her lace-pillow, her head bent, but her 
 shrewd dark eyes taking in each turn and 
 change, each flush of shy pleasure, each 
 touch of happy laughter that visited her 
 child’s sweet face ; and noting also each 
 varying expression on the young man’s 
 countenance, from the goodnatured, lialf- 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 contemptuous admiration that it first re- 
 vealed, to the more earnest and respectful 
 one that gathered over it, as he watched 
 his pretty companion ; who, without one 
 touch of coquetry, displayed a charming- 
 grace of movement which many of the 
 belles, in the regent’s gay court, would 
 have given their favourite pas sent to 
 acquire. 
 
 An open book lay upon the broad win- 
 dow-sill, turned face down ; its binding 
 was a little rubbed and worn, as if often 
 used. Against this rested a bunch of spring 
 violets, fresh plucked, and sending forth 
 that delicious odour of earth and woodland 
 that only the wild flowers seem to possess. 
 
 “ Mistress Dorothy works with an ardour 
 that bespeaks her craft a pleasure rather 
 than a task,” said the young officer, his 
 eyes following the flying fingers that sped 
 so quickly and so deftly. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 227 
 
 “And wherefore not, monsieur,” an- 
 swered little Dot, “ since I work for one I 
 love ? ” 
 
 “ It should be a rarely favoured gallant 
 that can win such frank avowal of prefer- 
 ence from Mistress Dorothy’s reluctant 
 lips, and one much to be envied. But tell 
 me, what use will you make of this fine 
 maze of flowers and leaves embroidered 
 upon a substance as filmy as a butterfly’s 
 wing ? ’T would scarce twist into a cravat, 
 or cut into ruffles,” — regarding the delicate 
 lace that fell over his own hands — “ and 
 indeed ’twould be a thousand pities to 
 spoil one inch of such handiwork, above all 
 when ’tis done for one whom Mistress 
 Dorothy loves.” 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur, the one for whom I 
 work this will ne’er despoil it of one tiny 
 leaf or spray, for as I love, so I am loved 
 in return.” 
 
228 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Thrice happy mortal ! ” exclaimed the 
 young man, stung into greater earnestness 
 by the suggestion of a rival ; “ But how 
 comes it that you are left alone to complete 
 in solitude your labour of love ? I would 
 it were for me you worked, Mistress 
 Dorothy,” he added in a lower tone, “ I 
 give you my word, you should not find me 
 far afield when those fair fingers plied the 
 needle so diligently in my behalf.” 
 
 “ The one for whom I work will soon be 
 here,” answered little Dot with demure 
 gaiet}' - , “ and then, monsieur, I give you 
 fair leave to judge which of you shall prove 
 the most grateful.” 
 
 The young man bit his lip and turned 
 impatiently from the pretty upturned face, 
 grown so much fairer now since another 
 than he had found its beauty and its charm. 
 His eyes fell upon the open book. 
 
 “ You read then, Mistress Dorothy ? ” he 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 229 
 
 asked, and, lifting the volume, turned its 
 pages with restless fingers. “Ah, you 
 have taste,” he continued, “and still 
 cling to the bygone poets rather than 
 burn incense before the gods of to- 
 day. You are bold to venture to admire 
 Elizabeth’s songsters, when all the world 
 struggles and wrestles to obtain a line from 
 the pen of Mister Goldsmith, Mister Sheri- 
 dan, or the favourite Horace Walpole.” 
 
 “ ’Tis never well to desert old favourites, 
 monsieur, until the new ones prove their 
 title to a like regard,” the girl answered 
 slowly, and so gravely that a hidden mean- 
 ing might easily be suspected beneath the 
 simple words. Then, with a sudden return 
 to her wonted brightness, she added, “ Will 
 you favour us, monsieur, with a sonnet 
 from out the book ? ” 
 
 Without replying further than by a bow, 
 the officer turned the pages until he found 
 
230 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the lines he sought ; then, still leaning 
 against the casement, he read aloud, with 
 more feeling than his light speech be- 
 tokened, the half-tender, half-scornful lines 
 wrung from a jealous soul that ached 
 fiercely, even as it sang gaily, the little 
 poem of — 
 
 THE MANLY HEART. 
 
 “ Shall I, wafting in defpair, 
 
 Die becaufe a woman’s fair ? 
 
 Or my cheeks make pale with care 
 ’Caufe another’s rofy are ? 
 
 Be fhe fairer than the day, 
 
 Or the flowery meads in May, 
 
 If fhe be not fo to me, 
 
 What care I how fair fhe be ? 
 
 “ Shall my foolifh heart be pined 
 ’Caufe I fee a woman kind ? 
 
 Or a well difpofed nature 
 Joined with a lovely feature? 
 
 Be fhe meeker, kinder than 
 Turtle-dove or pelican, 
 
 If fhe be not fo to me 
 What care I how kind fhe be ? 
 
OLD BOSTON 
 
 231 
 
 “ Shall a woman’s virtues move 
 Me to perifh for her love ? 
 
 Or her merits’ value known 
 Make me quite forget mine own 1 
 Be the with that goodnefs bleft 
 Which may gain her name as Beft, 
 
 If fhe feem not fuch to me, 
 
 What care I how good fhe he ? 
 
 “ ’Caufe her fortune feems too high, 
 
 Shall I play the fool and die ] 
 
 Thofe that hear a noble mind 
 Where the want of riches find, 
 
 Think that with them they would do, 
 
 Who without them dare to woo ; 
 
 And unlefs that mind I fee, 
 
 What care I, though great fhe be ? 
 
 Great or good, or kind or fair, 
 
 I will ne’er the more defpair ; 
 
 If fhe love me, this believe, 
 
 I will die ere fhe fhall grieve ; 
 
 If fhe flight me when I woo, 
 
 I can fcorn and let her go ; 
 
 For if fhe be not for me, 
 
 What care I for whom fhe be ?” 
 
 As lie read, little Dot ceased working, 
 and folded her arms across the embroidery- 
 
232 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 frame. Her face was raised ; her lovely 
 eyes watched his moving lips ; her gentle 
 bosom rose and fell in quick short breath- 
 ings. 
 
 Nanon, far down the long apartment, let 
 her lace-bobbins remain idle, but her eyes 
 were fixed upon Dorothy’s speaking face, 
 and she looked not over-pleased at the 
 drama going on before her. 
 
 The sonnet finished, the young man 
 closed the book, and raising his eyes caught 
 those of little Dot, who still sat as if spell- 
 bound, and something in their pure depths 
 caused a sudden feeling of compunction to 
 rise within him. “ A flower for innocence,” 
 he had called her ; and should he try to 
 awaken this innocent soul, and bring to it 
 a knowledge of good and evil ? 
 
 “ As sweet a rose as ever bloomed and 
 should his be the hand to pluck the rose, 
 and tear aside its closely-folded petals ? 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 233 
 
 For a moment only lie wavered, and tlien 
 the memory of that unknown rival awoke 
 in him less worthy thoughts. 
 
 “ And what do you think, Mistress 
 Dorothy, of my choice, or of the poet’s 
 philosophy ? Do you not agree with him 
 that to weep over a lady’s beauty, when 
 she loves you not, is scarce brave work for 
 a man ; and to love on in silence is but a 
 poor way, when there are such weapons as 
 scorn and bitter jest ready to hand ? ” 
 
 “ I think, monsieur,” she answered with 
 grave seriousness, “ that whenever true 
 love comes to a heart, it can never die. 
 Constancy is twin-sister to love, and they 
 must go hand in hand unto one’s life’s end.” 
 There was silence between them, for not 
 even the gay young officer could find it in 
 his heart to break the spell of her firm 
 belief in truth and honour. 
 
 It was Nan on who spoke ; her slightly 
 
234 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 harsh voice breaking across the silence, 
 like a breath of chill north wind on a 
 sultry summer’s day — unpleasant but in- 
 vigorating. 
 
 “ M’zelle, I question not that ce jeune 
 monsieur would gladly listen to the news 
 contained in thy letter from Boston, arrived 
 but this morning.” 
 
 In a moment all the listlessness and 
 careless ease fell from the young man ; he 
 drew himself up proudly, and with a quick 
 imperious movement stepped nearer to 
 Dorothy. 
 
 “You have news ? ” he asked, and his 
 voice was eager and strong ; “ and from 
 Boston ? But of how late a date ? and 
 tell me, have you aught concerning Lexing- 
 ton, or the events following ? Have these 
 poor colonists come to wisdom now, and 
 seen the folly it is for them to attempt to 
 war against the British throne ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 235 
 
 “ I will read to you, monsieur, all the 
 news my letter contains ; but there is no 
 word of Lexington. And — pardon, mon- 
 sieur — methinks we colonists deserve kinder 
 words from you.” 
 
 At this gentle rebuke, the young man 
 again bit his lip. 
 
 So, she was made of both fire and dew, 
 this maiden who seemed so exceedingly 
 mild, yet knew so well how to point a 
 shaft, or break a lance, in wit or 
 courtesy. 
 
 Meantime, little Dot had taken from her 
 reticule the long letter and unfolded it upon 
 her knee. 
 
 “ It comes to me from my sister,” she 
 said, with a little smile. “ She visits for 
 the moment in Boston, and this letter that 
 she sends bears date of the sixteenth of 
 April. It has been long on the way, 
 doubtless through some accident, but he 
 
236 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 who brought it could not stop to make 
 explanations.” 
 
 At this second calm mention of a rival, 
 the officer frowned, but made no remark ; 
 and little Dot, unconscious of the flame 
 already set alight, that would ere con- 
 sumed bring so much sorrow and desola- 
 tion in its path, read, in her clear young 
 voice, the letter from Anais. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 237 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “ Art well, my Dot,” it began, “ and 
 happy? But ’tis scarce worth asking, 
 thou art always well if thou hast but thy 
 Nanon and thy flowers, thy dry old books 
 and thy liyre d’heures, thy damp woods 
 and thy discontented sea ; and when one 
 is well, ma foi, one is happy. Before 
 everything, keep thy health, little Dot, and 
 next to that keep thy love for ta soeur. 
 Nay, now for news ; I have been monstrous 
 gay and well amused, I warrant you, for 
 all Boston is at fever-heat since the tea- 
 ships came in, carrying the King’s tax for 
 a heavier freight ; and one scarce dare ask 
 for a cup of Queen Catherine’s beverage, 
 
238 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lest one be called traitor or accused of 
 intrigue. ’Tis well for me I cannot even 
 smell the vile drink with composure, other- 
 wise I must seek for it at my Lady Gage’s ; 
 for where I visit now, at Josiah Quincey’s, 
 we are all good patriots, and bear well in 
 mind the sorry figure cut by Colonel Leslie 
 and his soldiers, when they marched out of 
 our Oldtown, ma Dot, last February, with- 
 out the booty they sought so arrogantly.” 
 
 Here the voice of the reader trembled, 
 for she felt the lack of courtesy showed 
 by her to one of the king’s-men in this 
 sentence. 
 
 “ Tis my sister, monsieur, who writes, 
 and she knows not whom we have the 
 pleasure to entertain,” she said, with a 
 delicate apology in the glance of her eyes; 
 but the young man, who stood with folded 
 arms, simply bowed, and she continued 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 239 
 
 with more precipitation and a deeper colour 
 in her cheeks. 
 
 “ But ’tis not of this I fain would tell 
 thee ; I have more stirring news for thy 
 peaceful heart. I know well how loyal is 
 thy soul, little Dot, and know thou lovest 
 to hear of deeds of derring-do and valour ; 
 so open now thy pretty ears to a tale of a 
 brave heart and of a spirit of true sensibi- 
 lities. Last month, ma Dot, the fifth, as 
 you will remember, was the anniversary of 
 the day, for which the deeds of five years 
 ago have earned the name of the Boston 
 Massacre. The world was all astir early, 
 for it had long been rumoured that Dr. 
 Warren would give the oration from the 
 pulpit of the South Church, and I leave you 
 to imagine how dense would be the crowd 
 at any time to hear him speak, and how 
 now, above all other years, the very stones 
 
240 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 would long to arise and listen to his words 
 of eloquence. 
 
 “ ’Twas well we started early, Dot, for 
 on my word so great a crowd was never 
 seen, and e’en Mister Quincey had to give 
 up his place and seek standing-room where 
 best he could. 
 
 “ I saw the G overnor Gage there, and his 
 handsome wife (though, truth, when all is 
 said she’s not so over beautiful), and my 
 Lord Percy, with his best curled peruke ; 
 and Colonel Leslie, dark and fierce ; and 
 Henry Knox, the young bookseller, whom 
 some say will rise higher in another twelve- 
 month ; and the schoolmaster Lovell, with 
 his beautiful daughter and her humble 
 slave, the General Cleaveland. And, far 
 down at the west end, there was Pen 
 Dudley, if you please, with Aunt Priscilla 
 as chaperone, and Phil Troubridge as pro- 
 tector. She gave me a nod and a smile, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 241 
 
 Dot, as full of assurance as if we had but 
 met in Oldtown, and this was not her first 
 taste of le beau monde. And then of course 
 came Monsieur le Marquis, looking more 
 woebegone than ever, and took his place 
 beside me, as of a right accorded him. 
 He grows thin and pale, and methinks his 
 temper, Dot, is in sad want of repair. 
 
 “ The very aisles were crowded, and on 
 the pulpit-steps sat the British officers in 
 their red coats, their heads rising one 
 above the other, like gallipots in an apo- 
 thecary’s shop, and for the most part quite 
 as empty, I’ll be bound. We waited and 
 listened, and waited again for full half 
 an hour, and all the low murmurings had 
 sunk to a dead silence before our orator 
 appeared ; he had to come in through the 
 pulpit-window, as it was, or we should 
 never have seen or heard him, for to fight 
 his way from the door was impossible. 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Figure to yourself, ma Dot, a fine 
 upright hearing, with a face pale from 
 exertion and lighted by the earnestness of 
 a great cause. He has a broad and ample 
 brow, from which he wears his dark hair 
 brushed and braided in the mode. His 
 eyes are luminous and deep, holding within 
 them the fire of a prophet and the power 
 of an enthusiast. 
 
 “ ’Twere vain for me e’en to try my skill 
 at repeating what he said, or how he said 
 it. He paid but scant compliment to the 
 King and his ministers, though he urged 
 concessions from all parties, and added 
 that neither he, nor those of his part}", 
 sought for absolute independence, though 
 the number was large who did seek it ; and 
 then he said, that as there was no act from 
 which a lesson could not be learnt, so the 
 sending of the British troops to enforce the 
 regretful tea and stamp tax, showed to us 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 243 
 
 fclie beautiful, trained precision by which 
 these troops, both soldiers and officers, are 
 governed ; a lesson perhaps not to be 
 forgotten in the future. 
 
 “ Then, Dot, he rested silent for a 
 moment and regarded the multitude 
 beneath him, who remained hushed and 
 breathless under the spell of his burning- 
 words and the fire in his dark eyes. When 
 he spoke again, ’twas in a lower voice and 
 very steadily. 
 
 “ £ But if these pacific measures are in- 
 effectual, and it appears that the only way 
 to safety is through fields of blood, I know 
 you will not turn your faces from your 
 foes, but will undoubtedly press forward 
 until tyranny is trodden under foot and 
 you have fixed your adored goddess Liberty 
 fast by a Brunswick’s side on the American 
 throne. Having redeemed your country 
 and secured the blessing to future genera- 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tions who, fired by your example, shall 
 emulate your virtues and learn from you 
 the heavenly art of making millions 
 happy ; with heartfelt joy, with transports 
 all your own, you cry, The glorious tvorlc, 
 is done ; then drop the mantle on some 
 young Elisha, and take your seats with 
 kindred spirits in your native skies .’ 1 
 
 “ The women were in tears, Dot, as he 
 ended, and all the men looked stern and 
 thoughtful. Then in the next moment 
 a young captain of the Welsh Fusiliers 
 arose from his seat on the pulpit-stairs, 
 and, standing tall above his comrades, raised 
 his arm towards Warren, and held up his 
 half-open hand full of bullets. Not one 
 whit dismayed, Dr. Warren dropped his 
 white handkerchief over them, and dis- 
 missed us with his blessing. 
 
 “ You may well imagine how rare a 
 4 Extract from Warren’s Oration, Marcli 5, 1775, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 245 
 
 cause this day has given for gossip and 
 discussion ; not a house but has its ver- 
 sion, and not a man or woman but tells 
 their tale concerning it, and you may take 
 my word no two of them agree any more 
 reasonably than do Nan on and Pen Dudley. 
 
 “ ’Tis said the Welsh captain meant for 
 Mister Warren to understand, by his palm 
 full of bullets, that ’twas no cowards he 
 had to deal with, and that they all, to a 
 man, would fight the contest inch by inch, 
 before ever a white flag of peace should 
 float above them. 
 
 “ Be that as it may, of one thing be 
 thou sure, petite Dot, there is disaffection 
 in the air, and anger in the hearts, and 
 discord amongst the rulers of this country ; 
 and a storm is gathering which thou and I 
 shall witness, when those who strive to 
 calm it shall indeed walk { through fields 
 of blood ! ’ ” 
 
246 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Here Dorothy ceased reading, and laid 
 down the letter. 
 
 “The rest, monsieur,” she said, “would 
 scarce prove of sufficient interest for your 
 ears.” 
 
 But the young officer did not heed or 
 answer her. On his face was a dark flush, 
 and in his eyes, hut a few moments ago so 
 bold and d.ebonnaire , an expression of 
 determination, not unmixed with scorn, had 
 gathered. 
 
 While Dorothy was reading, he had 
 stooped and picked up from out her work- 
 bag a bit of narrow yellow ribbon, which 
 he turned and twisted absently between 
 his facile fingers. He dropped this now, 
 and the gaudy trifle fell fluttering down 
 beside the violets on the window-sill. 
 
 Afraid to break his silence, Dorothy 
 looked at him in wonderment, her fair face 
 shadowed by the gloom on his. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 247 
 
 Nanon arose, and carrying her lace- 
 cushion and bobbins, left the room. 
 
 The grey clouds had settled over all 
 the sky, and were dropping down their 
 burden in soft, even, pattering rain-drops. 
 The room looked chill in the increasing 
 dusk. 
 
 Little Dot’s pretty work lay unheeded. 
 Ah ! when before had anything done for 
 Anais lain neglected and forgotten ? 
 
 At last, with an effort, the young man 
 spoke. 
 
 “ Through fields of blood,” he said, 
 repeating the final words of the letter. 
 “ Well, doubtless it will be so, and I for 
 one shall not regret it, if it teaches but a 
 lesson to these malcontents. One’s King 
 and one’s country before aught else.” 
 
 “ Kay, monsieur,” said little Dot in a 
 grave, earnest tone, “ what says your own 
 standard’s motto ? Dieu et mon droit. Is 
 
248 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 England then the only land that owns a 
 God, oi” cherishes a country’s rights ?” 
 
 “ Mistress Dorothy will give me pardon 
 for my speech, I doubt not. I foi’got 
 whose ears o’erheard me.” 
 
 With a tremble in her voice she 
 answered, 
 
 “ You need not my pardon, monsieur, 
 for so slight a cause, but ’tis yours most 
 freely.” 
 
 He bowed over her extended hand, and 
 left her, his red coat making a ray of 
 colour as he moved down the long room. 
 
 Left to herself, Dorothy stood up and 
 pushed back her tambour-frame. Her face 
 still wore a look of trouble, and her fingers, 
 clasped before her, moved nervously. She 
 sighed as she looked across the rain-washed 
 garden and fields, for her heart was very 
 heavy with an undefinable and hitherto 
 unknown sense of pain. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 249 
 
 For several moments slie stood thus, 
 and then suddenly, with half a laugh and 
 half a sigh, she gathered up the violets, 
 binding them together with the bit of gay, 
 yellow ribbon, and laid them within the 
 book of sonnets against “ The Manly 
 Heart.” 
 
250 
 
 OI-D BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Two days passed by, monotonously perhaps 
 to tlie young officer, but not so to little 
 Dot. He won from her very easily the 
 simple history of her life. Made up as it 
 was of so few excitements, so few events, 
 from her child-days within the grey con- 
 vent-walls of fair Provence, to her girlhood 
 in the dull fen-country of England, it 
 afforded but little change or variety, and 
 sounded sadly destitute of colour or 
 movement to the young man accustomed 
 to the glare and excitement of an existence 
 passed in intrigues, and surrounded by the 
 pageantry of the gay court of the young 
 Prince of Wales. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 251 
 
 In return for her modest confidences, 
 she gained from him his name, his calling, 
 and his nationality. These meagre details 
 were, however, accompanied by so many 
 tales of gallantry and novelty that she for- 
 got to look below the surface and read the 
 hidden truths kept safely guarded from 
 her innocent, pure eyes. 
 
 These three sweet days, of the happy 
 May time, were fraught with a new and 
 tremulous joy to Dorothy — a joy so shy 
 and so unaccountable that she dared not 
 look at it with the eyes of homely scrutiny. 
 She only realized that all nature had 
 changed for her, and its most hidden secrets 
 became plain to her fearless young eyes, 
 and her innocent young heart. 
 
 She knew now, without analysis, why 
 the west wind, wet with warm rain-drops, 
 kissed her cheeks with sharp, sweet pain ; 
 why the sky’s deep blue and the sunset’s 
 
252 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 golden glory, filled her soul with a sudden 
 joyful ecstasy; why the wood violets and 
 wild blue asters, looking upward into her 
 face with their mild eyes, bore a more 
 subtle perfume than ever before ; and why 
 the glad, loud carol of the birds held 
 within its notes a message of so much 
 happiness and fair promise. 
 
 This earth grew very beautiful and 
 gracious to her, and she stepped about 
 more lightly, and wore a look of such 
 serenity and happiness as to shake even 
 old Nanon’s presentiments of misfortune. 
 
 And to the young officer the days were 
 fleet of foot, even though passed in the 
 same routine from morning until evening. 
 
 No one can look unmoved upon a spot- 
 less nature waking to life before their eyes ; 
 like an instrument, finely strung and in 
 exquisite tune, waiting for the master-hand 
 to evoke its fullest chords of sound and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 253 
 
 harmony ; or a fair clear page, unsullied by 
 mortal touch, over which the artist lingers 
 uncertain which to employ, the pencil 
 charged with glowing colour, or the sharp 
 keen burin of the engraver, which once 
 pressed upon the virgin surface leaves a 
 line that neither time nor change can ever 
 efface ; blurred it may be, but wiped out 
 never in this world. And all unconsciously, 
 little Dot opened her heart to the writing 
 in this unknown tongue. 
 
 Their days were passed together, for 
 though old Nanon, with her strict idea of 
 French propriety, seldom left them unat- 
 tended, they were not greatly embarrassed 
 by her presence : Dorothy because she had 
 nothing to conceal ; the young man because 
 he had learned rarely well the art of coun- 
 terfeiting nature. 
 
 She talked to him freely, and told all 
 her pretty tales of convent-life, and of her 
 
254 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tante Anglaise ; and the history of the two 
 portraits, and how she and Tais had chosen 
 each their flower ; and of Monsieur le 
 Marquis and Monsieur le Comte ; and all 
 her girlish hopes and fears ; foolish joys 
 and more foolish sorrows. And he, listen- 
 ing, found her fair to look upon, and her 
 generous nature, so easily aroused to pity 
 and sacrifice, an exquisite organ upon which 
 to exercise his skill. 
 
 Her sympathy and patriotism for the 
 colonists and their growing cause was his 
 favourite point of attack, and though she 
 listened to all his arguments, and showed a 
 gentle courtesy to all his prejudices, he 
 could not shake her from her one point of 
 vantage. 
 
 “ Give us the right to govern our own 
 states, to make our own laws, and to pro- 
 tect our own interests, subject to the King’s 
 approval, and we will ask for nothing more, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 255 
 
 monsieur,” she would urge in her pretty, 
 eager fashion. “ Judge for yourself, can 
 your parliament e’er know, of a surety, 
 what is needed here, when three thousand 
 miles of sea roll between the governors 
 and the governed ? And how shall a whole 
 country wait for a justice so tardily dis- 
 pensed, when the land lies uncultivated, the 
 fruit ungathered, the crops untilled, the 
 highways grown unsafe, and even the 
 broad ocean itself beset with dangers ; 
 while we wait the pleasure of an angry 
 King who cannot agree with his ministers ? 
 We grow tired, monsieur, and a bow 
 stretched too far, snaps in the hand, and 
 sends the arrow far afield.” 
 
 Then he would laugh and make some 
 gallant speech, and the quick blood would 
 dye her cheeks crimson. Once he onty 
 looked at her, when she had so pleaded, 
 and, with half a sigh, said very gently, 
 
256 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 <£ ’Twero all in vain for a royalist to 
 seek to win thee, Mistress Dorothy. Me- 
 thinks ’twould prove a sad and sorrowful 
 task, and, mayhap, a hopeless one.” 
 
 Then she had turned toward him, her 
 sweet face glowing in the tender light 
 of a faint, young moon, and looking at 
 him fearlessly and innocently, said quite 
 gravely, 
 
 “ He who seeks to win a woman’s heart, 
 monsieur, thinks nought but of the treasure 
 of her love, and when ’tis won, he wears it 
 thankfully.” 
 
 “ One should be a Bayard or a Sidney 
 in very deed,” he answered ; ££ none other 
 would be worthy of so pure a soul as thine. 
 Mistress Dorothy, may I strive to be thy 
 White Knight, and wear blamelessly the 
 flower of thy — -friendship ? ” 
 
 She had half turned from him as he 
 spoke, overcome with a sense of tremulous 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 257 
 
 joy and expectancy ; she did not know why 
 his last word seemed to fall upon her ears 
 with so dull and flat an echo. The new 
 life, springing to maturity in her heart, 
 had not yet assumed sufficient strength to 
 proclaim its name and sovereignty ; she 
 only realized that the evening grew of a 
 sudden chill, and the baby-faced moon 
 had sunk to rest behind the soft luminous 
 clouds that drifted slowly across the dark 
 sky. Then, ere she could reply, came 
 Nanon, and the charm was broken. 
 
 The next day the young officer did not 
 appear at the breakfast-hour, but sent 
 word to beg for his excuse. His head 
 was weary, his wound was troublesome; 
 would Mistress Dorothy pardon his re- 
 maining in his chamber ? 
 
 Ah ! how slowly, how very slowly, the 
 long morning hours wore themselves 
 away ! Little Dot, so used to the mono- 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tony of her life, grew frightened, because 
 now nothing seemed to add speed to the 
 leaden feet of time. She stood before the 
 clock and watched its restless little ship 
 toss to and fro, and its pendulum swing 
 solemnly from side to side ; and when she 
 thought an hour must surely have passed, 
 behold, scarce ten minutes had been marked 
 by the arrow-shaped pointer. 
 
 Even Nanon was gone ; for, taking ad- 
 vantage of the young officer’s voluntary 
 seclusion, she had walked into Oldtown, 
 on household cares intent. 
 
 From hall to drawing-room wandered 
 Dorothy. Her tambour-frame was un- 
 touched, the English literature neglected, 
 even her little Missal, with all its quaint 
 pictures of saints and angel-heads wrought 
 upon its borders, brought her no pleasure, 
 while the thought of her music gave her 
 absolute pain. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 259 
 
 Poor little Dot ! Already the serpent 
 of discontent had entered her fair Garden 
 of Eden, and its trail of restlessness lay 
 upon all her surroundings. 
 
 The old clock had. struck the hour. 
 Eleven slow, solemn peals ; Dot counted 
 each one upon her slender fingers with an 
 inward sense of relief, since at noon would 
 come the dinner-hour, and with the dinner- 
 hour — Nanon ; only, I fear, another name 
 came alongside of Nanon’s, unrecognized, 
 maybe, or unbidden by Dorothy, else why 
 the rush of colour to her cheeks, or why 
 the sweet, happy curve that changed her 
 mouth from grave to gay ? 
 
 Lifting her eyes in dreamy content, little 
 Dot caught sight of something on the 
 Oldtown high-road that seemed made up 
 of clouds of dust approaching ever nearer 
 and nearer. Presently, with a quick glad 
 laugh, the girl started to her feet, and flew, 
 s 2 
 
260 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fleet as the wind, down the garden-path to 
 the wicket-gate that gave upon the lane, 
 and which lane in turn emerged upon the 
 high-road. 
 
 Straining her eager eyes, as she sheltered 
 them with her clasped hands from the sun, 
 she watched with impatience the cloud of 
 dust grow larger and larger, and then ere 
 long resolve itself into a heavy travelling- 
 coach, drawn by four horses. The postilion 
 on the foremost one, though bobbing up 
 and down incessantly, she recognized as 
 wearing the dark mulberry-coloured livery 
 of the Dudleys. 
 
 “ Oh, ’tis ma soeur, ’tis ma Tais ! ” she 
 cried in a voice of tender love. 
 
 In another moment the heavy vehicle 
 lumbered down the narrow lane, and with 
 many creakings and groanings was brought 
 to a stand before the garden-gate; the 
 steps were let down, a tall slight figure 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 261 
 
 descended with a springing movement, and 
 in another moment the two sisters were 
 locked in a fond embrace. 
 
 “ Ma soeur,” cried little Dot, “ oh art 
 thou really come ? Nay, ’tis scarce to 
 be believed. Tres-chere, my heart has 
 hungered for thee sorely.” 
 
 Gone was all the sadness and lassitude 
 of the early morning, gone and forgotten ; 
 in Anais’s arms, and with Anais’s lips on 
 hers, what would not little Dot forget and 
 forgive ? 
 
 “ Yea, now, my Dot, ’tis mine own self,” 
 the elder sister was saying as they walked 
 up the garden-path, and already the great 
 coach was far down the lane on its way 
 back to Oldtown. “ And monstrous glad 
 I am to come home to thee. I had no 
 time to warn thee, for ’twas all so hastily 
 arranged, I scarce could pack my mails. 
 ’Twas Pen Dudley came to me yester 
 
262 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 morning, and said she and Aunt Pris and 
 Phil Troubridge were minded to return, 
 and had I aught of a message to send to 
 thee, my daisy-flower. And in a moment 
 I said yea, that had I ; but the message, 
 vois-tu, was myself.” 
 
 “ Oh, Tais, Tais,” cried the younger 
 girl, “ to have thee home once more ! And 
 thou art grown so wondrous beautiful, 
 tres-chere.” 
 
 Anais laughed, and, stopping, raised the 
 sweet face of her little sister with both 
 her hands, looking at it lovingly. 
 
 “ Nay, now, my Dot,” she said most 
 tenderly, “ it strikes me, thou, too, hast 
 ta’en a leaf from beauty’s book. What 
 hast done, ma petite, to brighten thy 
 sweet countenance with so rare a 
 radiance ? ” 
 
 But Dorothy answered nothing; and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 263 
 
 Anais, dropping the glowing face, con- 
 tinued more lightly, 
 
 “ Art not rare and pleased, Dot, that I 
 have left Monsieur le Marquis behind 
 me ? I know thou findest him not to thy 
 mind at any time.” 
 
 “ Ay, that am I, my Tais ; but how 
 came it, and canst thou do without him ? ” 
 
 “ Ma foi, ma Dot, that can I. I left 
 him, with all my best brocades and fal-lals, 
 in Boston, Dot ; and when I need them 
 both again, I doubt not I shall find them 
 to hand.” 
 
 Thus chatting they reached the open 
 door and crossed the hall together, enter- 
 ing the drawing-room side by side and 
 hand in hand. And thus it was the 
 young officer first saw Anais de Grasse, 
 coming out of the shadows of the great 
 hall into the full light of noonday, and 
 
264 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 holding by the hand her sister, little Dot. 
 In after-years this scene was often with 
 him. His memory could recall its smallest 
 detail ; the two slight tall figures, the 
 two beautiful faces, so wonderfully alike, 
 the bright look of mutual trust and love, 
 the joyous confidence and quiet serenity 
 depicted on each face, and the total 
 oblivion to all outward surroundings in 
 their own perfect content. 
 
 Anais was the first to heed his presence. 
 She stopped, and, drawing her hand from 
 Dot’s, looked at the stranger with supreme 
 hauteur. 
 
 “ How now, my Dot,” she said in her 
 clear, polished voice ; “ thou entertainest 
 guests, or rather a guest, ’twould seem. 
 Monsieur, I have not the knowledge of 
 your name ? ” 
 
 Before Dorothy could explain, the young 
 man had drawn himself up to his full 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 265 
 
 height, and, with an elaborate bow, and in 
 a voice as cold and haughty as her own, 
 replied, 
 
 “ I am Gilderoy Duncombe, madame, a 
 captain in his Majesty’s Own, and your 
 most humble servitor.” 
 
266 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 “ And so, ma Dot, thou art the culprit ? ” 
 said Anais, as an hour later the two sisters 
 stood together, in the low-ceilinged bed- 
 room above the drawing-room, which they 
 had shared since they first came to Manor 
 Farm three years agone. 
 
 It was a quaint bedroom even in those 
 days, for its furniture was very old, and 
 tradition said had been brought over in the 
 Mayflower a hundred years and more ago, 
 and who could say how long it had reposed 
 in its Devonshire home before its owners 
 sought a new abiding-place and a new 
 country in the far west. 
 
 The windows were uncurtained; beneath 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 267 
 
 lliem low seats, cushioned in large flower- 
 ing chintz, made inviting resting-places. 
 The dressing-table draperies, as well as 
 the tester curtains to the great bed, and 
 the linen-bag that hung beside the wash- 
 hand-stand, were embroidered in a running 
 pattern of leaves, interspersed with flowers 
 and gay birds ; they had been the joint 
 work of Dot’s mother and her sister, la 
 tante Anglaise, when they were young girls 
 and speculated as to the future, while they 
 bent over their long tasks of needlework. 
 
 When little Dot left England, these 
 precious relics were packed by loving 
 hands amidst her mails ; the only legacy, 
 save her string of silver beads and tiny 
 livre d’heures, that she possessed of her 
 young dead mother. On one side of the 
 bed hung a crucifix in ivory, and beneath 
 it a picture of St. Dorothy, wearing her 
 crown of martyr roses. This was Dot’s 
 
268 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 especial shrine, and before it she bent her 
 knees morning and night, and dipped her 
 slender fingers into the benitier that 
 Nanon’s constant care kept supplied. 
 
 The two sisters had come up the stairs 
 together after the meeting in the drawing- 
 room between Captain Duncombe and 
 Anais ; and when Dorothy, with hot cheeks, 
 had bravely told the story of his advent and 
 her protection, Anais had said but little, 
 save to bid the young man welcome in her 
 own name, and to commend Dorothy for 
 her hospitality. But now they stood alone 
 and no watchful eyes were upon them. 
 
 Anais had removed her russet cloth 
 pelisse, with its trimmings of fur, and laid 
 aside her large beaver hat, with its droop- 
 ing feathers, and as she stood face to face 
 with her sister, the resemblance between 
 them became startling. In repose the two 
 faces were absolutely alike, it needed the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 2G9 
 
 variety and play of expression to change 
 them into dissimilitude. 
 
 The elder sister rested her hands, still 
 cased in their leather travelling-gloves, 
 upon the younger’s shoulders, and looking 
 into the pure sweet eyes that were raised 
 confidently to her own, repeated her 
 question. 
 
 “ And so, ma Dot, thou art the culprit ? 
 While my Lord Percy and the poor, stupid 
 Governor Gage have been cudgelling their 
 brains concerning the disappearance of 
 Monsieur le Capitaine Duncombe, thou hast 
 had him in safest keeping. Nay, petite, 
 but thou growest intriguante. ’Tis in the 
 air, I fear, and some east wind must have 
 blown the infection down to Oldtown. 
 Nay, never look so shamefaced, ma 
 colombette, doubtless thou hast kept 
 the young man out of mischief, for, 
 if I mistake not, he is one to run 
 
270 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 hotly into the King’s faction now so rife 
 in Boston. 
 
 “ But, tres-chere,” the younger an- 
 swered, “ he came to us ill and wounded, 
 and he fell at my feet in the faints, and 
 thou know’st well, ’tis not our fashion 
 to leave untended any living thing that 
 the good God sends in our way. ’Tis 
 one of the lessons earliest taught at the 
 convent.” 
 
 “ And who chides thee, my little Dot ? 
 Not I. But tell me, hast thou learnt 
 no other lessons, more difficult to 
 master than thy convent ones, since 
 this young gallant sojourned under our 
 old roof ! ” 
 
 The colour started quickly to little Dot’s 
 face, though in truth she knew not why, 
 and her answer came honestly from her 
 heart. 
 
 “ No, tres-chere, of a surety. "What 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 271 
 
 lesson could Monsieur le Capitaine have to 
 teach me ? ” 
 
 Anais looked at her half-sadly ere she 
 replied. 
 
 “ Ay, what indeed, my daisy -flower ? 
 ’Twould be but sorry work to give thee 
 the solving of the old problem that most 
 women stumble and fall over, and rarely 
 rise above. But, allons, petite, it grows 
 late ; haste thou to help me in my toilette, 
 for of a surety Pen Dudley and Phil Trou- 
 bridge come over to us, for supper, from 
 the Hall, and thou know’st well how Pen’s 
 tongue will wag with no one by to give 
 her tit for tat.” 
 
 With nimble fingers and loving care the 
 two sisters assisted one another, while 
 Anais enlivened the conversation with all 
 her sparkling wit and lively sallies ; for 
 hers was a nature that craved love and 
 admiration from every one, and she took 
 
272 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 as great pains to secure it from women as 
 from men, and valued more a happy laugh 
 and gay rejoinder from her little sister 
 than from any of the gallants who flocked 
 about her in the Boston salons. 
 
 It was her fancy that they should be 
 attired alike this day, and as Dorothy’s 
 wardrobe numbered no costly satins or 
 heavy brocades, she chose gowns of soft 
 sprigged muslin, with fichues a la reine 
 Marie Antoinette crossed over the low 
 bodies, and tied at the back with yellow 
 ribbons ; their hair dressed high, with 
 golden arrows thrust through the shining 
 coils, and breast-knots of wood-violets. 
 ’Twas little Dot who chose the colour of 
 their ribbons and the flowers for each 
 corsage. 
 
 Thus attired, they descended the stairs 
 and entered the green drawing-room. 
 
 The young officer rose to meet them, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 273 
 
 but stood spell-bound at the vision of two 
 such beautiful young women. Anais 
 spoke, her ease and grace of movement 
 and of voice dispelling at once all embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 “ I perceive, monsieur, that you also are 
 struck by the great resemblance between 
 us ; I think so true a likeness is not often 
 seen between two sisters, and ' yet my 
 sister here would fain have me believe that 
 this charm lies in my eyes only, for she 
 
 holds that she bears no look of me about 
 
 / 
 
 her.” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle has reason to accord 
 my maladresse to wonderment and con- 
 fusion at the fair vision now before 
 me. Had Venus but a sister, ’twould 
 not be so difficult a task to give to 
 both a name and a place in the courts of 
 love.” 
 
 “ Say rather a rival, monsieur, for Venus 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 must ever claim precedence above all 
 creatures oflier order.” 
 
 “ Tres-chere,” the voice of little Dot 
 broke in, “ there was Psyche, as thou 
 knowest.” 
 
 “ Nay, now, ma Dot,” cried the elder 
 quickly, “ we will speak no more about it, 
 I will not have thee compare thyself to 
 Psyche, who served a weary century in 
 Venus’ behalf, to be but scorned and 
 buffeted for all she did.” 
 
 “ I should not mind,” the other mur- 
 mured, but not audibly, “ since ’twas done 
 for thee.” 
 
 It was curious to note how each one of 
 the little group accorded to Anais the 
 foremost place as Venus. Dorothy from 
 pure love, Duncombe from policy, and 
 Anais herself from no untoward vanity, 
 but as a matter of established right, un- 
 disputed, and not to be gainsaid. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 275 
 
 Dorothy moved to the window and stood 
 half -leaning against the broad seat, leaving 
 the other two talking near the harpsichord; 
 now and then she caught a merry word, or 
 a light laugh, as Anais recounted the 
 latest news and gossip rife in Boston ; but 
 they came to the girl in the window as 
 echoes only, so happy was she and so 
 content. 
 
 She smiled brightly when she heard 
 Anais’ clear laugh, and joined in with her 
 own girlish treble from pure joyousness of 
 heart. 
 
 Old Nanon, so busy outside in the great 
 hall laying the supper-table, heard the 
 merry voices and happy laughter, and 
 paused, with the silver spoons in her hand, 
 to fully catch the rippling music of little 
 Dot’s tones. 
 
276 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “ Tais,” cried out the maiden presently, 
 “ here come Pen Dudley and her father, 
 but I see nought of young Mister Trou- 
 bridge.” 
 
 “ Nay, but that is sorry news for thee, 
 Dot, since thou and he hast always so 
 much, to comment on between thee,” an- 
 swered her sister, moving towards the 
 window. Captain Duncombe followed her, 
 and caught sight of Dorothy’s face with 
 its disappointed expression. 
 
 This young Troubridge then was his 
 suspected rival, and the cloud on little 
 Dot’s face arose from his non-appear- 
 ance. Should he try to dispel the cloud? 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 277 
 
 ’Twould go hard, indeed, if he could not 
 outcharm a mere country colonist in this 
 girl’s heart, or win from her the treasure 
 of smiles and tender glances that per- 
 chance were lavished upon him. 
 
 He bent his head toward Dorothy, and 
 said, speaking low and fast, 
 
 “ Mistress Dorothy sees I spoke but 
 justly. ’Tis ill waiting for a laggard, 
 when he whom she favours so scantily 
 would gladly take place in her service.” 
 “Monsieur! ” cried little Dot, her startled 
 eyes raised to his grave ones ; but ere 
 another word could be uttered the door 
 was flung impetuously open, and a short, 
 slight, girlish figure flew down the room 
 towards the group in the window. 
 
 Her face bore a curious mingling of sun 
 and shade, and burst upon one in a thou- 
 sand different lights within a day. The 
 eyes were dark, well formed, and deep set ; 
 
278 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the brows above pencilled straight and 
 fine ; the hair black, and dressed high in 
 a full crop of short curls ; the mouth and 
 chin clean cut — the former thin and small, 
 the latter short and square ; the com- 
 plexion clear, but very dark. Over the 
 entire countenance there rested an ex- 
 pression riante but mocking. 
 
 She was dressed handsomely, but too 
 heavily, in a gown of blue brocade, looped 
 up and pulled through the pocket-hole, 
 revealing a petticoat of blue taffetas 
 beneath, and a slender foot and ankle 
 faultlessly arrayed. 
 
 She approached the sisters breathlessly, 
 calling out in a high-pitched voice, 
 
 “ ’Tis I, Anais — ’tis I, Dot; faith, I 
 could not pass my evening alongside of 
 Aunt Pris, who is as lively after her 
 journey as an owl in the sunlight. So 
 ’twas father brought me over, and if you 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 279 
 
 will keep me, Tais, I may stop till called 
 for. But — you have other visitors,” she 
 added, catching sight of Duncombe. “ I 
 intrude mayhap ? I was not aware that 
 Manor Farm harboured a guest.” 
 
 She said this sharply, and looked sus- 
 piciously at each of the three faces. 
 
 “ Nay, now. Pen Dudley, and where- 
 fore not, may I ask, since I pleasure it?” 
 answered Anais lightly, but with a touch 
 of scorn. “ Methinks ’tis not the first 
 time hospitality has been shown within 
 these walls;” then, with a little smile, she 
 added, “ Mistress Penelope Dudley, this is 
 Captain Gilderoy Duncombe, of the King’s 
 Own.” 
 
 Pen curtseyed, and, while the young officer 
 responded by a low bow, gave a quick look 
 at Anais, and twisted her mouth into a 
 round 0, of bewilderment and astonish- 
 ment. She subsided on to the window- 
 
280 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 seat, and began a rapid fire of questions 
 to Dorothy in an undertone, glancing 
 now and then at the captain and Anais, 
 who, on some slight pretext, had wandered 
 towards the harpsichord again. With 
 shrewd persistence Penelope gained from 
 little Dot a full account of the circum- 
 stances that had brought the young officer 
 to their doors. This explained, she began 
 again. 
 
 “ And thou wast all alone, Dot ? Ma 
 certes ! but ’twould have given me the 
 vapours, forsooth. Wast not frightened, 
 Dot ? ” 
 
 “ Nay, Pen, there was no time for 
 frights ; and then, too, there was Nanon.” 
 
 “ A fig for thy Nauon ! ” cried Pen, 
 snapping her pretty finger and thumb. 
 “ Dost think my young captain would 
 come from out the wood to worship at 
 Nation's feet ? I warrant me he knew 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 281 
 
 well whose was the shoe-leather he fell 
 before, ere ever the faints took him ! ” 
 
 “ Thou art most unmannerly, Pen,” re- 
 turned Dorothy in a vexed voice. “ ’Tis 
 scarce well-natured in thee to speak in 
 such a fashion.” 
 
 But Pen laughed. 
 
 “ Dost know who he is, Dot ? ” she 
 continued in her short whispers; “and 
 how great a hue and cry has been raised 
 concerning him ? Ma certes, if one could 
 but have whispered where ’twas he tarried 
 in the Governor’s ear, his face would have 
 been the rarest sight of many a day. Nay, 
 now, Dot, be not angry,” she added 
 quickly, “ I do but jest ; though in faith 
 it pleases me monstrously to think of thee 
 hiding Monsieur Bed-coat, who has been 
 missing since the fight at Lexington three 
 good weeks agone.” 
 
 Now, however, although Pen spoke in 
 
282 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 a low tone, it would seem that Captain 
 Duncombe overheard her; for he turned 
 from Anais, and said, speaking markedly 
 to Penelope, 
 
 “ Did I hear Mistress Dudley mention 
 Lexington ? ’Twas at that slight brush I 
 caught my trivial wound, and was left for- 
 gotten on the roadside. Mistress Dorothy 
 knows how I came to her, weary and spent 
 from my halting walk betwixt that place 
 and this. And for the length of time I have 
 trespassed on her generosity, the treachery 
 of my wound must answer ; for, though ’tis 
 neither serious nor great, ’tis troublesome, 
 and has caused me to tarry from day to 
 day.” 
 
 “ A wound needs not to be so deep as 
 a well, or so wide as a church- door, to 
 cause a weary healing, sir,” answered Pen 
 sharply. 
 
 The young man bowed, but his eyes 
 flashed though he answered very quietly, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 283 
 
 “ There are true words spoken in jest, 
 doubtless, Mistress Dudley; but he who 
 scoffs at scars has never felt a wound of 
 any kind. But I would hear of Lexington, 
 for my mishap occurred too early in the 
 day to say which way the tide would turn.” 
 “ Thou canst tell the tale, Pen,” said 
 Aniiis, “ since I see the longing for it in 
 thine eyes. Do not fear, monsieur, your 
 party will not suffer in Penelope’s hands ; 
 her soul is in the cause of the British King.” 
 And nothing loath, Pen’s glib tongue 
 set off at a good pace, while her vivacious 
 gestures and keen wit held captive the 
 attention of her three listeners. 
 
 Anais stood leaning against the harpsi- 
 chord, her fingers toying idly with the 
 flots of yellow ribbon at her waist ; Cap- 
 tain Duncombe had moved towards the 
 group at the window, and, with folded 
 arms and grave countenance, watched the 
 expressive changes which Pen’s tale 
 
284 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 wrought on little Dot’s sweet face. With 
 hands folded on her lap, she listened 
 eagerly to each word of the thrilling nar- 
 rative ; it was her first experience of war 
 in any shape, and to her brave, though 
 pure, young soul it brought a new awaken- 
 ing, until, as the tale grew into deeper 
 interest, as it became fraught with the 
 pathos of weakness and right arrayed 
 against strength and power, she felt all 
 the proud French blood of her lineage 
 respond to the call thus made for freedom 
 and for justice. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 GILBEBT AND BIVINGTON, LIMITED, ST. JOHN’S SQUABE, LONDON. 
 
OLD BOSTON 
 
 % §oimmrc 
 
 BY 
 
 A. DE GRASSE STEVENS 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Ho HU a u : 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, 1MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
 [All rights reserved.'] 
 

CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Pen Dudley begins the tale of Lexington — 
 
 Anais turns raconteuse .... 1 
 
 Paul Revere- 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 -A gallant ride . . . . 15 
 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Duncombe’s story of Concord — Wounds — 
 
 “ An Angel ! ” 28 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Pen takes up the tale — Chevy Chase —A dis- 
 turbing influence ..... 37 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore — A Provence chateau — 
 The baby sisters — A boy’s gallantry 
 
 56 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Monsieur le Marquis — The Count’s request — 
 
 An unwilling cavalier . . , # 74 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Boston — An early rencontre — White roses — 
 
 The patriots and Faneuil Hall . . 86 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 My lady’s breakfast-table — Intrigue — A sister’s 
 chivalry — Pen Dudley’s song — Withered 
 rose-buds . . . . . .105 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The George Inn — A dinner-party — Dangerous 
 
 eyes — Suspicion — Found out . . .123 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 My Lady Gage — A woman’s love and patriotism 145 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Her ladyship’s drawing-room — Cupid and Mars 
 
 — A court minuet — Treachery . . .159 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Love is blind — A woman’s wits . . . 174 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Danger — Sleep — A night’s vigil . . . 188 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Philip Troubridge and Joseph Warren — A billet 
 — Through the watches of the night — 
 
 The new day — Thunder . . . 202 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 Penelope seeks explanation — “ The man I 
 love ! ” — A red, red rose — A broken 
 chaplet 218 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Lady Gage suffers defeat — The issue of St. 
 
 Botolph’s Day 234 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Once more at Manor Farm — Shall it be love or 
 
 power? ....... 250 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “ ’Twill be but misuse of breatb, Captain 
 Buncombe,” began Penelope, “ to recount 
 to you all the discords of faction and 
 party that have kept Boston in a ferment 
 ever since Doctor Joseph Warren’s speech 
 on last Massacre Day ; for doubtless your 
 own red coat paid honour to our Majesty’s 
 cause. But for the sake of Dot, here, 
 who knows nought, I must crave pardon 
 if I tax your patience by recalling a few of 
 the events that took place before the 
 eighteenth of April.” 
 
 “ Mistress Penelope will find I am a 
 most willing listener ; it is not given to 
 
 VOL. ir. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 every one to have so good a theme upon 
 which to play the part of raconteuse ; and 
 surely, if she needed to apologize, the 
 desire of Mistress Dorothy would alone 
 prove sufficient,” answered the young 
 officer, his words addressed to Pen, but 
 his bold blue eyes fixed upon little Dot, 
 who coloured and looked down. 
 
 “ If that be so,” replied Pen sharply, 
 “ then of a truth I might have spared my 
 mouth the taste of gentle flummery. I 
 will tell my tale to thee, then, Dot, since 
 thine is the pleasure most to be considered 
 here. 
 
 “ ’T would require a more glib tongue 
 than mine,” she continued, “ to place be- 
 fore you the variance of opinion, the bitter- 
 ness of partisanship, the personal in- 
 terests, the political intrigues, stirred 
 into life and activity by Warren’s rebel 
 words in the pulpit of the South Church. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 3 
 
 Aniiis, there, can tell ye of one side, since 
 she visited in the hotbed of sedition at 
 Josiah Quincey’s, but I can show ye the 
 other, for I remained with my Aunt Pris 
 at the residence of General Ruggles, whom 
 we all know is a loyal and a true subject 
 of King George. 
 
 “ You may remember, Captain Dun- 
 combe, of the excursion under my Lord 
 Percy, on the thirtieth of last March, 
 when five regiments of King’s-men made 
 a pleasure detour across country, over 
 Jamaica Plain, to the sea town of Dor- 
 chester, and back again to Boston — in all 
 a matter of some ten miles ? ” 
 
 “ I am scarce likely to forget, Mistress 
 Dudley, since, under my Lord Percy, I had 
 the honour of commanding a company of 
 as true soldiers and King’s-men as ever 
 trod these colonies,” answered Duncombe 
 quickly. 
 
 b 2 
 
4 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ I am rare pleased to hear this,” cried 
 Pen, her dark eyes sparkling with excite- 
 ment and pleasure, “ for it marks you as 
 no laggard, sir, in the King’s service.” 
 
 “ Neither laggard in love nor laggard in 
 war, Mistress Penelope, where the cause 
 is worth the effort,” he replied, again look- 
 ing earnestly at Dorothy, “ but I interrupt 
 you unwarrantedly, pray continue your 
 recital.” 
 
 With a toss of her dark head and a 
 short laugh, Pen resumed. 
 
 “ Since you took part in this excursion, 
 methinks you can best tell us how true 
 are the tales told concerning the needless 
 havoc your soldiers made among the 
 farmers’ fields of grain; for on the one 
 side I hear that the early planting suffered 
 sadly from their unnecessary severity; but 
 be that as it may, since you marched with- 
 out baggage and without artillery, you 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 5 
 
 were not within the jurisdiction of the 
 Committee of Safety and their ridiculous 
 laws of protection.” 
 
 “ Perhaps, Pen Dudley,” Anais’ clear 
 voice broke in, “ thou wilt confine thy 
 narrative to facts, thine own additions are 
 correct, I make no doubt, but a bit weari- 
 some.” 
 
 “ Wilt tell the tale thyself, then, Tais, 
 since my rendering of it is scarce polite 
 enough for ears so dainty ? ” cried Pen, 
 her black eyes flashing fire. 
 
 “ In faith I will,” answered the other 
 quietly. “ Monsieur,” — turning towards 
 the young man, — “ in telling such a story 
 one needs the calm of indifference. I am 
 indifferent. I look with unprejudiced eyes 
 on either side, and I wait for victory ere I 
 become a partisan. 
 
 “You will remember how indignant was 
 the King’s parliament last year at the 
 
c> 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 bill sent out for acceptancy, by the General 
 Court of Massachusetts, to obtain the right 
 to procure twelve brass cannon for the 
 state. It may have been a ridiculous 
 request, and surely it met with scorn and 
 rejection at the hands of Lord North; but 
 it would seem that the colonists, nothing 
 daunted by this rebuff, found means to 
 obtain both cannon and ammunition, and 
 to secretly store them at the county-towns 
 of Concord and Worcester. 
 
 “ ’Tis a strange turning of fate’s wheel, 
 monsieur, that this very Worcester should 
 now harbour conspirators against King 
 George, when, barely a hundred years ago, it 
 received its christening as a marked insult 
 to its governor, Sir Edmund Andros, who 
 took office under King Charles I., and who, 
 after the young Prince of Wales fled from 
 the fatal battle-field of the same name, 
 found that office so alluring, that he cut his 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 7 
 
 cloth to suit his needs, and still continued 
 a crown officer under the Prince of Orange. 
 But, of a truth, if we pause to discuss the 
 windings and turnings of a political con- 
 science, we shall never arrive further than 
 where Pen has landed us. 
 
 “ It would seem, monsieur, that Gover- 
 nor Gage had good reason to suspect the 
 hidden cannon, for he sent, disguised, two 
 of iny Lord Percy’s officers to reconnoitre 
 the ground and make themselves cognizant 
 of the people’s sentiments towards his 
 Majesty. 
 
 “ How now, monsieur, you start ? Then 
 this is no news to you ? Or mayhap you 
 were one of those two gallants who found 
 such work compatible with open warfare?” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle mistakes,” answered 
 Duncombe, his handsome face flushing be- 
 neath her cold gaze ; “ nor does she judge 
 aright a soldier’s honour, if she thinks to 
 
8 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 win admission from him of any service lie 
 may have rendered to his sovereign.” 
 
 Anais laughed lightly. 
 
 “ Well parried, monsieur, one must be 
 ready-tongued to try wits with you ; but 
 one may form one’s own conclusions surely, 
 and I choose to believe that you were one 
 of the disguised officers who played a part 
 under Lord Percy’s tutorage.” 
 
 Buncombe made no reply, but the dark 
 flush that had coloured his face did not 
 fade, and he turned impatiently from the 
 mocking glance that accompanied Anais’ 
 words. 
 
 Dot looking upward caught his expres- 
 sion of displeasure, and instinctively turned 
 towards him ; for to help those who were 
 hurt or grieved was little Dot’s first un- 
 conscious impulse. 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur,” she said in her sweet 
 voice, " my sister does but jest ; she knows 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 9 
 
 full well that no taint of duplicity or false- 
 hood can rest against one who bears arms 
 for England ; is it not so, Tais ? ” 
 
 “ So sweet a pleader would win any 
 cause,” murmured tlie young man. “ Ah, 
 Mistress Dorothy, may I always deserve 
 your charity and fervour when I stand in 
 need ! ” 
 
 “ We wander far afield, metliinks,” 
 broke in Pen’s high voice ; “ of a truth we 
 seem to make as sorry progress towards 
 Lexington, as did the colonists when really 
 established there.” 
 
 “Yea, Pen, we loiter by the way,” 
 answered Aniiis, “ but mayhap we shall 
 make up for it, even as did the colonists 
 later on, at Concord. However, not to 
 tarry for splitting straws with thee, I will 
 get on with my story. 
 
 “ I do not know, monsieur, what success 
 these two officers met with or what secrets 
 
10 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 they discovered, but judging events by 
 results, ’twould seem the news they 
 brought was sufficient for the Governor 
 Gage to lay his plans for a sortie to be 
 made of eight hundred men, under Colonel 
 Smith, who were to seize and destroy the 
 few paltry guns, arms, and munitions that 
 these colonists had stored at Concord. 
 
 “ To make the surprise more complete 
 they were ordered to leave Boston by night, 
 on the eighteenth of April, and to cross 
 the Charles river in the squadron boats, 
 that lay convenient at the water-edge of 
 the common ; and, having landed at Lech- 
 mere’s Point, to make way across the 
 salt-marshes, and thus strike the high-road 
 near Menotomy. 
 
 “ A clever plan, monsieur, truly, but, 
 like many another scheme, foiled in the 
 most simple manner by the first step taken. 
 
 “ As I have told you, I look on with un- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 11 
 
 prejudiced eyes ; my heart beats no trifle 
 faster for either side in the coming struggle, 
 therefore my sensibilities are not stirred 
 from out their usual calm.” 
 
 Buncombe turned from her abruptly ; 
 her light cold voice angered him ; her 
 cool keen eyes, that never fell before his, 
 aroused within him feelings of revenge. 
 
 “Nay, but the day shall come, when I 
 will make your proud heart ache and throb 
 for a King’s-man,” he muttered. 
 
 Aniiis continued, 
 
 “There was in Boston, monsieur, one pair 
 of eyes that never slept and that nothing 
 escaped ; just as there was one heart that 
 beat only for the cause of freedom and the 
 right of justice. Methinks you listened to 
 his voice, and heard his burning words, 
 and beheld his wondrous influence, when 
 he spoke on Massacre Day. It is Joseph 
 Warren that I mean, and ’tis owing to his 
 
12 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 forethought that the note of warning was 
 sounded, which brought together all the 
 minute-men from the country round, and 
 lost Governor Gage something more than 
 his temper. 
 
 “For Doctor Warren, returning from a 
 meeting of the Provincial Congress at Con- 
 cord, noted, on the sixteenth of April, that 
 the transport boats, which all winter long 
 had been laid up in dock, were launched, 
 and that busy hands were putting them 
 to rights. 
 
 “ A straw marks the run of the current, 
 or a feather the quarter of the wind, and 
 here lay straw and feather, side by side, 
 that even a dullard might read the signs. 
 And what does Doctor Warren do when he 
 has read his riddle, think you, monsieur?” 
 
 “ Nay, mademoiselle, that is for you to 
 reveal to me. You forget, perchance, that 
 one who acts has little time for discover- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 13 
 
 ing motives, or counter-moves, upon the 
 enemy’s side.” 
 
 “ Of a truth, monsieur, I had forgot that 
 you took any part in the tale, save that of 
 listener. 
 
 “Well, then, Doctor Warren adds mys- 
 tery to mystery, for, on reaching his own 
 home, he sends for another spirit as ardent 
 as his own, and another heart as brave, if 
 not so rash. 
 
 “ I question, monsieur, if in the days to 
 come, when all I now relate to you has 
 become dim and unreal; when all bitter- 
 ness is washed away in peace ; when all 
 party strife has become but friendly rivalry, 
 and all wrongs have been redressed by 
 leniency and time — I question, I say, if 
 any figures, or any deed, will ever stand out 
 more heroically or nobly, than the figures 
 of Paul Revere and his brave white charger, 
 and their midnight ride together.” 
 
14 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Doest remember, Dot, we have heard 
 his name before,” cried out Pen, “ in our 
 own meeting-house at Oldtown ? ’Twas 
 Kobert Newman said his name, when he 
 brought the parchment to Parson Barnard 
 containing the nouvelles of Colonel Leslie’s 
 approach.” 
 
 “Yea, Pen, I mind me of the name, 
 though I heard it not at that time.” 
 
 “ Ma certes ! I forgot thou art a Papist, 
 Dot,” Pen answered shortly. 
 
 “ Thou often forgettest many things that 
 ’twere better thou didst not, Pen,” answered 
 Anais very coldly. 
 
 Penelope shrugged her round shoulders 
 and made a slight grimace, but answered 
 nothing. It was always a difficult matter 
 to reply to Anais when she spoke in that 
 quietly cutting tone. 
 
 There followed a moment’s silence ere 
 Mademoiselle de Glrasse took up the tale. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “ Now this Paul Revere, monsieur, is not 
 made of the clay which we look for in 
 heroes ; he is not de notre classe, he is but 
 one of the people, an artisan — a simple 
 young copper-smith, beating out his metals 
 at so many shillings a week — but an enthu- 
 siast, and we know to what heights of pa- 
 triotism the grand gift of enthusiasm may 
 lead one. All last winter, through snow 
 and rain, cold and damp, he formed one 
 of a little band of thirty mechanics, from 
 the north end, who made it their special 
 duty to patrol, in turn, the streets of Boston, 
 and make report concerning the movements 
 of his Majesty’s subjects to Doctor Warren. 
 
1C 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ I make no comment here npon the 
 fairness or honesty of this proceeding ; 
 there is an old saw, that all is fair in love 
 and war, and perchance Mister Paul Revere 
 made use of it to soothe his conscience if 
 it e’er troubled him. It was this young 
 man then for whom Doctor Warren sent, 
 and who appeared before him — slight, up- 
 right, keen-eyed and broad-browed, with 
 dark hair brushed and braided ; wearing a 
 coat of buckskin and long boots of un- 
 tanned leather. A fine face, monsieur, and 
 one to be trusted, as Doctor Warren found. 
 
 “ To Revere he unfolded the movements 
 and preparations he had noticed going on 
 among the boats, and to him was entrusted 
 a pressing message of expediency for 
 Doctor Warren’s colleagues, Mister Han- 
 cock and Mister Adams, then at Lexington. 
 On his return from these two gentlemen, 
 Revere halted in Charlestown, and sought 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 17 
 
 out Colonel Conant and other like patriots ; 
 with them he arranged a plan so simple 
 that it could scarce be dignified by so 
 grand a title as strategy; to wit, that 
 should his Majesty’s contingent go forth 
 from Boston by night and by water , a sig- 
 nal of two lanthorns should be slung high 
 in the bell-tower of the South Church ; but 
 if the troops moved out across the land — 
 one light only should be displayed. He 
 then returned to Boston, and waited with 
 Joseph Warren for the denouement of the 
 scheme. 
 
 “ Doubtless you, monsieur, know best in 
 what anxiety and perturbation passed the 
 next two days ; for all Monday and Tuesday 
 the Governor Gage remained inactive, and 
 the empty boats rocked, idly on the calm 
 surface of Charles’ river. But further up 
 country ready hands and stout hearts 
 worked untiringly, and ere the sun set on 
 
 vol. ir. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the second day, the cannon, the arms, the 
 ammunition of Concord were dispersed, 
 and safely stored elsewhere. 
 
 “ And ’twould seem not a moment too 
 soon, for on that same Tuesday evening, 
 the eighteenth, of April, Doctor Warren 
 discovered that Colonel Smith and his 
 men were stealthily embarking under cover 
 of the twilight. One word brought Paul 
 Revere, and five minutes sufficed to give 
 him instructions ; in ten he was booted 
 and spurred and on his way to Lexington. 
 He made but one halt, and that was to 
 call on a friend, the very Robert Newman, 
 Pen, that thou recallest ; he is sexton of 
 Christ Church, hard by the North Meeting- 
 house, and he readily agreed to hang out 
 the signals in the old belfrey. 
 
 “ Then Revere was rowed quietly, by his 
 own men, across the river to Charlestown, 
 and as he entered the little township, he 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 19 
 
 could see the two gleaming lights shining 
 like large stars, conveying so wonderful a 
 message in their beams. 
 
 “ Other eyes had also seen and under- 
 stood, for as Revere leapt ashore he was 
 met by Colonel Conant and Mister Richard 
 Devens; the latter had but just returned 
 from a safety council, and had a tale to 
 tell of meeting a party of his Majesty’s 
 officers riding towards Lexington from 
 Cambridge. Doubtless they had dined in 
 the little village, and were intending to 
 establish an advance guard, to prevent all 
 communications betwixt the rebel colonists 
 in Boston and the provincial towns. 
 
 J£ But, monsieur, he who tarries for so 
 gross a cause as dinner, when on a mission 
 of love or war, deserves to fail. I warrant 
 me, Captain Buncombe was not among the 
 number?” 
 
 As she said this, Anais smiled so gently 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and so coyly into the young man’s face, 
 that all his anger and pique fell from him 
 under the spell of her unwonted gentle- 
 ness. He bowed in some confusion, but 
 found no ready words to answer her, and 
 after a moment’s pause she continued. 
 
 “ ’Twas eleven o’clock that night, 
 monsieur, when Paul Revere was astride 
 his good white horse, and riding quietly 
 out of Charlestown. You will remembey 
 how fair and mild was the weather, and 
 that already the silver moon was up and 
 shining brightly. 
 
 “Not a favourable hour to pass unseen on 
 any errand, and of a truth Revere had a 
 narrow escape even on the threshold of his 
 journey; for as he passed the spot where 
 tradition points the tragedy of Mark the 
 traitor, he met with two British officers, 
 who, also mounted, tried hard to capture 
 him ; but his fine beast stood him in good 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 21 
 
 stead, and at one touch, of the sharp spur 
 bounded past their detaining hands and 
 flew down the white road, straight as an 
 arrow shot from a true bowman’s hand. 
 
 “ At Medford he awaked the captain of 
 the minute-men, and from thence to Lex- 
 ington he aroused every household. The 
 church-clock struck midnight as he drew 
 rein before Lexington meeting-house, and, 
 flinging himself from off his horse, sought 
 Mister Hancock and Mister Adams, who, 
 along with his reverence Mister Clarke, 
 were deep in consultation. 
 
 “ Here also came William Dawes, a friend 
 and fellow-labourer of Paul Revere’s, who 
 had travelled by another route bearing 
 despatches from Doctor Warren. 
 
 “Their consultation was short, tlieir plans 
 soon laid, and shortly after one o’clock 
 Revere, Dawes, and Doctor Prescott were 
 galloping abreast, through the night, to 
 
22 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Concord. Perchance had one of their 
 number not lingered at the blind god’s 
 shrine, the sequel had been less sad. 
 
 “ But who can resist when Cupid calls ? 
 Not Doctor Prescott, ’twould seem, 4 high 
 son of liberty ’ as he claimed to be ; for 
 tarry he must to snatch a kiss from his 
 sweetheart’s lips, and to wipe the tears 
 from his sweetheart’s eyes, ere ever he 
 joined the other two, who owned no lover 
 but patriotism, and scorned all less stern 
 mistresses. 
 
 “On they rode, their horses’ iron-shod 
 hoofs ringing in chorus on the stony road. 
 In each small hamlet was the story told ; 
 at each wayside farm or humble cabin the 
 like tale entered, related in brief syllables, 
 without dismounting, almost without 
 drawing rein ; and gradually in the east 
 the first, pale light of early dawn appeared. 
 My lady moon was looking wan and weary; 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 23 
 
 the bare tree-branches, scarcely budding 
 yet, stood out in myriad fine dark lines 
 against the cold grey sky ; in the topmost 
 boughs a mother-bird uttered some plain- 
 tive lullaby to her nurslings ; and still the 
 iron hoofs beat the hard road, and still the 
 three spectral figures, wearing each so pale 
 and determined a countenance, sped on- 
 ward to where Concord lay, nestled close 
 by the river-side. 
 
 “ Presently, as they rode in silence, a 
 large dark building loomed upon them, 
 and finding it a goodly-sized homestead 
 and farm, they paused to awaken its 
 master ; but already the grey light in the 
 east was deepening into warmer tints, and 
 young Revere, feeling the day not yet 
 won, left his companions at the house-door 
 and pushed on alone. 
 
 “ ’Twas a rash move, monsieur, for as he 
 passed a grove of trees, a party of King’s 
 
24 
 
 OBD boston. 
 
 officers sprang from the ambush and sur- 
 rounded him. 
 
 “’Twas useless plying spur or whip ; the 
 brave animal was spent ; his nostrils 
 dropped blood; his white sides heaved 
 and steamed ; his legs trembled ; in dumb 
 appeal he turned his handsome head from 
 side to side, uttering short sharp cries of 
 daunted spirit and pain. Paul Revere 
 respected his poor beast’s agony, and with 
 the courage of a good heart surrendered 
 himself a prisoner. 
 
 “ Slowly the little band marched back 
 to Lexington, where already the troops, 
 of which Revere had given warning, were 
 seen advancing on the high-road ; as they 
 entered the town, the day broke and the 
 sun arose.” 
 
 Anais paused. Not one of her three 
 listeners but felt their hearts glow and 
 burn within them at this recital of bravery 
 and danger. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 25 
 
 Young Duncombe, hostile though he 
 was to the colonist cause, had all an 
 Englishman’s appreciation of a gallant 
 deed undertaken at the expense of life 
 and freedom; and added to this he felt 
 the spell of Anais’ narration, given, as it 
 was, so graphically, yet with so little 
 emotion. 
 
 Dorothy had grown very pale. She sat 
 still and upright, her hands clasped, her 
 bosom heaving in short quick breathing; 
 on her cheeks lay two tears, bright as 
 crystal drops, but she knew it not; and 
 Duncombe, gazing at her, felt his soul torn 
 with distraction between the sweet sensi- 
 bility of the one sister and the graceful 
 composure of the other. 
 
 Pen Dudley alone was unmoved ; her 
 nature was not easily swayed by any 
 passion save her own self-love. Her dark 
 eyes gleamed shrewdly from face to face, 
 and noted well each expression, laying 
 
2G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 up in the store-house of memory the 
 lessons thus garnered. Presently her 
 sharp voice broke across the momentary 
 silence, startling each into the cognizance 
 of the others’ presence. 
 
 “ And pray, This, what became of 
 Mister Dawes and the amorous Prescott, 
 when your paragon of a young Revere 
 was so worthily captured by our good 
 King’s-men ? Did they esdape ? I’ll 
 warrant me they did, for trust Doctor 
 Prescott of Lexington to provide in time 
 for his own safety.” 
 
 “ Thou art right, Pen. Love lends 
 wings to his votaries, we know, and sure 
 Doctor Prescott must have been a rare 
 favourite with Cupid, since, in the confu- 
 sion, he rode off unseen, and made good 
 his way without loss of time to Concord. 
 
 “And now, monsieur, followed the battle, 
 if by such a name it may be dignified, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 27 
 
 which, gave to us the honour of your 
 presence. Methinks that at this point I 
 must lay down the part of raconteuse, and 
 crave permission to place it in abler hands 
 than mine. Since you were there and 
 took action on the little green before the 
 Lexington meeting-house, sure you best 
 can give us news of that day. Mine 
 would be but the rechauffe of another’s 
 banquet, and who would choose the latter 
 when ’twas but a matter of preference? ” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle flatters me,” replied 
 Duncombe, “ but a soldier knows no law 
 save that of obedience to his superior 
 officer. I comply with your request, 
 mademoiselle.” 
 
28 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 “ ’Twas but little past sunrise, mesdames, 
 when, under Colonel Smith and Major 
 Pitcairn, our troops neared Lexington. 
 As we approached we could see upon the 
 village-green a strange assortment of 
 men already drawn up in rank and file, 
 and seemingly under fairly good com- 
 mand. They wore no uniforms, but they 
 were armed, and they bore the set deter- 
 mined look of men bent upon earnest 
 work, such as I have noted often on the 
 battle-fields of Arcot and Dettingen. 
 
 “ Our progress from Boston had been 
 so slow that I, for one, was scarce sur- 
 prised to find the minute-men, from all 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 29 
 
 the country-side, had preceded us and 
 were arrayed against us, though Colonel 
 Smith expressed in stronger language than 
 would suit your gentle ears his feelings 
 upon the matter. 
 
 “ Under Captain Parker, of the French 
 wars, the American colonists made no 
 mean appearance ; though of a truth 
 ’twas folly to suppose they e’er could 
 withstand the attack of men, not only 
 three times their number, but trained in 
 all the stern exigencies of real warfare. 
 
 “ Our orders from Governor Gage were 
 explicit ; we were not to fire unless fired 
 upon, and to keep our ranks in order and 
 composure. I have since heard that 
 Parker delivered the same commands to 
 the men under him; and of a surety I 
 know our Major Pitcairn struck down his 
 own sword as a signal to his men to re- 
 frain. As we entered the other end of 
 
30 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the green, and each party neared the 
 other, the superior strength of his 
 Majesty’s forces became apparent to all. 
 At word from Colonel Smith, Major Pit- 
 cairn, with a body of soldiers, advanced 
 quickly, and called out loudly so that all 
 might hear : e Disperse, ye rebels ! Dis- 
 perse ! ’ 
 
 “ But these words did not seem greatly 
 to disturb our antagonists, for they only 
 drew closer together and stood up gal- 
 lantly to our charge. A rare scene of con- 
 fusion followed, mesdames, and in the 
 midst a sharp report sounded, accompanied 
 by a flash of fire. 
 
 “ ’Twas useless to talk of restraint then, 
 our men declared they saw a flash in the 
 pan from Parker’s side, and were but too 
 eager for the fray, and, in spite of com- 
 mand or order, an answering retort was 
 made, while in less time than I can tell it 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 31 
 
 we were engaged in a sudden sharp en- 
 counter. 
 
 “ I know but little more, for even as 
 I led my company a bullet well-aimed 
 struck me, and I fell to the earth, and 
 from sudden pain fainted. When I re- 
 covered, the day was far spent ; my com- 
 rades were gone; Hay alone and forgotten 
 under a tree, while over the little green 
 the women were moving slowly, weeping 
 and seeking their dead. From them I 
 learned that we had gained the small vic- 
 tory, and that Colonel Smith had pushed 
 on to Concord, hoping to reap greater 
 glory there. 
 
 “ Considering my position an insecure 
 one, and finding my wound like to prove 
 troublesome. I made what speed I could 
 to reach Concord, but owing to misdirec- 
 tion I lost my way, and found myself, on 
 the evening of the twentieth, approaching 
 
32 
 
 OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 a large mansion guarded by a wood of 
 maple-trees. I moved cautiously towards 
 the dwelling, from which I heard the wel- 
 come sound of voices, and could see the 
 hospitable gleam of lights. 
 
 “ A vision seemed to arise before my 
 eyes as I gained the garden-path — a 
 vision of youth, loveliness, and grace, com- 
 bined with all the cardinal virtues. 
 Weary, giddy, fasting, I made one effort 
 more, and fell at the gracious feet of an 
 angel, who bent over me and murmured 
 kindly words of protection. 
 
 “Who was that angel, Mademoiselle 
 de Grasse, and to whose care I owe my 
 present health and strength, methinks I 
 have no need to say. She who walks in 
 grace, and distributes kindest actions in her 
 daily life, is of a surety known more in- 
 timately to you than to me, who must 
 needs worship afar off.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 33 
 
 The young officer ended abruptly and 
 ■with visible emotion. He had spoken 
 honestly and from his heart, and for once 
 let fall the coat of self-confidence that 
 enwrapt him. 
 
 Dorothy had arisen in sweet confusion, 
 and stood before him, the violets on 
 her bosom quivering from her startled 
 breathing. 
 
 “ Monsieur, monsieur ! ” she cried in 
 her young pathetic voice. “You make 
 too much of my small service. You cover 
 me with sad shame. Tais,” — with a sudden 
 quick movement towards her sister, — 
 “ speak thou for me. Thou knowest 
 ’twas nought I did. ’Twas but common 
 courtesy to one so ill and sore distressed. 
 Tres-chere, speak thou for me ! ” 
 
 “ Of a truth, Captain Duncombe, you 
 cover us both with confusion,” responded 
 Anais in her cold but gentle tones. “ To 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 n 
 
34 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Frenchwomen ’tis but second nature to 
 treat with compassion all who fall in their 
 path and who have need of care. 
 
 “And now, mes amis, who amongst us 
 can take up the tale and complete it P Not 
 you, monsieur, it would seem, since you 
 lay betwixt Nanon’s lavender-scented bed- 
 linen, subjected to her humours ; and not 
 I, since my knowledge of facts goes no 
 further, and what I know not of a surety, 
 ’twere best not to repeat. Thou, Pen, 
 canst thou continue the narrative ? ” 
 
 “ There remains but scant and unsatis- 
 factory nouvelles to detail,” answered 
 Penelope rather shortly, “and ’twere as 
 well for those who are loyal to the King 
 not to recount them.” 
 
 “ How now, Pen,” laughed Anais, “ hast 
 thou turned unwilling prattler ? Nay, but 
 at Manor Farm we are as neutral as King 
 Louis himself, and our old walls have no 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 35 
 
 tongues to repeat to colonist or King’s 
 man the treason they may hear. Take 
 up the tale then, Pen, and have no 
 fear.” 
 
 “As thou wilt, Anais,” answered Pen, 
 “ but 1 take Captain Duncombe to wit- 
 ness that I am an unwilling recounter 
 of the scenes my tongue must needs 
 picture.” 
 
 “ Mistress Penelope may rest assured 
 she needs no warranty save her own 
 loyalty, to condone what her nature deems 
 disloyal to the King’s cause.” 
 
 “ I pray thee, Pen, make no more to do 
 upon the subject,” broke in Anais haughtily, 
 “ but get thee on with thy tale. Ma foi ! 
 dost think King George hears and har- 
 bours every wayward word repeated by 
 each silly wench within his Majesty’s 
 domains ? ” 
 
 Penelope drew her dark brows together, 
 d 2 
 
3G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and the colour flew to her sallow cheeks, 
 but without further remonstrance she pro- 
 ceeded, though unwillingly, to conclude 
 the narrative. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 37 
 
 CHAPTEB IV. 
 
 “ After the light skirmish at Lexington, 
 where you, Captain Duncombe, bore a 
 part, Colonel Smith hurried on his men to 
 Concord, where he judged, and rightly, 
 the contraband ammunitions of the colo- 
 nists were stored, but before he marched 
 he sent back to Governor Gage to reinforce 
 him with my Lord Percy’s company. 
 
 “ ’Tis but fair to say that by this time 
 all the country-side seemed to have started 
 into life. The minute-men of every sec- 
 tion for thirty miles around were pouring 
 down towards Concord, and as Colonel 
 Smith and Major Pitcairn entered the 
 township, the colonist forces from Lincoln 
 
38 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 were joining those of Concord, who, under 
 Colonel Barrett, had withdrawn to a hill 
 some eighty rods behind the village. 
 
 “If I mistake not, Mistress Dudley,” 
 interrupted the young officer, “ ’twas this 
 same Colonel Barrett who, by order of the 
 Provincial Congress, had employed his 
 time in secreting the stores, arms, and 
 ordnance collected by the rebels ? ” 
 
 “ The very same,” answered Pen with 
 a short laugh, “ and very soon he found it 
 impossible to retain his position against 
 the King’s troops, who far outeounted his 
 paltry number ; therefore he withdrew 
 across the Concord river where they could 
 watch the royal troops assemble in the 
 village.” 
 
 “ Methinks, Pen,” again interrupted 
 Anais, “ that Colonel Smith of the British 
 column but illy spent his time in the little 
 township, since he gave free leave to all his 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 39 
 
 buccaneers to destroy and demolish the 
 few scant stores, the wooden trenchers, 
 and pewter mugs that the humble com- 
 missariat of the colonists boasted of, as 
 well as the three brass cannon left behind 
 them in their distress. I am neutral, mon- 
 sieur; I judge from an unbiased position. 
 What think you, does a soldier cease to be 
 a gentleman when he changes his court 
 dress for the red coat ? And in assuming 
 a different garb does he adopt a different 
 code of morals as well ? ” 
 
 “ Mademoiselle de Grasse is of a truth 
 severe,” replied Duncombe, his face calm, 
 but his voice trembling a little. “ She is 
 as much above us all in her altitude of in- 
 difference, as she is in her beauty. Per- 
 chance were she to be moved by deep 
 emotions, she too might understand and 
 pardon such acts as are the outcome of 
 strong party feeling.” 
 
40 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Perchance, monsieur,” she answered 
 very coldly. “ But, methinks, I should 
 scarce forget, at any time, the meaning of 
 the two small words, honour and generosity. 
 Wilt continue, Pen ? ” 
 
 Penelope resumed her story. 
 
 “ The colonist company on the hill above 
 the north bridge soon heard shots that 
 echoed from the town below, which told, 
 even to their doubting ears, that King 
 George’s men feared no enemy or rebel. 
 The court-house was in flames, and the 
 pretty village was soon a sorry sight. 
 Doubtless it had been better if young 
 Laurie, under whom our King’s-men were 
 stationed at the north bridge, had held 
 back the impetuosity of his men ; for no 
 sooner did the colonists see their town 
 in flames than they determined to 
 advance upon us. Their little army was 
 composed of the Lincoln minute-men, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 41 
 
 enforced by those of every township in 
 Middlesex. 
 
 “ Under Captain Davis a company 
 volunteered to clear the bridge, and I 
 leave you to say what like was their 
 charge, with Davis at their head calling 
 out lustily to our men, 
 
 “ ' Back ! back ! I tell ye ! There is 
 not a man in my company that is afraid ! ’ 
 “ And he was followed by Colonel 
 Barrett and his men, who, ere he attacked 
 us, had heart of grace first to order his 
 men not to fire on his Majesty’s troops, 
 though he called out loudly, 
 
 “ £ How now, this is the King’s highway, 
 and we have a right to march upon it, if 
 we march to Boston ! Forward then, my 
 men, forward ! March ! ’ 
 
 “ And then they struck up on their fifes 
 and drums, as quick as ever they could 
 pipe, the tune of “ The White Cockade.” 
 
42 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Captain Laurie lost his head and recrossed 
 the bridge, while our Major Barrett hur- 
 ried upon it, and as they neared the rebels 
 they fired three volleys upon them. Davis 
 fell dead, and by his side young Hosmer. 
 At sight of this loss the militia fired with 
 energy, and the King’s-men retreated 
 across the bridge followed closely by the 
 rebels, who pushed each small advantage 
 with surprising ability. Here Colonel 
 Parsons, collecting his troops, rejoined the 
 main body of King’s-men, and after a hur- 
 ried consultation with Colonel Smith, they 
 decided not to push further, but to give 
 up the attack upon Concord, and so, 
 gathering together all their forces, they 
 placed the wounded in carriages, and 
 started on their way back to Boston.” 
 
 “ The cowards ! ” cried young Dun- 
 combe, his face flushing crimson. “ Trai- 
 tors to their King and country, since they 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 43 
 
 allowed an untutored throng of rebels to 
 cause them a retreat worse than a battle 
 ending in defeat. Oh, to have been there ! 
 But where was my Lord Percy ? Surely 
 not all these hours on his march from 
 Boston, a bare halfscore miles at best ? ” 
 “Aye, Captain Duncombe, where in- 
 deed ? ” answered Pen slowly. “ ’Twas nine 
 of the clock on the morning of the nine- 
 teenth when Lord Percy and his men as- 
 sembled in Tremont Street, and marched 
 out of Boston. He came gaily enough 
 through Roxbury, with colours flying and 
 fifes and drums playing, but ’twas three 
 o’clock on the afternoon of the twentieth 
 ere he reached Lexington, where he en- 
 countered Colonel Smith and his retreating 
 column, who informed him of the issue 
 of the day at Concord. Lord Percy had 
 met with many mishaps, and had wandered 
 for miles out of his way. 
 
44 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ At Cambridge, where he had to cross 
 the river. Colonel Heath had removed the 
 planks from the bridge, and his heavy 
 waggons, replete with stores, were of ne- 
 cessity left behind, and after this opening 
 contretemps he met with foul play, intrigue, 
 and misdirection on every side at the hands 
 of the rebel colonists, who thought it brave 
 and virtuous work to harass and impede 
 one of the King’s officers. Leaving all be- 
 hind him, save a few tried men, he pressed 
 on to Concord, and, faith, so spent were 
 they with hunger and thirst, that they fell 
 upon the way-side grass, their tongues 
 lolling from their mouths like dogs.” 
 
 “ Hot a dainty picture for thee, maDot,” 
 said Anais, noticing the white cheeks of 
 her young sister, “ but in these days, petite, 
 we women must learn to bear, and bear 
 bravely, all sights and sounds that have to 
 do with war and its horrors. We shall 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 45 
 
 see and hear many such ere ever this 
 question be settled.” 
 
 “You are scarcely in atune with his 
 Majesty’s cause, mademoiselle,” cried 
 young Duncombe hotly, “ since you dignify 
 so paltry an outburst by the title of war. 
 Think you all men are such as Colonel 
 Smith ? Give me but tenscore men, and 
 I will wager my name that I quench this 
 smoking flax in as many hours.” 
 
 “ Doubtless, monsieur,” replied Anais, 
 with a low, sweeping curtsey, “ and sure it 
 is a pity, that ’tis one of genius’ most com- 
 mon attributes to bloom unseen and un- 
 recognized. Methinks Lord Percy dealt 
 in the same patriotic sentiments as he 
 marched his eight hundred men out from 
 Boston. But, alas ! even his name and 
 his talents could not save his rebuff at the 
 hands of the colonists. How, think you, 
 marched he home again ? ” 
 
46 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ I know full well to what tune lie 
 marched forth, Tais,” cried out Pen, “ and 
 faith it must have been a rare scene that 
 day in Roxbury, when, in face of colonists 
 and King’s -men, he ordered his bandmen 
 to strike up the rebel tune of ‘Yankee 
 Doodle.’ Methinks the so-called patriots 
 wore but sorry visages that day.” 
 
 “ And how, think ye, looked the King’s- 
 men, Pen, when my Lord Percy and 
 Colonel Smith rode back again through 
 Roxbury’ s streets, with feathers drooping 
 and flags furled, and all their gay music 
 silenced ? 
 
 “Ma certes, monsieur, some there be 
 who speak truths in jests, and the petit 
 vaurien prophesied wisely that my lord 
 would return piping another tune. 
 
 “Would you know to what song his 
 home-coming was welcomed? ’Tis one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 47 
 
 but too well known, in the annals of 
 N or thumberland . ’ ’ 
 
 With a slight laugh Anais moved to the 
 harpsichord, and struck the opening notes 
 of “ Chevy Chase her voice rang out 
 clearly in the words of the old ballad. 
 
 “ God profper long our noble King, 
 
 Who lives and fafeties all. 
 
 A woeful hunting once there did 
 In Chevy Chafe befall. 
 
 “ To drive the deer with hounds and horn 
 Earl Percy took his way ; 
 
 The child may rue that is unborn 
 The hunting of that day. 
 
 “ Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 
 
 His men in armour bright, 
 
 Eull twenty thoufand Scottilh fpears, 
 
 All marching in our fight. 
 
 4 ‘All men of pleafant Tiverdale, 
 
 Eaft by the River Tweed; 
 
 Then ceafe your fports, Earl Percy faid, 
 
 And take your bows inftead. 
 
48 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ The fight did laft from break of day 
 Till fetting of the fun, 
 
 Tor when they rang the evening bell 
 The battle fcarce was done. 
 
 “ Sad tidings to King Henry came 
 Within fo fhort a fpace, 
 
 That Percy of Northumberland 
 Was ilain in Chevy Chafe. 
 
 “ God fave the King and blefs the land 
 In plenty, joy, and peace, 
 
 And grant henceforth that foul debate 
 ’Twixt noblemen may ceafe.” 
 
 As she finished the song Anais looked 
 up and caught sight of Captain Duncombe’s 
 face. He was very pale, save for two 
 burning spots of crimson on either cheek ; 
 his blue eyes were flashing beneath his 
 gathered brows ; his mouth was firmly 
 closed. He made no comment upon song 
 or songstress ; his usually gallant speech 
 was silenced. 
 
 A pause followed after the last note died 
 away under Anais’ s white fingers. No one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 49 
 
 dared to speak. Penelope looked on with 
 malicious pleasure at the passions evoked 
 by the strains of the old border ballad, 
 and Anais trembled as she caught the 
 pale cold gleam that shot from the young 
 officer’s eyes and rested upon her. 
 
 It was little Dot who spoke — little Dot 
 in her sweet young voice, and raising her 
 innocent young eyes to Duncombe. 
 
 “ Monsieur, I never hear my This sing 
 that ancient refrain but I consider on that 
 brave Sir Philip Sidney, who tells us that 
 he ne’er read or heard it but his heart 
 stirred within him as ’twere to the sound 
 of a trumpet note. Sure my Lord Percy 
 needed no more honourable battle- song to 
 cheer him on his return.” 
 
 Like a chord of sweetest melody coming 
 across the stormy refrain of a wild baccha- 
 nale, fell the words of Dorothy. She had 
 passed by unwittingly the evil passions 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 that prompted the song, or were aroused by 
 it, and gathering together only the beauty 
 and nobility of its burden, unconsciously 
 averted the storm ready to burst. 
 
 Captain Duncombe turned towards her 
 impetuously, and taking her hand in his, 
 kissed it passionately. 
 
 “Mistress Dorothy,” he cried, “I ask 
 no greater boon of fate than to have you 
 ever as my advocate and pleader. Your 
 words fall like balm upon my angry heart.” 
 Anais also had arisen and joined her 
 sister, resting one hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 “ Thou art of a truth a rare peacemaker, 
 ma colombette,” she said, in a gentle voice, 
 made tender by suppressed emotion, “ my 
 daisy-flower that sees nought but its own 
 white innocence in all things. Monsieur, 
 we may surely leave our trifling disagree- 
 ments in my sister’s keeping ; methinks 
 neither you nor I will suffer at her hands.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 51 
 
 But little Dot sat very still and silent. 
 Her eyes were lowered ; tlie hot kisses 
 burnt like living coals upon her hand. 
 For the first time in her young life a man’s 
 lips had touched her, and their pressure 
 aroused within her maiden soul the full 
 meaning of that passion which sooner or 
 latter awakes girlhood into womanhood. 
 
 That hour had come for Dorothy. 
 
 With Gilderoy Duncombe’s kisses her 
 heart awoke from its pure sleep of sixteen 
 years, and, throwing off girlhood’s fetters, 
 leapt gladly towards the untried passion 
 and pain of maturity. 
 
 When at last she came from out the 
 enchanted land, and dared to raise her tell- 
 tale eyes to those near her, it was Dun- 
 combe’s they caught and held, and he, 
 looking into their pure depths, read only 
 too plainly the secret they so illy con- 
 cealed. 
 
 e 2 
 
52 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Anais was speaking, her hand on Dot’s 
 shoulder; Anais, all unconscious that her 
 little sister’s heart had passed from out 
 her keeping, and that never, never again 
 could she be first therein. 
 
 “ I will tell the ending of it all, mon- 
 sieur,” she was saying, “ and in good sooth 
 I can do it rarely well, for my own eyes 
 beheld it. 
 
 “ ’Twas close on curfew hour, and the 
 sun was fast setting, when we in Boston 
 got the word of Colonel Smith’s and my 
 Lord Percy’s retreat ; great was the con- 
 fusion and rare the excitement ; one say- 
 ing all the King’s-men were wounded or 
 slain, another that the colonists had not 
 one left from out their number that was 
 not killed or made prisoner. We hurried 
 out upon the Beacon Hill to watch the 
 in-coming of his Majesty’s troops. 
 
 “ The evening came on apace, and ’twas 
 already growing dark ere wo could per- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 53 
 
 ceive tlie head of the column crossing 
 Charlestown Neck, and as the night ad- 
 vanced, and the stars appeared, the flash 
 of the muskets marked their road betwixt 
 Cambridge and Charlestown, while as far 
 away as Menotomy, Lord Percy’s fine field- 
 pieces lit up the sky with fire as he un- 
 burdened them ; and in faith ’twas here 
 that Doctor Warren, in his boldness ventur- 
 ing too near, got his gold ear-pin shot away, 
 as clean as though cut by the leech’s lancet. 
 
 “And, indeed, for a brief space ’twas 
 uncertain but that the fighting would begin 
 again ; for Colonel Heath was in command 
 of the provincials, aided by Danver’s com- 
 pany, while our Colonel Pickering of Old- 
 town was fast advancing with his Essex 
 regiment ; but, though we waited in much 
 perturbation, no further firing followed, 
 and by early dawn the King’s troops were 
 safe ferried back to Boston and resting in 
 their barracks. 
 
54 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ All night long, however, the American 
 patriots were marching clown towards 
 Cambridge, and the King’s sentries on this 
 side Charlestown Neck, and Colonel Heath’s 
 on the other, as they lay on their arms, 
 could hear the steady, onward march of 
 the minute-men, who sprang, indeed, 
 ’twould seem, from out the bowels of the 
 earth, so sudden was their advent ; and 
 when the sun arose, monsieur, no mean 
 army of colonists was established in old 
 Cambridge. 
 
 “ That is the ending of the tale as it 
 stands to-day ; the first scene, if you will, 
 in the tragedy that is to be enacted before 
 our eyes. God grant the issue be for 
 right and justice, on whichever side the 
 blind goddess holds the scales.” 
 
 “ Amen,” answered young Duncombe in 
 a low voice. 
 
 There was silence. The spring twilight, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 55 
 
 always fleeting, had died away and left but 
 faint reflections of its pale tints in the 
 western sky ; night was drawing on, the 
 calm, grey night of May, which had not 
 yet acquired the deeper glory of the sum- 
 mer heavens ; the stars were parting the 
 dusky curtains of the sky, and one by one 
 their shining eyes were lighting into 
 deeper sheen the yellow and white crocus- 
 cups in the garden borders. 
 
 Suddenly the door was thrown open ; 
 against a bright background of candle- 
 light, old Nanon’s upright figure stood out 
 in sharp relief, while behind her loomed a 
 darker and taller shadow. Holding her 
 salver in one hand, she sto'od within the 
 door, and, raising her voice, said in her 
 clear, deliberate tones, 
 
 “ Monsieur le Marquis de Ventadore 
 demands audience of you, Mademoiselle de 
 Grasse ! ” 
 
56 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Louis Baptiste Maria, Marquis de Yen- 
 tadore, was one of those ardent spirits to 
 whom weakness and right always strongly 
 appealed. A peer of France, and a grand- 
 nephew of that Madame de Ventadore who 
 acted as gouvernante to Louis XV., and who 
 was his only attendant when the poor little 
 King held his first weary bed of justice, he 
 inherited all the proud French blood of his 
 ancestors, clinging to their traditions and 
 walking in the well-known paths their 
 aristocratic feet had trod. 
 
 He was a Catholic, not only by birth 
 and education, but by conviction and 
 practice ; and if somewhat narrow and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 57 
 
 prejudiced towards those outside his creed, 
 in other matters he was generous and 
 tolerant to a great degree. 
 
 A man of fine and distinguished pre- 
 sence ; albeit his countenance was generally 
 overcast by a brooding melancholy, it was 
 redeemed by its sympathy of expression, 
 by the truth and earnestness of his eyes, 
 and more than all by the rare light of an 
 expressive and peculiarly sweet smile. 
 
 In temperament he was earnest, truthful, 
 loyal, and affectionate, though inclined also 
 to be distrustful, jealous, and exacting. 
 He liked few people ; he loved but two, 
 and he cherished with a Frenchman’s senti- 
 mentality the memory of his dead mother. 
 He uncovered his head when he spoke her 
 name; he treasured and wore about his 
 neck a miniature painted of her as a lovely 
 young bride ; he spent time and money 
 lavishly to keep always fresh before her 
 
58 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 crucifix tlie flowers sfle most loved, the 
 pale and delicate oleander ; he never 
 omitted a visit to her tomb on the anni- 
 versary of her death, and passed the day 
 in strict retirement, praying for her soul. 
 
 In truth, he joined the traits of a Loyola 
 and a De Maintenon. Had he lived in 
 past days he would have led a crusade, or 
 founded an eastern mission in honour of 
 the church ; and in later times might 
 have established a modern St. Cyr for 
 youths of his own rank in life. He was 
 enthusiastic yet cautious, generous yet 
 calculating. 
 
 Unmarried and without family ties, he 
 passed his time up to his twenty-fifth year 
 principally on his own estate in Southern 
 France, with occasional visits to Paris, 
 where he paid his devoirs to the reigning 
 sovereigns. 
 
 It was during the last of these visits 
 
.OLD BOSTON. 
 
 59 
 
 that he fell in with a spirit so like, and yet 
 so unlike, his own that their very con- 
 trarieties drew them into mutual friend- 
 ship, love, and confidence. The young 
 Marquis de la Fayette seemed to mould 
 into completion the character of De Ven- 
 tadore. 
 
 Like him, earnest, true, and with fresh 
 affections, he possessed also a rare strength 
 in judgment, a calmness and coolness of 
 vision remarkable in one so young. The 
 passionate attachment his nature evoked 
 in the heart of De Ventadore was for years 
 its ruling emotion, and was in after-days 
 second only to one other. 
 
 In the year 1772 he had been charged 
 by his old friend and whilom guardian 
 with a delicate mission. Already the storms 
 in France were gathering with portentous 
 force, and during the latter years of 
 Louis XY.’s reign there had been strong 
 
60 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 indications of trouble to come — a trouble 
 so much darker and more terrible, that 
 even the old annals of French history fade 
 and pale before its horrors. 
 
 Thirteen years before, when Louis Bap- 
 tiste was a little lad of twelve years, he 
 was summoned down to the grand salon in 
 the old Chateau of Provence to pay his 
 devoirs to some guests of his mother. 
 
 It was a sunshiny morning in early 
 spring, the sea smiled under the blue 
 heavens, and far away the convent-bell of 
 les Dames fteparatrices sounded the noon- 
 tide Angelus. 
 
 Little Louis, in his velvet doublet and 
 silk hose, heard with pride his little sword, 
 which as seigneur du chateau he wore 
 buckled about his slender waist, knock 
 lightly against each polished step of the 
 oak staircase ; as he reached the broad 
 landing he caught the sound of the Angelus, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 61 
 
 and dropping on his knees clasped his 
 hands, raising his face towards heaven, 
 exclaimed, “ Ave Maria gratia plena;” and 
 thus with a prayer upon his lips, like a 
 knight of old, he entered the presence of 
 his fate. 
 
 Standing by his mother’s side was a little 
 maid of not more than four years ; she was 
 dressed in a little blue satin gown, beneath 
 which her tiny feet peeped out shod in blue 
 brodequins ; a close cap with a frill of lace 
 framed her waving brown hair, which fell 
 all about her shoulders and over her white 
 forehead in clustering ringlets ; her eyes 
 seemed but a reflection of the golden tints 
 in her curls, they flashed so brightly from 
 under their arching brows. 
 
 She was playing with the little bunch of 
 trinkets his mother wore at her girdle, and 
 did not look up from them when the young 
 Chevalier Louis approached. 
 
62 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Seated on a low divan, and resting 
 languidly, as though greatly fatigued, was 
 a very beautiful lady ; her face was exceed- 
 ingly pale, and she had golden hair drawn 
 back from a high brow. On the floor, at 
 her feet, sat another little maid, clothed in 
 a similar little satin gown and mob cap, 
 and having the same marvellous eyes and 
 hair as the small maiden who played so 
 confidently at Madame’s knee. On her left 
 arm, however, she wore a tiny blue bow, 
 and about her neck a slender silver string 
 of praying-beads. 
 
 Behind this group stood an old woman 
 of the peasant class, whose stiff cap and 
 pleated apron bespoke her a Bretonne ; and 
 between the lady on the divan and his 
 mother stood Monsieur le Comte de 
 Grasse, a well-known and well-beloved 
 visitor at the Chateau de Yentadore. 
 
 “Come hither, mon fils,” said bis 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 63 
 
 mother, as the boy hesitated. “ Thou 
 must make of thyself a friend to these 
 little demoiselles. Chere Madame de 
 Grasse, wilt thou not welcome to thy heart 
 my boy ? ” 
 
 The lady on the divan put out a very 
 white hand, on which only her wedding 
 circlet was visible : she had been weeping, 
 and now brushed away a tear before 
 drawing the lad to her. She turned his 
 face up towards hers with both hands, and 
 looked at him earnestly ; then she said, 
 speaking in a marvellously sweet voice, but 
 slowly and as one unfamiliar with the 
 language : 
 
 “ Thou hast a kind face, Louis. Wilt 
 thou be kind to my little ones ? ” 
 
 “ Madame,” replied the little chevalier, 
 placing his hand upon his swoi’d; “the 
 .De Yentadores know but one motto, 
 Corde et manu; with heart and hand, 
 
64 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 madame, will I cherish and protect thy 
 fillettes.” 
 
 At this charming reply the lady wept 
 again, and, turning towards Madame de 
 Yentadore exclaimed, 
 
 “ Ah ! chere madame, what a treasure 
 to possess ! I would the good Lord had 
 vouchsafed to me so brave a son ; yet 
 could I not spare nor part with either of 
 my girls.” 
 
 Madame de Yentadore now called the 
 boy to her, and, placing the little maid’s 
 hand in his, said in her gentle tones, 
 
 “ Louis, this little fillette is like thee, she 
 too has no father : Anais, this is thy little 
 friend, and thou must learn to love each 
 other, since one day, should all go well, 
 thou and he will be betrothed.” 
 
 Anais dropped the golden trinkets, and 
 looked boldly up into the boy’s face. She 
 did not understand Madame’ s words, but 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 65 
 
 she liked the lad who stood before her 
 clothed in his black velvets ; and as the sun, 
 shining through the oriel window, caught 
 at the jewelled hilt of his little sword, she 
 laughed aloud, and, clasping her hands 
 about it, tried with all her childish strength 
 to draw it from the scabbard. 
 
 “ Nay, nay, mam’zelle,” cried Louis 
 hastily; “ tis not for such as thee; thy 
 hands would be torn and wounded at one 
 touch only. ’Tis men who must use the 
 sabre in behalf of Glod and women.” 
 
 “ Va-t’en,” cried the little girl impa- 
 tiently and brokenly. “ Mon papa wore a 
 sabre, and I did ride upon it pick-a-pack 
 when he took it off.” 
 
 Then, with the sudden remembrance of 
 childhood, she darted to the lady on the 
 divan, calling out, 
 
 “ Maman, maman, but where is mon 
 papa and his sabre, his beautiful great 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sabre ? Je le veux ! ” sbe continued, as no 
 one answered her, and stamping her little 
 foot. 
 
 But Madame de Grasse was again in 
 tears, and Madame de Ventadore was offer- 
 ing consolations ; in the tumult no one 
 noticed Anais, who stood amazed at being 
 forgotten. 
 
 “ Je le veux ! ” she cried again, her eyes 
 flashing and turning unconsciously towards 
 Louis. 
 
 “ En verite, mam’zelle ! ” replied the 
 boy gravely; then unbuckling his own 
 sword, he held it out to her with the 
 words, 
 
 “ A votre disposition.” 
 
 Carelessly she laughed, and carelessly 
 she accepted the sacrifice, trotting up and 
 down the long salon astride the minia- 
 ture weapon, while the boy looked on with 
 solemn eyes and grave face. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 67 
 
 Was it the only sacrifice she would 
 demand of him in days to come ? 
 
 And now the baby maid upon the floor 
 began to wail and call out for “ Tiiis, 
 Tais,” with a piteous droop of her rose- 
 bud mouth. In an instant the sword was 
 thrown aside, and Anais flew to the little 
 one. 
 
 Louis picking up the discarded sabre — 
 the greatest and best gift he had to offer — 
 saw her kneeling beside the baby, cooing 
 and caressing her until the little face grew 
 bright and smiling under Tais’ charming 
 influence. 
 
 It was a scene the boy never forgot, and 
 in after-years a vision of the long salon 
 lighted by the bright April sunshine, the 
 little maids in their blue satin gowns like 
 bits of the spring sky, and his abandoned 
 sword lying on the polished floor, would 
 come back to him out of childland, 
 f 2 
 
68 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 when many another event was blurred 
 and indistinct through the veil of 
 memory. 
 
 Later in the day the pale, pretty Ma- 
 dame de Grasse went away, taking Anais 
 with her, but leaving the baby maid, whom 
 they called la petite Dot, under Madame de 
 Yentadore’s protection. Nanon, the child’s 
 nurse, also remained, as did Monsieur le 
 Comte de Grasse, who dined with Madame 
 in the great salon. 
 
 Louis was sent for when the fruits and 
 wines were put upon the table, and the 
 servants had removed the linen cloth for 
 one of finer texture, trimmed with lace 
 and knotted at each corner. 
 
 The Comte drew the boy towards him 
 when they were left alone, and told him 
 gravely and tenderly the story of the little 
 maids. 
 
 “ They are my nieces, Louis,” he said, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 69 
 
 “ the children of my poor brother who died 
 fighting for his King. 
 
 “ Thou wilt be kind to them, mon 
 garcon, since their father is dead, and their 
 mother but an Englishwoman, who seems 
 to have buried, not only her own heart, 
 but her capabilities, in her husband’s 
 grave. When thou art old enough, Louis, 
 we will talk of a closer tie than childish 
 friendship, but for the present it suffices. 
 La petite bebe goes to the good sisters at 
 the convent, while madame ma belle soeur 
 takes Anais to England. The day may 
 come, mon garcon, when I shall ask a 
 favour of thee in their behalf ; what sayest 
 thou, wilt grant it ? ” 
 
 “ Of a surety,” replied the boy earnestly, 
 his dark eyes lighting like stars. 
 
 After that two or three days passed by, 
 during which he tried to be gentle and kind 
 and tender to the baby Dot ; but always 
 
70 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lier wonderful likeness to Anais was a 
 trouble and a pain to him rather than a joy 
 or pleasure. It hurt him to find another 
 soul than Tais’ looking forth from those 
 golden brown eyes, and the pain he felt, 
 when arrested by some peal of baby 
 laughter in which Anais’ voice seemed to 
 resound, was akin to that which older 
 hearts than his have had to bear and make 
 no siam. 
 
 o 
 
 At last la petite Dot went away to the 
 Dames Reparatrices, and he saw her no 
 more. Nanon, too, departed to join her 
 mistress ; and if ever the boy thought of 
 the forlorn little woman-child at the con- 
 vent, so utterly alone, it was with a feeling 
 of relief that she could not vex him with 
 those eyes that were so like and yet so 
 unlike Anais’. 
 
 “ La petite Dot is vouee a la Sainte 
 Vierge,” his mother had said to him one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 71 
 
 day, “ and for that cause she wears ever 
 the dear Yirgin’s nuance in the tiny flot 
 of blue upon her shoulder.” 
 
 “ Youee a la Sainte Yierge,” the boy had 
 repeated, with a quick glad sound of relief 
 in his voice. Then he need not trouble 
 any more concerning her. Her destiny 
 was arranged. But Tais — ah ! Tais was 
 free ! 
 
 The years passed by rapidly ; the boy 
 grew into a youth, and then his first great 
 sorrow came to him ; his mother died. 
 
 Suddenly, and without word of warning, 
 she was called home ; with only a smile, a 
 faint pressure of his hand, an upward look, 
 a cry “ into Thy hands, oh Lord ! ” and the 
 gentle spirit passed away from out the 
 detaining despairing grasp of earthly 
 love. 
 
 Then came Monsieur le Comte de Grasse, 
 and from him the young man learned 
 
72 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 somewhat concerning the little maids, who 
 had grown apace and were fast becoming 
 young maidens. Their mother was dead, 
 and, like him, they were orphans, but, unlike 
 him, dependent upon their uncle le Comte 
 de Grasse. Anais lived with her grande- 
 tante Francaise in the Faubourg, and Dot, 
 little Dot, had been taken away from the 
 convent by her tante Anglaise, with whom 
 she dwelt in that land of fogs and migraine, 
 England, and whither Nanon had accom- 
 panied her. 
 
 And thus all the pretty golden threads of 
 childhood seemed broken and destroyed, 
 and the years flew by bringing their burden 
 of age and care to each one of the little 
 group whom the dark angel had spared, 
 and who had stood together in the grand 
 salon of the old Provence chateau, while 
 the April sun shone gaily and the Angelus 
 echoed across the soft, still air. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fro 
 /O 
 
 The vision of Anais faded a little in 
 Louis de Yentadore’s heart, though, like a 
 sweet poem, forgotten but not lost, he kept 
 the memory of her wondrous golden 
 brown eyes. 
 
74 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was spring time again, in the year 1772, 
 when two young men were pacing, side by 
 side, arm linked in arm, the allee of tall 
 Lombardy poplars at the Chateau of Ven- 
 tadore. Both were upright and above the 
 average height of Frenchmen, and both bore 
 that air noble that belongs exclusively to 
 ancient lineage. The elder of the two had 
 a dark pale face, shadowed by melancholy, 
 with mournfully dark eyes, and black hair, 
 lightly powdered and gathered into a 
 peruke. His companion’s face was also 
 dark and colourless, while its almost boyish 
 contour was redeemed by the broad brow, 
 the long nose and chin, the firm mouth, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 75 
 
 and large, well-opened eyes, beneath the 
 full, dark brows. His hair, a rich brown, 
 was guiltless of powder, and brushed back 
 from his countenance rather carelessly. 
 His bearing expressed confidence and 
 fearlessness, combined with modesty and 
 gentleness. 
 
 By their side walked another figure, his 
 hands clasped lightly behind him, in one 
 of which he carried his hat, that, by its 
 shape and long plume, denoted a person of 
 distinction. He was shorter and more 
 stoutly built than his young companions, 
 and his face bore the look of one used to 
 hardships and to the chances for good or 
 evil that Dame Fortune brings to her 
 votaries ; while his walk, with a slight halt 
 between each step, betokened one who 
 more often trod the quarter-deck than the 
 fair vales of Provence. 
 
 His face was a strong one; a massive 
 
76 
 
 OLD BOSTON . 
 
 forehead, with heavy brows that curved 
 upward at the inner corners, and that were 
 constantly contracted by a slight frown ; 
 large eyes full of fire and power ; a long 
 nose and a large firm mouth, supplemented 
 by a short, full, resolute chin. Above his 
 forehead his hair was slightly grey ; he 
 wore it full over his ears, and braided into 
 a peruke behind. He was plainly dressed 
 in a dark riding-suit, and in the distance a 
 servant in livery was holding a fine horse, 
 towards which its master frequently turned 
 his head. 
 
 The younger of them spoke, apparently 
 renewing an argument not long dismissed. 
 
 “ And wherefore not, Louis, since thou 
 hast no reason save that of caprice to guide 
 thee ? A maiden and a dot, mon ami, are 
 not so easily obtained.” 
 
 “ Thou shouldst know, La Fayette, above 
 all others, wherefore I shrink from this be- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 77 
 
 trothment,” answered DeYentadore sadly. 
 “ Since I have known tliee I liaye cared 
 but little for a woman’s friendship.” 
 
 “ All very fairly said,” answered the 
 younger, “ but, cher Louis, the day must 
 come when my love will scarce content 
 thee, nor thine satisfy me. ’Tis no bad 
 thing to have one’s wife chosen for one. 
 Ma foi ! and such a wife ! I saw her once 
 as she passed in to her Majesty’s petit 
 coucher, and her eyes were like golden fire. 
 Allons, mon ami, thou art i’ faith a laggard 
 to hang back when she is to be had for the 
 asking.” 
 
 “ Eh bien, mon garcon,” the deep tones 
 of the elder man broke in, “ hast not con- 
 sidered sufficiently ? Norn de Dieu ! but 
 thou art made of starch and water, to 
 so coldly calculate thy pleasure when so 
 pretty and rare a piece of flesh and blood 
 is offered thee to wife.” 
 
78 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Monsieur le Comte is right, Louis,” 
 urged his friend. “ Make no more to do, 
 but give him thy word, and let us all dance 
 ere long at thy wedding.” 
 
 But still Be Yentadore hesitated. He 
 loved passionately, and as a woman loves, 
 the young Be la Fayette, and to lose him. 
 or rob him of one morsel of that love 
 seemed sacrilege in his eyes. He turned 
 towards the elder man. 
 
 “ Forgive me, mon parrain, I weary you ; 
 but ’tis beyond my power to decide hastily 
 on this subject. Ask me aught else, and 
 thou shalt see my willingness to favour 
 thee.” 
 
 The Comte de Grasse looked keenly and 
 earnestly into the young man’s face before 
 replying. The silence lasted some moments, 
 and a little brown-breasted mother-bird 
 hopped on a stone at their feet, gazing at 
 themfearlesslyout of her round, brown eyes. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 79 
 
 “ Be it so, mon filleul,” lie said at last ; 
 “ thou shalt not be harassed, and thou 
 shalt show thy valour as a knight-errant 
 to two distressed demoiselles. 
 
 “ I am anxious my nieces should be safe 
 housed ere the storm arising break upon 
 our heads. It is no treason to say here, 
 and to you, that the day must come when 
 he who lives in France may ask the stones 
 and trees to cover him for very shame. I 
 go ere long upon a cruise of length and 
 danger ; my aunt, the vieille Mademoiselle 
 de Grasse, grows feeble and childish ; 
 Anais becomes too beautiful — it is well she 
 should be placed in a safer dovecot, and 
 that the sea should separate her from 
 France. I own a house and land in 
 America, where she can be safely tended, 
 and ’tis none too far from Boston but that 
 now and again she can repair thither to 
 try her wits and her cotillon with the 
 
80 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 gallants of King George’s court, as often 
 as needs be. To you, Louis, I would, then 
 appoint the task of conveying safely my 
 two filleules, Anais and. la petite Dot, to 
 the place I speak of. Thou must seek Dot 
 in her English home, where she dwells with 
 Mistress Prouz, her mother’s sister ; Anais 
 thou wilt find awaiting thee at Bristol, 
 whence you will all set sail for the western 
 lands. Kan on will accompany her young 
 ladies. I regret I have no dame de com- 
 pagnie as well ; but, ma foi ! the daughters 
 of a soldier and the nieces of a sailor must 
 learn to do without the fal-lals of fine 
 society, and thy commission as Captain in 
 his Majesty’s army will prove sufficient 
 protection for them; for, faith, ’twere 
 better to drop thy title, mon gargon, for 
 the moment. What say’st thou, Louis ? wilt 
 charge thyself with their safe conduct ?” 
 For a moment young De Ventadore 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 81 
 
 delayed liis answer; and as he did so, 
 looking oyer the fair forests and fields of 
 his domain, the evening Angelus rang 
 ont from the convent belfry. As the nine 
 soft notes struck the air, the three men 
 stopped in their walk, while the two 
 younger uncovered and bowed their heads. 
 And standing thus, a clear sweet voice, 
 saddened by tears, seemed to ring from 
 out the past in Louis’ ear, “ Thou hast a 
 kind face. Wilt thou be kind to my little 
 ones ? ” 
 
 How had he answered then ? 
 
 As the last note died away, he turned 
 towards the Comte. 
 
 “ Gorde et manu, mon parrain, both 
 are at their service.” 
 
 And then had come the parting with De 
 la Fayette, a parting full of the bitterness 
 of death to Louis de Yentadore, but light 
 as a breath of wind to the younger spirit, 
 
 VOL. II 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 whose eyes were already looking beyond 
 the narrow horizon of the present into the 
 illimitable future, in which, had he but 
 known it, he was to fill so great a place — 
 to become a nation’s idol and a country’s 
 pride. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore entered upon his task 
 reluctantly, experiencing no pleasure in 
 its novelties and distractions, and little 
 Dot found him but a mournful companion 
 in her journey from the flat fen-country 
 into Devonshire, where Anais awaited 
 them, and where they took ship for the 
 Americas. 
 
 But Anais’ presence charmed him from 
 his melancholy, and all at once, in a fleet- 
 ng moment, by a sudden uplifting of her 
 wondrous eyes, a sudden toss of her 
 haughty head, or subtle motion of her 
 slender hand, or echo of her clear 
 laughter, awoke in him once more the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 83 
 
 boyish passion that had but slept, and now 
 burst forth strengthened by manhood and 
 enhanced by its own doubtful issue. 
 
 Three years had passed since first he 
 brought the French demoiselles to their 
 home in Oldtown, and though each year 
 he had visited France for a brief period, he 
 returned again and spent his days in 
 watchful care and surveillance of the two 
 maidens. 
 
 But Anais scorned and flouted him and 
 his suit, and would hear none of it ; and 
 though he urged her uncle’s desire and his 
 own unhappy condition, she only laughed 
 and tossed her pretty head, exclaiming, 
 
 “ Let monsieur moil oncle plead his own 
 desires, monsieur. Is it not sufficient that 
 he has made of you our jailor, so that 
 we go not in or out against thy know- 
 ledge ? ” 
 
 “ And ’twas thus that matters rested 
 
 r ° 
 
 It 
 
84 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 betwixt them, when the American colonists, 
 aroused into action, and stimulated by 
 events at Lexington and Concord, resolved 
 to press further their advantage and esta- 
 blish a siege against the town of Boston. 
 
 Already Benjamin Franklin had aroused 
 in France a feeling of interest towards his 
 country, as in the heart of De Rochem- 
 beau, before whom he pleaded its cause 
 with burning words; while, before many 
 months had passed by, Silas Deane was 
 adding his eloquence to that of the brave 
 quaker, and establishing an entente cordiale 
 between the two countries. 
 
 The young De la Fayette had kept up his 
 intimacy with De Yentadore, and through 
 him had grown to understand and honour 
 the young party of colonists in America, 
 who were urging stronger measures and 
 greater freedom on their government ; 
 while the Comte de Grasse, though he had 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 85 
 
 not yet visited liis pretty nieces, kept a 
 faithful and clear cognizance of all that 
 passed about them. 
 
 It was therefore no welcome scene upon 
 which Monsieur le Marquis de Yentadore’s 
 eyes rested, when old Nanon threw back 
 the drawing-room door and disclosed the 
 little group surrounding Captain Dun- 
 combe, and still agitated by the conclusion 
 of Anais’ tale . 
 
86 
 
 OLD BOSTOX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was Sunday, the lltli of June, 1775, 
 and already the summer solstice was be- 
 ginning to assert itself too powerfully for 
 comfort and almost for health. 
 
 Boston lay basking in the fine white 
 sunlight ; even at the early morning hour 
 of seven there was scarcely a breath of 
 wind to stir the trees or ruffle the calm 
 glassy surface of the Bay. The red brick 
 houses, with their wide fronts and high 
 porticoed steps, alone gave promise of 
 coolness and shade behind their thick 
 walls, and those who trod the dusty, sun- 
 baked streets looked longingly at the open 
 windows, protected by thin Venetian 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 87 
 
 blinds, from whence now and then a light 
 laugh would echo ; or a waving branch of 
 long-spired sweet-briar, flinging its trailing 
 light and shade of pale-green leaves across 
 the open sashes, would whisper of dainty 
 ladies clad in soft thin muslins, who rested 
 their pretty heads languidly against the 
 high-backed chairs, scarce moving the huge 
 feather fan that their slender hands were 
 too indolent to support. 
 
 Across the common, in all the fierce 
 glare of the sun, came two figures, walk- 
 ing slowly but steadily, and choosing the 
 paths most shaded by the drooping 
 parched trees. 
 
 Both were tall and upright, but one 
 walked with the spring and ease of youth, 
 and with a peculiarly light and buoyant 
 motion ; the other trod more heavily and 
 firmly the well-worn path, albeit keeping- 
 fair pace with her young companion. 
 
88 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 It was little Dot and old Nanon who 
 thus walked side by side. 
 
 The girl looked very beautiful, though, 
 maybe, a trifle paler than when at Manor 
 Farm. She carried in one hand her little 
 silver-clasped Missal and a few white roses 
 whose heads drooped in this alien sun. At 
 Manor Farm their companions were nest- 
 ling in cool nooks under the eaves of the 
 house-door, with shady leaves to protect 
 them, whilst these faded and drooped in 
 the fierce light of this strange city. 
 
 Dorothy was returning from church ; 
 this was a rare event in her life, for since 
 the fatal termination of the Jesuit Mission 
 there were but few exponents of the 
 Catholic faith, and its adherents were but 
 barely tolerated in New England. This 
 expedition, therefore, had somewhat of a 
 clandestine air, and was kept a secret from 
 all but Anais. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 89 
 
 They walked on silently, the girl wrapt 
 in happy musings, and the old woman 
 contented in her nurseling’s presence. 
 Presently, as they came to a rough -hewn 
 seat under a large beech-tree, Dorothy 
 paused, and turning her sweet face to- 
 wards Nan on, said, 
 
 “ I fain would rest me for a little space. 
 ’Tis surely the sun that causes me to be 
 so sore fatigued.” 
 
 “ Of a truth, m’zelle, ’tis no such won- 
 der,” replied Nanon; “ ’twould cause a 
 stouter frame than thine to fail beneath 
 its beams. Bonne dame ! but the sun 
 makes a double burning in this country ! ” 
 
 They seated themselves, and Dot laid 
 her prayer-book and roses on the bench 
 beside her, and folded her hands loosely 
 on her lap. 
 
 “ Nanon,” she continued, “ what think 
 you of this Boston ? Dost not often sigh 
 
90 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 for Manor Farm and all tlie dear flowers 
 and the sea? Methinks I should never 
 greatly care to live within a city when 
 God’s country lay so close aside it. The 
 roses will be all abloom, Nan on, at Manor 
 Farm, and creeping up atop my window- 
 sash, and nodding in at my window.” 
 
 “ Thy window is safe shut and barred, 
 m’zelle,” answered the old woman senten- 
 tiously ; “ ’twould take a stouter knocker 
 than rose-heads to open it.” 
 
 “ Ah, my poor roses ! ” cried the girl. 
 “ They wait in vain for me, and all their 
 buds will droop and fade.” 
 
 Then with a quick shy glance at the old 
 stoical face beside her, she asked a little 
 nervously, 
 
 “ Whom think you, Nanon, could have 
 sent me these from Manor Farm ? ” — lifting 
 up the fading roses. “ ’Twas never Pen, 
 for she is in Boston, nor Phil Troubridge, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 91 
 
 for the General Artimas Ward keeps him 
 otherwise bestowed ; nor could it be Mon- 
 sieur le Marquis, for of a surety he never 
 cares to pleasure me in aught. Was it — 
 was it — think you ? ” 
 
 But Dorothy’s voice came to a stand- 
 still, while the glad young blood rushed in 
 a crimson tide to her cheeks, and the eager 
 little pulses in her fair round throat 
 throbbed hurriedly. 
 
 Nanon caught the break in her child’s 
 tones, and looking up for the cause saw 
 Gilderoy Duncombe advancing over the 
 short burnt grass towards them, hat in 
 hand. 
 
 Dorothy stood up, slim and tall in her 
 dress of virgin white, with the tell-tale 
 blood in her cheeks, and a soft bright 
 glow in her beautiful eyes. 
 
 The young officer bowed low over her 
 outstretched hand, and the sun shining on 
 
92 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 his uncovered head touched to life the 
 threads of hidden gold in its curled brown 
 locks. 
 
 “Mistress Dorothy is early astir,” cried 
 Duncombe, raising his bold blue eyes to 
 her face. “ Faith, then, city ways have 
 not yet replaced those of Manor Farm in 
 her heart ? ” 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur,” she answered gently, 
 “ ’tis scarce to be accounted that a few 
 short weeks in Boston town should efface 
 the years of my life at dear Manor Farm.” 
 “ You are faithful, Mistress Dorothy,” he 
 answered half enviously, “ and constant.” 
 “ Of a surety, monsieur, I trust so.” 
 “M’zelle, we must get on our way,” 
 broke in Nanon shortly ; “ ’tis past eight 
 of the clock, and my Lady Gage likes it 
 not if you be late to the grand break- 
 fast.” 
 
 Dorothy gathered up her prayer-book, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 93 
 
 and the trio walked on together, Duncombe 
 placing himself on the other side of the 
 girl and speaking rapidly and in a low 
 voice. Nanon could not understand his 
 words, for he spoke in English, and this 
 was at all times difficult to her French 
 ears; but she read in the girl’s face suffi- 
 cient to make her anxious and unhappy. 
 She held no high opinion of young Dun- 
 combe, and she grieved sorely to see how 
 Dorothy was giving all .her young pure 
 heart into his keeping, while, with that 
 sublime trust and belief that her own tem- 
 perament grafted upon others, she har- 
 boured not one shadow of doubt within 
 her nature. 
 
 As they emerged from the common on to 
 Beacon Street, the young officer made his 
 adieu, and Dorothy and Nanon walked a 
 few yards further towards a large roomy 
 mansion, on whose high steps a small 
 
94 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 figure in bright raiment was standing 
 watching them. 
 
 “ ’Tis Pen Dudley,” cried Dot. “ Oh ! 
 Nanon, wherefore is she here? ” 
 
 “ For no good, that I’ll be bound,” 
 answered Nanon sharply. “ Tenez, 
 m’zelle, give me thy Missal, ’tis as well 
 not to bear the signs of our journey too 
 openly before her cunning eyes.” 
 
 “ Nay, Nanon, I am not ashamed,” the 
 girl protested, but old Nanon caught the 
 book from her, and thrust it into the capa- 
 cious bag at her side. In doing so she 
 broke one of the fragile rose-buds, and it 
 fell to the ground. 
 
 “ Nanon ! oh, Nanon ! ” cried little 
 Dot, “ my rose ! See, thou hast hurt it.” 
 
 “ Bah ! ” exclaimed the old woman 
 crossly. “ Hast not other things to ciy 
 about more worth thy foolish tears, than a 
 rose-bud sent by unknown hands ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 95 
 
 But Dorothy did not reply. She picked 
 up the fallen flower tenderly, for she knew 
 now that ’twas Gilderoy Duncombe who 
 had plucked them for her when last he 
 visited Oldtown. 
 
 Pen greeted them in her short fashion, 
 and in her high voice. 
 
 “ Ma certes, Dot ! Where hast been so 
 early? ’Tis not Oldtown, child, nor 
 Manor Parm, that thou should’st be astir 
 before breakfast hour. And roses too ! 
 Now, by my word, I could swear to it, 
 these be Manor Farm blossoms. Art 
 hiding aught from me, Dot ? ” 
 
 “ M’zelle Dot holds nothing within her 
 heart to hide from any one, Mees Pen,” 
 answered Nan on valiantly. “ ’Tis only 
 those who practise deceit who seek to 
 foist it on others.” 
 
 Thus speaking, and leaving Penelope 
 speechless wuth rage, the old woman 
 
96 
 
 OLD BOSTON". 
 
 hurried Dorothy into the house and up 
 the broad shallow staircase to her bed- 
 room, where she began silently but deftly 
 to prepare her mistress’ toilet for the 
 great breakfast soon to be served below. 
 
 Several weeks had passed since Louis 
 de Yentador had descended so suddenly 
 and unexpectedly upon the little group 
 in the green drawing-room at Manor Farm, 
 and many changes had come to pass in 
 their fortunes, as well as in the features 
 of the great questions at issue between 
 England and her American colonies. 
 
 After the defeat at Concord, G-overnor 
 Gage had remained for several days 
 stunned and inactive, and thus gave 
 ample opportunity to the provincial party 
 to prepare their own reports concerning 
 Lexington and Concord, and to ship them 
 to England under the care of Captain 
 John Darby, who sailed from Oldtown, and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 97 
 
 outstripping every vessel, even the fleet 
 Sulcey, commanded by Captain Brown, 
 which carried the Governor’s papers, 
 reached London eleven days before any 
 other, and burst upon the King and 
 Parliament like a bomb-shell with his 
 news of defeat and retreat. 
 
 Great was the consternation and dire 
 the confusion. To think that a handful 
 of untrained farmers and fielders should 
 dare to hold their own against troops 
 commissioned by England and commanded 
 by British officers of high repute ! It was 
 a bitter reality, however, and had to be 
 met. But from that moment Governor 
 Gage’s day was over, and his rule in Massa- 
 chusetts virtually a thing of the past. 
 
 In the mean time Doctor Warren had, 
 ten days after the battle of Concord, de- 
 manded of the Governor that all American 
 patriots should be allowed to leave Boston 
 
 VOL. ir. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 with their families and belongings, to seek 
 more congenial shelter elsewhere. The 
 Governor consented, provided all arms 
 were left behind. 
 
 Faneuil Hall was thrown open, and one 
 by one the patriots, men, youths, and 
 boys, marched silently in and laid down 
 their muskets. 
 
 It was a strange sight and a terrible one. 
 Each face was stern and set, from that 
 of the grey-liaired, weather-beaten veteran 
 who had served his time and carried his 
 musket in the French wars, and whose 
 hands were horny and hard from long 
 labour, to the fair Saxon countenance of 
 some country lad, whose curved lip scarce 
 bore a touch of down, and whose hands 
 were as yet unskilled in use of aught but 
 the peaceful weapons of husbandry. 
 
 Silently they entered, and silently they 
 departed. There was no interchange of 
 
OLD BOSTON, 
 
 99 
 
 word or laugh between these stern puritan 
 sons, fit descendants of their stern, truth- 
 loving puritan fathers. 
 
 Each evening thirty waggons filled with 
 these voluntary exiles passed out of the 
 town, and made their way across the ill- 
 kept roads into the wide-stretching coun- 
 try. Day after day passed by, and the 
 pile of arms in Faneuil Hall grew larger, 
 and the crowded waggons, creaking and 
 groaning beneath their human freight, 
 passed out beyond the city limits. 
 
 Doctor Warren had withdrawn himself 
 to Cambridge on the morning of Colonel 
 Smith’s retreat, and as he quitted the city 
 he so dearly loved, it was with prophetic 
 words of farewell upon his lips. 
 
 “ They have begun it — that either party 
 can do ; and we will end it — that only one 
 can do.” 1 
 
 1 The words of Dr. Warren on leaving Boston. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Never again was he, the idol of his 
 party, to raise his winning voice in earnest 
 protest within its pulpits ; and never again 
 would they see his familiar beloved figure 
 passing up and down its narrow streets. 
 His place was vacant, and those who 
 knew him would know him no more. 
 
 Then came a reaction among the loyal 
 inhabitants, who saw with great concern 
 the numbers thus vanishing from their 
 midst, and under General Ruggles, who 
 left his country mansion at Hardwick, they 
 protested, and demanded that the Gover- 
 nor should rescind his promises to the 
 American patriots. 
 
 Placed between two fires, the weak and 
 vacillating Governor gave way to the last 
 pressure brought to bear, and issued a pro- 
 clamation forbidding any further exodus, 
 and urging all those who were loyal 
 to their King to seek shelter within 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 101 
 
 Boston. This was widely responded to, 
 and all those long summer months the city 
 presented a strange and brilliant scene ; 
 filled as it was by families firm in their 
 allegiance to England, and by the nume- 
 rous troops of King’s soldiers who occupied 
 every available space. 
 
 Acting on his own impulses, De Venta- 
 dore had determined to convey his charges 
 into Boston, and place them under Madam 
 Gage’s protection. As yet he had taken 
 no active part on either side, and held his 
 own views secret, while he mingled freely 
 with royalist and patriot. 
 
 The Governor’s lady was an American, 
 and more than suspected of leanings 
 towards her countrymen, while her hus- 
 band, as representative of his Majesty, 
 kept open house to all the King’s-men ; 
 therefore in any event Anais and Dorothy 
 would be secure from harm, while, with all 
 
102 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lier vagaries, Lady Gage was kindly dis- 
 posed towards the two French girls, and 
 hade them hospitably welcome to the 
 Governor’s mansion. 
 
 From April 20tli Boston was virtually 
 in a state of siege. During the long winter 
 months but just passed, the patriots had 
 formed and matured plans, and under 
 the shock of a battle and a defeat the 
 British seemed powerless to prevent their 
 sudden accomplishment. 
 
 Charlestown, Cambridge, and Roxbury 
 were in the hands of the American 
 minute-men ; earthworks were thrown up 
 on the salt-marshes and along Charles 
 river, that no movement of the British 
 boats could pass unnoticed ; the only 
 egress by land, from out the city, was that 
 taken by Lord Percy when he marched 
 through Roxbury towards Concord, and 
 even this was guarded by a strong fort, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 103 
 
 situated on the high land above the quaint 
 old meeting-house, where for fifty years 
 Eliot, the Indians’ apostle, had taught his 
 savage flock. 
 
 The American troops were now more 
 organized ; they had learnt the lesson well, 
 which Warren pointed out in his Massacre 
 oration, and not one of them but imitated 
 to his full ability the discipline, precision, 
 and order of the British soldiers, which 
 had called forth such praise from their 
 beloved leader and champion. Under 
 General Artimas Ward, as senior officer, 
 who commanded the Massachusetts regi- 
 ments, were General Green of the Rhode 
 Island troops, and General Folsom of the 
 New Hampshire forces. 
 
 And still the days crept on, and the sun 
 shone more and more fiercely; and the 
 world grew older by so many hours ; and 
 careless hearts laughed happily, and care- 
 
104 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 less feet danced blithely, and careless lips 
 jested merrily ; while ever and always the 
 stern dark-browed god of war hurried on 
 his silent forces, until even nature took 
 alarm, and gathered up her clouds and 
 winds, and in sullen burning silence be- 
 tokened the outcome of the storm. 
 
 Only human hearts were thoughtless, 
 and only human souls let slip the days and 
 recked not of the morrow. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When Dorothy entered the breakfast-room 
 she was greeted by a burst of shrill laugh- 
 ter and the hum of many voices all talking 
 at once. 
 
 Lady Gage, a large, handsome, fair 
 woman, dressed in a morning negligee 
 that but scantily covered her white throat 
 and bosom, was pouinng hot tea into 
 various-shaped cups that stood before her, 
 laughing the while somewhat boisterously, 
 and showing all her fine white teeth, first 
 at Monsieur le Marquis who sat at her left 
 hand, and then at young Stephen Kemble, 
 her handsome cousin-german, who occu- 
 pied the place of honour on her right, and 
 
106 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 who, as rumour hinted, was more highly- 
 favoured by her ladyship than his Excel- 
 lency suspected. 
 
 Anais was there, seated by the Governor, 
 whose kind undecided face looked both 
 troubled and weary ; and Pen Dudley, very 
 pert and smartly arrayed, was flirting with 
 a young British officer, while honest Phil 
 Troubrido’e looked on with ill-concealed 
 
 o 
 
 jealousy. 
 
 Little Dot stood timidly within the door, 
 hesitating where to find a vacant place ; 
 Anais’ back was towards her, and if Mon- 
 sieur de Ventadore beheld her confusion, 
 his dark implacable face made no sign. 
 ’Twas Lady Gage who first espied her and 
 called out in her blunt, sharp fashion, 
 
 “ Good lack, little Dorothy ! Why stand 
 ye there so undecided, with a face as 
 solemn as an afternoon preachment, and 
 as long as my new gloves ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 107 
 
 At this greeting all the guests looked 
 up and gazed at Dorothy, the young 
 British officer impertinently turning his 
 pince-nez upon her. The girl bore this 
 battery of eyes bravely, and with a certain 
 grave dignity, although the blood burned 
 hotly in her cheeks, that caused the 
 boldest of them to regard her respectfully. 
 
 Anais turned and saw her little sister 
 within the door, and noted the sore con- 
 fusion she was in and the unshed tears 
 that made her eyes so large and humid. 
 In one moment she was at her side, and, 
 with a whispered word of love and courage, 
 led her down the long room towards the 
 breakfast-table ; she met Lady Gage’s eyes 
 with a glance so scornful that her easy- 
 going nature smarted beneath it. Louis 
 de Yentadore was standing, and as they 
 approached he bowed low, and with an ex- 
 cess of politeness offered his chair to 
 
3 08 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Dorothy, but Anais swept by him haughtily 
 and with a disdainful wave of her hand. 
 
 All eyes were on the two sisters as they 
 moved with so marvellous a grace, erect, 
 lithe, and with a peculiar undulating 
 motion not often seen in those days of 
 buckram and whalebone ; their beautiful 
 faces became absolute counterparts one 
 of the other, for the excitement had 
 brought the one touch of colour into 
 Dorothy’s cheeks which was all she 
 needed to become a living portrait of 
 Anais. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore thus gazing at them 
 experienced a vivid return of childish 
 memories. He heard the far-away peal 
 of the Angelus ; he saw the old Provence 
 chateau, the April sunshine, and the two 
 small child-figures in their blue satin 
 gowns ; the golden sheen of hair and eyes 
 reflected in the baby-face from that of the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 109 
 
 elder sister, who stood up so boldly, and 
 claimed his little sword with so arrogant 
 a mien. 
 
 Anais had reached the Governor, and 
 still holding Dot’s hands, she spoke in her 
 clear cold voice. 
 
 “ Your Excellency, I bring you my little 
 sister, and since she is unskilled as yet in 
 the grand manners of the beau monde, I 
 ask for her at your hands the courtesy of 
 a kind heart.” 
 
 Then both the fair young creatures 
 swept downward at his feet in a court 
 salute. The Governor raised them, and 
 gave to each a hand, seating Anais at his 
 right, and ordering the young officer to 
 give place to Dorothy on his left; which 
 act, with rather an ill grace, he performed. 
 After this slight battle royal between 
 Anais and her ladyship had ended in a 
 signal victory for France, the party re- 
 
110 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 settled itself and resumed its desultory 
 conversation. 
 
 Dorothy found herself next to Pen Dud- 
 ley, who hastened to twit her on her early 
 walk and the white roses which she still 
 wore at her waistband. In parrying these 
 questions Dorothy lost somewhat of the con- 
 verse about her, but her attention was sud- 
 denly arrested by hearing Lady Gage say, 
 
 “ Kay, now, cousin Stephen, ’twas 
 young Captain Duncombe himself who 
 told me.” 
 
 “ Then methinks he might best have 
 held his over-galloping tongue,” broke in 
 the Governor’s voice. 
 
 For a moment there followed complete 
 silence ; Governor Gage did not often 
 assert himself either in an official or 
 marital fashion, and the surprise of his 
 sudden outburst gave a check to the 
 tongues of his listeners. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Ill 
 
 “ Good lack, your Excellency ! ” cried 
 out his wife, the first to gather her wits, 
 and laughing immoderately. “ And what 
 has poor Gilderoy Duncombe done to so 
 offend ye ? Methinks he could scarce 
 choose better ears into which to prate 
 than those of your loyal wife and mistress.” 
 To this rejoinder the Governor made no 
 reply, save by burying his face in his huge 
 tea-cup ; but it seemed mightily to amuse 
 young Kemble, for he laughed so loud and 
 so long that Lad} r Gage rapped him smartly 
 with her fan-sticks, and bade him control 
 his unseemly mirth, or pass for an ill- 
 conditioned boy. 
 
 At this moment a servant threw open 
 the door and announced, 
 
 “ My Lord Percy and his aide-de-camp, 
 Captain Duncombe.” 
 
 Dorothy, sitting quite silent and un- 
 noticed, felt suddenly that all the world 
 
112 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 had grown larger and more beautiful, as 
 she watched the ease and composure with 
 which Duncombe greeted his hostess and 
 her guests. 
 
 Fresh tea was provided, and the stronger 
 beverages of beer and red Burgundy- 
 replenished. Lord Percy had found a 
 place between Anais and the Governor, 
 while Duncombe fell into Stephen Kemble’s 
 position next to her ladyship, who was 
 bridling at him, arching her brows and 
 showing her white teeth, and being lavish 
 with her smiles, just as a while back she 
 had been equally generous to the marquis 
 and her cousin. The latter was scowling 
 now and biting his nails ; at last he betook 
 himself to Dorothy’s side, and, pushing in 
 his chair between her’s and Pen’s, devoted' 
 his handsome eyes to her service. 
 
 “ Of a truth we were but now speaking 
 of you, Captain Duncombe,” said her lady- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 113 
 
 ship, with a toss of her head. “ Thou hast 
 fallen in his Excellency’s eyes, forsooth, 
 because a while back you dared to entrust 
 to my keeping the nouvelles of Sir Henry 
 Howe and General Bourgoyne. Sure I 
 guarded well the treasure,” she continued, 
 with a quick uneasy glance at Kemble, 
 “ since now ’tis stale news ; and we all 
 know how needed were the reinforcements 
 they brought, and ’tis two good weeks 
 agone since they sailed into harbour.” 
 
 “ Wouldstknow, Tais,” Phil Troubridge 
 was saying in his honest voice, “ how ’tis 
 we have christened the valiant Bourgoyne ? 
 Hast seen him ? Ay, then of a surety 
 thou know’st his looks ; a fine, personable 
 man, though over-fond of his own beauty, 
 and over-arrogant to those beneath him. 
 ’Twas he who hailed the Newport packet 
 as they neared port, and asked news con- 
 cerning our condition here. The captain, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 a patriot, gave him the word that ten 
 thousand colonists were holding half their 
 number of King’s-men in durance within 
 the city. Then cried out the general 
 boastfully, { Per Bacco and Yenus ! what ! 
 ten thousand peasants keep five thousand 
 King’s troops shut up ! Let me get in, 
 let me get in ! I. warrant me we’ll soon find 
 elbow-room ! ’ 1 And, faith, ’tis no bad 
 sobriquet he’s earned, for he walks upon 
 the streets, and talks within the houses, as 
 if to him belonged all the elbow-room of 
 royalist and patriot.” 
 
 After the laugh had subsided that Phil 
 Troubridge’s story called forth, Anais 
 spoke to him in a low voice. 
 
 “ Tell me, Phil, why are you here ? 
 Methinks this is but sorry company for 
 an American patriot to mingle in. How 
 
 1 A fact, from which Bourgoyne gained his name of 
 “ Elbow-room ” in the army. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 115 
 
 can ye reconcile it to your duty, my 
 poor friend?” 
 
 The frank fair face grew clouded, and 
 the strong hand contracted nervously, ere 
 he replied in the same low key. 
 
 “ Nay, Anais, reproach me not, since I 
 come for the sake of the girl I love. ’Tis 
 sorry work, I grant you, and I get but 
 scant reward. Yet since our marriage- 
 banns were fully cried a month ago, I 
 cannot let her wander unprotected while 
 my right arm is strong enow to wield a 
 sabre or a musket. My heart is sore 
 heavy, for all goes contrary to my wishes ; 
 her father bids me wait the result of this 
 twelvemonth, and Pen herself is cold and 
 scornful, warm and gentle, by turns. But 
 this is my last venture among King’s-men ; 
 I return on parole to-night, and when next 
 I enter Boston ’twill be in other guise than 
 this. Anais,” he added more earnestly, 
 
 i 2 
 
116 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ be ye watchful and awake; look ye out 
 on each day’s sun-dawn as mayhap the last, 
 and give thanks for each eve you see it set ; 
 for there is a storm in the air, and when 
 it breaks those who stand proudest shall 
 fall the lowest.” 
 
 “ ’Tis the young bookseller, Henry 
 Knox, aided by Gridley, who has planned 
 and raised the earthworks along the 
 Charles,” broke in Lord Percy’s voice, 
 “ and fairly well has it been done, though, 
 forsooth, this same Gridley gained his ex- 
 perience in our wars with the French not 
 so long ago as to be forgotten. Your 
 Excellency must needs have laughed rarely 
 at the trivial brush the self-called patriots 
 gained at Hog Island under Israel Putnam, 
 who, unless Dame Humour proves uncom- 
 mon false, left his ploughshare in an 
 unturned furrow, to buckle on a sword 
 and shoulder a musket at the head of his 
 townsmen, and to seek glory at the expense 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 117 
 
 of loyalty. But I have it well authenti- 
 cated that these same colonist patriots, 
 now in revolt against his Majesty, have 
 but scanty provision, either for their guns 
 or their bodies ; ’twill be but easy work 
 when once we meet to teach them better 
 manners towards their superiors.” 
 
 Young Troubridge’s face flushed crim- 
 son, and he half rose in his chair, but 
 Anais’ hand arrested him, and Anais’ 
 voice, almost below her breath, sang the 
 refrain of Chevy Chase. With a short laugh 
 the young colonist sank back, while Percy, 
 controlling his passion as best he might, 
 after one angry look cast at Anais, bent 
 towards the Governor and whispered a few 
 words ; both then arose, and making their 
 farewells to her ladyship, withdrew from 
 the room. 
 
 Phil Troubridge, after a moment or two 
 passed in earnest, and on her side eager, 
 conversation with Anais, during which she 
 
118 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 apparently urged something upon him 
 with great ardour, also arose, and making 
 his way around to Penelope’s chair, bade 
 her good-bye in a whisper. But Pen was 
 in a wayward mood, and only replied by 
 an impatient shrug of her shoulders and a 
 disdainful pout and toss of her black curls. 
 With a sigh he turned away, and catching 
 little Dot’s wistful look of sympathy, bent 
 his head over her outstretched hand with 
 a murmured word of thanks ; then, with a 
 courteous bow to Lady Gage and another 
 significant look at Anais, he left the apart- 
 ment and the house. 
 
 The Marquis de Ventadore had watched 
 with suspicious gaze the whispered colloquy 
 between Mademoiselle de Grasse and the 
 young American, and his sombre eyes 
 followed the retreating figure with a 
 strange expression of jealous doubt, while 
 his dark face grew paler and more set. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 119 
 
 Captain Duncombe, for his part, re- 
 sented, with quick hot passion, the inti- 
 macy evinced by the young patriot in his 
 manner towards the French demoiselles ; 
 but whether ’twas his friendly salutation 
 of little Dot, or his more close converse 
 with Anais, which most annoyed him, this 
 versatile young officer could not determine. 
 
 In the mean time the fun grew faster 
 and more boisterous. Lady Gage gave full 
 rein to her wit, and found a sharp antago- 
 nist in Pen Dudley, who, excited and over- 
 balanced by the attentions of the young 
 British officer and handsome Stephen 
 Kemble, and angered by the look of 
 silent disapproval upon Anais’s face, went 
 from one gay jest to another, and flung 
 her arrows broadcast, little heeding whom 
 they wounded or where they fell. 
 
 “Now, Pen, thou shalt sing us a song,” 
 cried out her ladyship. “ ’Tis the old 
 
120 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 penalty I exact, ‘ drink a bottle of wine, 
 kiss your sweetheart, or sing a song.’ 
 The first thou wilt not do, the second 
 thou canst not, since we would spare your 
 blushes for your absent swain, therefore 
 the third I do compel of thee.” 
 
 “ Your ladyship is over gracious,” replied 
 Pen pertly, “ mayhap the first can be 
 performed for me ; the second I depute 
 to lips more used to the office than mine 
 own ; but the third I will execute at your 
 command.” 
 
 And, nothing loth, Pen sang out, un- 
 accompanied, in her high, true, but rather 
 thin soprano, the following ballad : — 
 
 “ Gilderoy was a Lonnie boy, 
 
 Had rofes tull his fhoone, 
 
 His ftockings were of filken foy, 
 
 His garters hanging downe ; 
 
 It was I weene a comelie fight 
 To fee fae trim a hoy, 
 
 He was my jo and heart’s delight, 
 
 My handfome Gilderoy. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 121 
 
 “ Ah ! fike twa charming een he had, 
 
 A breath as fweet as rofe, 
 
 He never ware a highland plaid, 
 
 But coftly filken clothes ; 
 
 He gained the luve of ladies gay, 
 
 Nane eir tull him was coy, 
 
 Ah ! wae is me ! I mourne the day 
 Bor gallant Gilderoy. 
 
 u Ah ! that he ftill had been content 
 Wi’ me to lead his life, 
 
 But ah ! his manfu’ heart was bent 
 To ftir in feates of ftrife ; 
 
 And he in many a venturous deed, 
 
 His courage bauld wad try, 
 
 And now this gars mine heart to bleed 
 For winfome Gilderoy.” 
 
 As she finished with a gesture of mock 
 despair towards Duncombe, she was 
 greeted by a round of applause and 
 laughter. Anais and Dorothy alone sat 
 silent and unresponsive, while each, un- 
 known to the other, watched but one 
 countenance, and noted each change that 
 Pen’s wild spirits wrought upon it. 
 
 Captain Duncombe, with a slight flush 
 
122 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 upon liis handsome face, passed some light 
 compliment upon the songstress’s voice and 
 diction, and then, with easy gaiety, met 
 Lady Gage’s flood of banter with badi- 
 nage as trivial as her own ; but his eyes 
 looked scarce pleased, and more than once 
 sought those of Anais or Dot, as if to read 
 therein his judgment and sentence. 
 
 An hour later and the room was deserted, 
 only the scattered fragments of the repast 
 and the half-empty cups and glasses told 
 of the day’s scene. 
 
 In the King’s chapel Lady Gage and 
 Pen Dudley, looking severe and bored, 
 were listening to his Excellency’s chap- 
 lain’s discourse upon human vanity; while 
 in her chamber alone sat little Dot, hold- 
 ing her withered roses, and dreaming over 
 a future as pure as her past. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 That same Sunday evening the George 
 Inn on Boston Neck was more than 
 usually gay and full of life. It was at all 
 times a favourite halting-place and rendez- 
 vous, both for royalists and patriots, and 
 its friendly walls could have revealed many 
 a secret to which either party would gladly 
 have hearkened. Indeed, if report spoke 
 truly, there had been dames of high degree 
 sheltered under its roof, who came bent 
 on intrigue concerning one or other of the 
 rival gods. 
 
 Situated far enough away from the city, 
 it formed a convenient station for meet- 
 ings and consultations, and as the land- 
 
124 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lord remained strictly neutral on all poli- 
 tical questions, and only waged war against 
 those who failed to pay their score, both 
 King’s -men and colonists felt at liberty to 
 drink his wine and rest beneath his roof- 
 tree. 
 
 To-night the old place was all astir ; 
 lights gleamed in the windows, there was 
 a constant succession of in-coming and out- 
 going guests, doors were slammed, hostlers 
 called and swore at one another, horses 
 hoofs pawed at the small cobble-stones in 
 the stable-yard, and the host and his 
 servants rushed hither and yon in despe- 
 rate haste, with the perspiration streaming 
 from their hot faces. 
 
 And the cause of all this commotion ? 
 
 General Bourgoyne, commander in his 
 Majesty’s army, was dining at the 
 “ George ” forsooth, and entertaining as his 
 guests Sir William Howe, my Lord Percy, 
 and his aide, Captain Duncombe, with the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 125 
 
 Marquis de Ventadore, to whom Bour- 
 goyne had taken one of his violent fancies. 
 
 Their repast was laid at one end of 
 the long low parlour, that served as a 
 general coffee-room as well. The table 
 was placed between two windows that over- 
 looked the bay, and in the distance the 
 lights of the royal frigate Lively could 
 be seen, casting long shimmering rays 
 across the calm dark water. 
 
 The night was very warm, and the 
 group about the table had unbuttoned 
 their padded military coats, and loosened 
 somewhat their stiff high stocks, all but 
 the Marquis, who looked cool and imper- 
 turbable, his dark velvet coat and lace 
 ruffles as spotless and unrumpled, as when 
 he first donned them for the breakfast at 
 Lady Gage’s. 
 
 The oak-wainscoted walls held brass 
 sconces at regular intervals, in which the 
 tallow candles sputtered and flickered in 
 
126 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 every light breeze from over the Bay, and 
 cast grim fantastic shadows across the 
 faces of the different guests. 
 
 General Bourgoyne sat at the head of 
 the table, his large handsome person 
 amply filling the capacious arm-chair he 
 occupied. His face corresponded well 
 with his frame ; largely and somewhat 
 loosely moulded, with a brow that sug- 
 gested consciousness rather than ability, 
 full light eyes with strongly-marked 
 brows, heavy cheeks, and a mouth and 
 chin too small to express any more gene- 
 rous attribute than obstinacy. His Irish 
 blood showed itself in his readiness to 
 catch at the shadow, and his inability to 
 hold to the substance of any subject. 
 
 He was carefully and elaborately 
 dressed, with just a suspicion of foppery 
 in the arrangement of his peruke and 
 laces, as well as in the care and attention 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 127 
 
 he paid to his large, white, well-shaped 
 hands. 
 
 At his right sat Sir William Howe, as 
 completely his antithesis as ’twas possible 
 for man to be. Slight and spare in figure, 
 with a thin strongly-marked face, high 
 cheek-bones, a narrow chin, a rather 
 small but determined mouth, a long nose, 
 broad brow, and prominent eyes. He was 
 clean shaven, and wore his hair lightly 
 powdered in a tied peruke ; his dress was 
 elegant, lace frills showing beneath his 
 scarlet coat, a narrow collar turned over the 
 swathing black neck-cloth, and on a chair 
 by his side rested his three-cornered hat, 
 with its cockade, and gold button and cord. 
 
 Opposite to him sat Lord Percy, a fine 
 well-built young man, with the bright 
 dark eyes and characteristic nose and high 
 cheek-bones of the Earls of Northumber- 
 land. He carried himself somewhat 
 
128 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 arrogantly, and possessed a certain 
 haughty manner in his speech that gained 
 him many enemies and lost him as many 
 friends. But he was brave and fearless, 
 and in his courtesies to ladies a true 
 gallant of the English court. 
 
 To his left was placed the Marquis, who 
 thus had for vis-a-vis Gilderoy Duncombe. 
 Between these two there was assuredly no 
 love lost, indeed a smouldering fire, com- 
 posed of all the lesser passions, seemed 
 latent in their breasts, which needed but 
 a spark to set aflame the volcano. 
 
 Indeed, ever since the day when Louis 
 de Yentadore had come to Manor Farm 
 and found his peaceful dovecot invaded 
 by a warrior hawk, and had seen how his 
 pretty doves fluttered and preened them- 
 selves before this bird of prey, his heart 
 had grown suspicious : from suspicion 
 springs its ignoble twin, jealousy, and that 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 129 
 
 again gives place to the third dark sister, 
 hate. Not that the Marquis acknowledged 
 even to his inmost ego that he hated 
 Gilderoy Duncombe, rather he put it that 
 loving Anais he had no room for the lesser 
 lights of friendship or regard, and that 
 whosoever approached her must, of neces- 
 sity, stand in antagonism to him. 
 
 Duncombe, on his side, regarded the 
 young French nobleman with frank dis- 
 approval. He possessed all the antipathy 
 of his race towards that nation, and it was 
 only in the fact of their English blood, on 
 one side at least, that he reconciled his 
 admiration for the young demoiselles to 
 whose hospitality he owed his life. But 
 Duncombe could bear no rival in the 
 courts of love, and when he found such an 
 one brave enough to cross his orbit, he 
 left no power unmoved until he had 
 cleared, by fair means or foul, all such 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 OLD BOSTON - . 
 
 obstacles from out his path, and stood 
 alone, triumphant. 
 
 Such were the different natures of the 
 men who gathered about General Bour- 
 goyne’s dinner-table, each with an indivi- 
 dual and definite object to accomplish 
 known only to themselves, and all appa- 
 rently united and interested in but one 
 cause, the preservation of power to his 
 Majesty King George the Third. 
 
 The conversation so far had been 
 general, and related strictly to the turn 
 affairs were taking, and the warlike atti- 
 tude assumed by the colonists since the 
 battles of Lexington and Concord, and 
 their successful raids upon the cattle at 
 Hog Island. 
 
 Two weeks and more had passed since 
 that 26th of May when Howe and Bour- 
 goyne sailed into Boston harbour, the 
 latter full of his boastful prophecies, and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 131 
 
 as yet they had gained no “ elbow-room 
 for the army of ten thousand peasants 
 still held the five thousand royal troops 
 shut up in Boston, without power to move, 
 either in attack or defence, until they gave 
 the signal. 
 
 Already the quiet soldier-like spirit in 
 Howe recognized that this was to be no 
 child’s play, and no easily put down rabble ; 
 and his home despatches to Lord North 
 contained none of those vain boastings 
 that characterized Bourgoyne’s, but were 
 couched in serious and grave language. 
 
 He knew full well that every patriot 
 colonist had sworn within his heart an 
 awful oath, that his country should be 
 freed from foreign rule or he would die, 
 and they wore upon their hard set faces 
 the solemn impress of that oath. 
 
 But now the discourse flagged some- 
 what, and there was silence, broken only 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 by the light tinkle of the ice in the slender 
 glasses that held the then rare and spark- 
 ling vin de Champagne. 
 
 Further down the long apartment a 
 group at a small table watched intently 
 General Bourgoyne’s guests ; these con- 
 sisted of two young men, who sat quite 
 apart from the other occupants of that 
 end of the room. 
 
 The elder was tall and fair, with a frank 
 open countenance, whose honest eyes 
 looked out fearlessly at all the world. He 
 was plainly dressed in dark blue cloth, 
 and his ruffles were of linen only, while 
 his yellow hair was rather carelessly 
 brushed back into the ordinary peruke of 
 the period. At his side he wore a short 
 sword, which, with a certain grave, 
 anxious demeanour, not usual in one so 
 young, marked him as a patriot. 
 
 His companion sat so much in the shade 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 133 
 
 it was impossible to see either his fea- 
 tures or colouring, save a delicately-turned 
 chin, and a full deeply-tinted mouth ; the 
 brow and hair were covered with a low 
 Spanish sombrero, and in spite of the 
 warm evening his figure was shrouded in 
 a voluminous military cloak, beneath 
 which one well-booted foot and ankle was 
 visible ; his hands were covered by heavy 
 riding-gloves, and, unlike his companion, 
 who held a pewter pot of good home- 
 brewed ale, he contented himself with a 
 cup of coffee. 
 
 The young patriot seemed greatly to 
 regard the comfort of his comrade, and 
 paid him a deference that was quite 
 unusual from one so much the older. 
 Both appeared absorbed in the movements 
 and conversation of the men gathered 
 about General Bourgoyne, and exchanged 
 but few words with each other. 
 
134 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Outside, seated on a wooden bench, 
 which served also as a table for their beer- 
 cans, were six or eight private soldiers, 
 who every now and again broke upon the 
 evening air with a camp-song, the chorus 
 of which ran in this wise, — 
 
 “ And what have you got by all your designing, 
 
 But a town, without dinner, to sit down and dine in 1 ” 1 
 
 “Art satisfied?” the young American 
 asked at last, bending towards his com- 
 panion, “ and wilt thou not come away ? ” 
 “ Nay, Phil,” was the rejoinder, “ I find 
 it vastly amusing, and could sit on for 
 hours listening to yonder redcoats.” 
 
 With an impatient sigh, Phil Troubridge 
 — for he it was — sank back and took 
 refuge in his pewter of beer. 
 
 Just then Lord Percy’s rather harsh 
 voice was heard in lively banter. 
 
 “ Nay, confess now, Duncombe, ’twas 
 
 1 A favourite camp-song of the period. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 135 
 
 something sweeter than thy wound that 
 kept thee hid so long in a maiden fastness ? 
 No warrior of thy tastes would submit to 
 being shorn, unless by a fairer Delilah than 
 she of old. Per Bacco ! Sir William, we 
 have as yet failed to draw the secret of his 
 hiding-place from out him, though full 
 three weeks went by and we mourned him 
 as one dead in the flower of his youth ! ” 
 
 “You flatter me, my lord,” answered 
 Dxmcombe : “ I scarce thought my poor life 
 worth one fleeting moment’s consideration 
 at your hands. But since I have returned 
 in better health and strength, methinks 
 your lordship must rescind your jibe at a 
 possible Delilah.” 
 
 “ Thou art hot, my Gilderoy,” replied 
 Percy coolly, “ and therefore forgettest 
 thy role. But, tell me, who was the fair 
 Helen that dared to sing even two lines 
 of that accursed song before me, into a 
 
136 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 colonist’s ears ? You appear but ill to 
 Lear me. Kay, then, consider, brave son 
 of Mars, where ’twas that last we met.” 
 
 “At his Excellency’s, my lord, I think,” 
 answered Duncombe, his face flushed, and 
 angry at the half- sneering tone of Lord 
 Percy’s voice. 
 
 “ Ay, of a surety, my Gilderoy, and 
 who, pray then, were the maids that 
 decked my Lady Gage’s board? Ye 
 seemed rarely well acquainted with them 
 all.” 
 
 “ Mark my word, Lord Percy,” here 
 interrupted Bourgoyne, “ that is a dan- 
 gerous woman, and one not to be trusted. 
 My Lady Gage can win a secret from a 
 sphinx, and keep it just so long as serves 
 her ladyship’s purpose ; her sympathies 
 are sure to run hand in glove with her last 
 passion, and Stephen Kemble is a patriot 
 colonist for all his pretences, or I will give 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 137 
 
 up my sword. His Excellency is a blind 
 dotard where her handsome face is con- 
 cerned.” 
 
 “ I doubt it not,” replied Pei’cy care- 
 lessly. “ But find me the woman as pure 
 as she is beautiful, as faithful as she is 
 gracious, and I will wed her to-morrow, 
 lest the jewel lose its proper setting. But 
 answer me, Duncombe, regarding the 
 damsels of this morning.” 
 
 Thus adjured, Duncombe replied, though 
 unwillingly, 
 
 “ They were the Demoiselles de Grasse, 
 nieces of the French count, and Mistress 
 Penelope Dudley, whose great grandfather 
 was Governor over this province in Queen 
 Anne’s time.” 
 
 “ Thou answerest like a primer or a 
 hornbook,” laughed Percy, “ with your 
 names and lineage as pat as though learned 
 by rote. Hay, but she on the Governor’s 
 
138 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 right had eyes as marvellous as the fair 
 Trojan queen, and she spared them not in 
 the service of the young colonist. By 
 my faith ! there sits he now, as cool and 
 unconcerned as though his Majesty’s 
 officers were not three yards from him ! ” 
 At this exclamation all turned towards 
 the table where sat the two friends, and 
 Gilderoy, catching sight of the fair-haired 
 American, cried out, 
 
 “ Why, ’tis Phil Troubridge ! wherefore 
 comes he here at this hour? ” 
 
 “ In the service of intrigue, or my name 
 is never Percy. See how he bends towards 
 his mysterious companion, and bows his 
 head in whispered converse. By my soul ! 
 but his dark-cloaked comrade has a flash 
 in his eyes like to summer lightning.” 
 With a short laugh the Marquis de 
 Yentadore here arose, and strolled down 
 the parlour towards the small table, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 139 
 
 stopping at a sconce near by to consult 
 bis watch; but the stranger was apparently 
 engaged in an old London journal, and 
 kept his head bent so closely on the printed 
 page as to leave but a tiny line of cheek 
 and chin visible. 
 
 Without further notice the Marquis 
 returned to his own companions, and ere 
 long they all separated, Lord Percy and Sir 
 William mounting their horses, followed 
 by General Bourgoyne and Duncombe. 
 The Marquis bade a courteous good night 
 to each, and watched them ride off in the 
 summer darkness ; then he, too, with a 
 fine smile upon his lips, walked forward, 
 extinguishing his cigar as he neared the 
 common. 
 
 Here he stopped, and underneath a large 
 spreading oak-tree that intervened between 
 the footpath and the Governor’s residence 
 took up his stand, as immovable as the 
 
140 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 stars above him. Before many minutes 
 Iris ear caught the sound of approaching 
 footsteps, and then he cautiously moved 
 his position until his eyes were arrested by 
 the sight of two advancing figures. They 
 were Phil Troubridge and his mysterious 
 companion, who, walking quickly and 
 silently, drew every moment nearer the 
 governor’s mansion. As they came abreast 
 of De Yentadore’s hiding-place, he heard a 
 light laugh, and the half-mocking words, 
 
 “ Nay, now, my doubting Phil, thou 
 hast but a few yards further, and thy 
 unwilling task is over. Sure, never had 
 I cavalier so little gracious as thou hast 
 proved.” 
 
 What the young American answered De 
 Ventadore could not hear, for he hurried 
 his comrade forward in an eager, impetuous 
 manner; but at the first ripple of that 
 laughter Louis de Yentadore had stood 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 141 
 
 rigid and spellbound; his pale dark face 
 grew ashen, and on his brow stood the beads 
 of passion; he gave one short subdued 
 sigh, and then, with a quick, involuntary 
 movement towards his sword, stole out 
 from the shadows, and crept along the 
 path that, sheltered by the side of the 
 house, gave upon a small grass plot before 
 the entrance door. 
 
 Only one figure flitted before him now, 
 and that was shrouded in a heavy cloak, 
 but the sheltering sombrero had been 
 removed, and the pale clear light of the 
 stars fell full upon the upturned face. In 
 the distance Phil Troubridge’s retreating 
 form made a dark spot against the white 
 high-road. With a muttered oath De Yen- 
 tadore moved forward, and at that instant 
 the figure before him halted, and standing 
 bareheaded trolled out lightly the closing 
 lines of the soldiers’ chorus, 
 
142 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ And what have yon gained by all your designing, 
 But a town without dinner, to sit down and dine in'? ” 
 
 In another moment De Yentadore’s hand 
 fell upon his shoulder, and De Yentadore’s 
 voice rang sharp and shrill in one word, 
 
 “ Anais ! ” 
 
 There was a moment of dead silence, 
 when only the trees seemed to echo her 
 name, and the dark heavens to bear it 
 written in letters of burning gold. 
 
 Then with a laugh she sprang from 
 beneath his hold, flew up the steps and into 
 the house, and, ere he had time to realize 
 her purpose, the heavy door closed on 
 her slight figure. 
 
 Panting and breathless, Anais stole up 
 the staircase, groping her way in the dark, 
 and creeping on tiptoe past his Excellency’s 
 apartments, where a light still shone, until 
 she reached her own chamber. Here she 
 tore off her disguise with hasty fingers, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 143 
 
 thrusting all into an open chest, which she 
 doublelocked, and then crept noiselessly 
 into the tiny bed-room in which her sister 
 slept. 
 
 Dorothy lay upon her bed in peaceful 
 slumber ; her fair girlish throat wms bare, 
 and about its rounded charms the chain 
 and crucifix of her young dead mother 
 rested, rising and falling with each gentle 
 breath ; her hands lay out, palm upwards, 
 on the bed-covering, and in one there still 
 rested the withered white rose-buds. She 
 looked, indeed, a flower for innocence and 
 purity. 
 
 With half a cry, Anais fell on her knees 
 and buried her beautiful face in her hands; 
 but little Dot slept calmly on, unconscious 
 that the one she loved so deeply had need 
 of her tender care and sweet compas- 
 sion. 
 
 Without, stood Louis de Yentadore, his 
 
144 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 eyes burning with passion, his frame 
 shaken by jealous rage. He waited many 
 minutes, until the solitary light in the 
 house was extinguished, and then, with a 
 deep and bitter oath, he turned on his heel, 
 and was soon lost in the shadows of the 
 night. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 On the "Wednesday afternoon following 
 General Bourgoyne’s dinner at the 
 “ George,” Lady Gage sat in her private 
 boudoir awaiting, with apparent impatience, 
 the coming of some tardy gallant. She was 
 dressed with great care, and in the latest 
 mode, as copied from the Prench court ; 
 each separate charm enhanced by a lavish 
 or a modest display, as should best create 
 admiration or incite devotion in the heart 
 of her swain. 
 
 Before her was a small writing-table 
 strewn with papers, and at her side a 
 diminutive King Charles spaniel reposed 
 on a silken cushion, the large crimson bow 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and golden bell almost hiding its long ears 
 and bright eyes. 
 
 My lady threw down the letter she had 
 been reading, and rested her head upon her 
 hand ; the lace draperies fell back from her 
 shapely wrist, revealing an arm exquisitely 
 rounded, and so fair and firm as to call 
 forth praise from the coldest stoic. 
 
 Her face was flushed, even through the 
 too apparent cosmetic, and her brows 
 drawn together in a decided frown ; while 
 her handsome mouth was so distorted by 
 a peevish pout, that the tiny coach and 
 four horses in black court-plaster, which 
 adorned the left corner, seemed in immi- 
 nent peril of momentary demolition. 
 
 “Ma certes, Toby ! ” she cried, addressing 
 the spaniel, “ sure ’tis enough to anger 
 Griselda herself to be thus mocked and 
 made nought of by a boy whom one has 
 so highly favoured as I have Steenie. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 147 
 
 More shame to me that I care or take to 
 heart his falseness, since, in spite of my 
 Lady Charlotte’s charms, I have but to 
 sigh and cry ‘ Follow,’ to have an older and 
 a wiser pair of heels at my service, and an 
 older and a wiser head for my accomplice. 
 Ay ! but with the heels and the head 
 must needs come an older and wiser heart 
 than my Steenie’s, and — love is sweetest 
 when whispered by young lips. Bourgoyne 
 has worshipped at too many shrines to 
 keep afresh the odour of his incense ; while 
 Steenie learned his first love lessons under 
 my eyes.” 
 
 She arose and moved towards the 
 window ; this looked out upon the common 
 covered by his Majesty’s troops encamped 
 thereon, and over the same little path 
 which De Yentadore had trod so cautiously 
 three nights ago. Leaning against the 
 casement, she gazed eagerly in the direc- 
 
 T ^ 
 
 JU iU 
 
148 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tion of Copps’, Breed, and Bunker Hills. 
 In tlie pale liaze of tlie summer atmosphere 
 their outlines could be plainly discerned 
 against the deep cloudless blue of the 
 heavens ; very innocent and peaceful they 
 appeared, and rather dull; certainly they 
 seemed to hold no marvel, either of form 
 or verdure, to so rivet the attention of a 
 pair of handsome eyes that might have 
 been better employed. Whatever their 
 occult charm, however, Lady Gage turned 
 away at length with a short sigh. 
 
 As she did so, a door in the oak panel- 
 ling opened noiselessly, and Stephen 
 Kemble stood before her. 
 
 “ Thou art late, cousin,” she said coolly, 
 extending to him her hand. “ A tardy 
 messenger can scarce look for a generous 
 reward.” 
 
 “ My lady is severe,” answered young 
 Kemble, bowing over her hand, which he 
 kissed and retained in his ; “ but, believe 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 149 
 
 me, if tardy I am trusty ; ’tis ill working 
 for a gage that seems so grudgingly 
 bestowed as thine.” 
 
 “ Nay, Steenie, blame me not if I chide 
 thee. Dost think it is thy nouvelles I 
 sigh for most, or thy handsome face ? I 
 flatter thee too well, my silly lad, and thou 
 takest advantage of my woman’s heart.” 
 
 Then, with a sudden gracious sweetness 
 which formed so powerful a factor in her 
 complex nature, she laid her hands upon 
 his shoulders, and, looking him straight in 
 the eyes, said very gently, 
 
 “ J am too old to play thee false, Steenie, 
 and thou shouldst be too young to learn 
 the role of traitor towards one who has 
 never failed thee. But ’tis enough, let us 
 get to your report ; our moments are 
 numbered, for his Excellency returns at six 
 o’clock, when, with the French demoiselles, 
 we attend a supper at Sir William Howe’s. 
 Thou wilt be there, I know, but ’tis wisest 
 
150 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 that we seem not over-intimate, for already 
 the Governor looks askance at thee, and 
 questions me keenly as to your loyalty.” 
 
 “ And what answers do you make to 
 his Excellency, my fair cousin ? ” asked 
 Kemble. “ Thy wit is true enough to find 
 fit replies for a dozen such like in- 
 quisitors.” 
 
 “ Flatterer ! ” she cried, striking him 
 lightly with her fan. “ What reply did I 
 make to his Excellency ? nay, listen then. 
 I told him I would answer for your loyalty 
 with mine, or stake my life on’t. And so 
 I would, cousin — your loyalty to the 
 Americans. Now tell me, what news do 
 you bring me from the patriots, and how 
 long do they purpose to remain inactive, 
 while we within the town know so well 
 the weakness of our troops and ammuni- 
 tion ? ” 
 
 “ They know that now, cousin, as well 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 151 
 
 as we,” answered Kemble in a significant 
 tone. 
 
 “ Ah ! then thou hast seen Warren and 
 delivered to him the cipher. Do you 
 bring me aught back ? Come to business, 
 Steenie ; we shall have our pleasuring 
 after.” 
 
 She seated herself at the writing-table, 
 and Kemble, following her, produced from 
 his inner waistcoat pocket a small packet, 
 tied and sealed ; it bore no address, but 
 Lady Gage tore off the outer wrapper and 
 proceeded to read the closely- written lines 
 within. 
 
 While she was thus engaged Kemble 
 lolled on a low divan ; and picking up the 
 spaniel, settled her comfortably on his 
 knees, and lazily pulled her long, silken 
 ears through his fingers. After a few 
 moments Lady Gage looked up. 
 
 “ Who delivered this to thee, Steenie ? ” 
 
152 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 she asked in a decided quiet tone, from 
 which all ring of coquetry had flown, and 
 which her young kinsman knew better than 
 not to answer in the same strain. 
 
 “ Phil Troubridge, who had it from 
 Warren’s own hands.” 
 
 “ Dost know its contents, Steenie ? ” 
 
 “ Only by guesswork, cousin ; but if I 
 read aright the looks of the young patriot, 
 there will not be many more quiet nights 
 to dream in ere they show their earnestness 
 in the cause.” 
 
 “ Right, Steenie ; thy mother- wit speaks 
 there. I have it on good authority that a 
 plan is now maturing which, if bravely 
 carried forth, will land our patriots at 
 Boston, and send the Kiug’s-men to the 
 right-about. Thou knowest the project 
 laid out by his Excellency, Howe, Clinton, 
 and Bourgoyne, in which they plan to 
 occupy the hills on Charlestown peninsula 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 153 
 
 —commanding Boston and its harbour on 
 the north — as well as Dorchester Heights 
 on the Heck, thus sweeping the southern 
 portion of the town and bay. Howe’s 
 battalions are to man the first, and Bour- 
 goyne’s to hold the second ; whence, by 
 sharpshooting, they can keep the road 
 open to Koxbury. 
 
 “ ’Tis a well-laid scheme, and might 
 succeed, did not a woman’s wits run 
 counter to it. General Bourgoyne is over- 
 vain of his pen, Steenie ; and the letter to 
 my Lord Stanley developing this project 
 was couched in such elegant language that 
 to send it off unapplauded was a sacrifice far 
 too great to be endured. Thus, in default 
 of Lady Charlotte, mine were the eyes to 
 which it was unfolded, and mine the gentle 
 flattery that soothed away all stings of 
 conscience, and mine the brain that 
 counterplanned, and mine the hand that 
 
154 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 penned the note of warning to the Congress 
 now sitting at Philadelphia. 
 
 “ His Excellency has arranged the con- 
 summation of these manoeuvres for the 
 coming Sunday; but, methinks, ere the 
 sun sets on Saint Botolph’s Day, he will 
 find his wits move too slowly to keep pace 
 with those of the patriots. See, Steenie,” 
 she continued, “ I have by me a drawing 
 of the works which Gridley and young 
 Henry Knox are even now completing ; 
 they are but rough earth defences and 
 redoubts made of stones and fresh-cut 
 sods, and our men are undrilled, un- 
 disciplined soldiers, with few bayonets and 
 but little powder, but their leaders are 
 brave and fearless, and the purity and 
 honour of their cause is in their hands. 
 With Warren to incite one, who could fail 
 to follow where he led ? ” 
 
 As Lady Gage proceeded, pouring forth 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 155 
 
 her flood of eager eloquence, she grew 
 fairly beautiful in her cousin’s eyes. The 
 earnestness of a nature that might have 
 been attuned to higher purposes came to 
 the fore, and all the pretty coquetries, loose 
 badinage , and light scoffing sank beneath 
 the better and higher attributes of her 
 passionate but ill-regulated temperament. 
 
 “ Nay, cousin,” exclaimed Kemble, 
 aroused for the moment from his ordinary 
 indifference, “ say, rather, who would not 
 obey where you commanded, or pursue 
 hotly when you were suzerain of the van- 
 guard ? Command me, cousin, I shall 
 again prove my title to be your knight.” 
 
 “ Ah, Steenie ! ” answered her ladyship 
 very gently, “ I need but your praises to 
 be very happy. But see, I have work for 
 you to do, and work more important than 
 carrying a billet to the President of the 
 Congress. If all goes well with the patriots, 
 
156 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 they should be in readiness to attack or 
 defend their position by Saturday ; this 
 is Wednesday. I have it from Elucker, 
 his Excellency’s secretary, that the two 
 following days are to be devoted to the 
 organizing and distributing of the ammuni- 
 tion brought over by Howe and Bourgoyne, 
 and which is at present under General 
 Cleaveland’s sole charge and supervision. 
 His signature will be necessary to procure 
 the balls and bullets, for the supply is not 
 over-large, and he guards it as jealously as a 
 sighing maid her love-letters. What think 
 you ? can ice prevail upon him by any 
 means to sign an order without perusing 
 its contents ? ” 
 
 Young Kemble smiled. 
 
 “ Now of a truth, cousin, you ask a 
 strange question. Think you a King’s 
 officer would e’er prove himself so little 
 worthy his commission ? Nay ; if our 
 patriots fight, it must be with terrible 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 157 
 
 odds against them. I fear ’tis beyond 
 our powers to save them from one ball 
 or bullet at their enemies’ hands.” 
 
 “ Faint-hearted, art thou, Steenie ? Ah, 
 well ! we shall see. I pledge thee my word 
 that there shall be more grape-shot than 
 ball or bullet used in his Majesty’s service. 
 Love, Steenie, is a powerful advocate ; 
 and ’tis love shall do battle in my behalf, 
 and, if I mistake not, win the day for 
 me, in spite of General Cleaveland’s con- 
 science or commission. But tell me, 
 devotes he as much of his time as ever to 
 Cissie Lovell ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! more, if possible. The old dotard 
 spends all his days and a good part of his 
 substance on the schoolmaster’s pretty 
 daughter. ’Tis reported the fair Cis brags 
 loudly of her conquest, and talks already 
 of her court train when she pays her 
 devoirs to Queen Charlotte.” 
 
 “ Then I shall succeed, Steenie ; and 
 
158 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 thou shalt witness my triumph. To-night, 
 after supper at Sir William’s, a small 
 number of us return here for cards ; and 
 be not surprised if Cis Lovell is among 
 the number.” 
 
 Young Kemble was about to reply, when 
 Lady Gage held up a warning finger, and 
 in another moment had swept all her 
 papers into an open drawer, locked it, and 
 withdrawn the key, and was lazily pulling 
 on her long loose gloves and laughing at 
 Toby’s antics, as the door opened and his 
 Excellency appeared, ready apparelled for 
 the dinner, but wearing above his laces 
 and velvets an anxious weary face. 
 
 With gentle courtesy he greeted Kemble, 
 and offered his hand to his wife, who, 
 gathering together her train by a dexterous 
 movement, threw it over her left arm, and 
 glancing significantly at Stephen, waved 
 him an airy farewell. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 By eleven o’clock that evening the large 
 drawing-rooms in the governor’s mansion 
 were all alight, and wore a particularly 
 festive appearance. 
 
 Wax candles burned in the silver giran- 
 doles, and were reflected and multiplied a 
 hundredfold in the console mirrors that 
 adorned the walls ; huge Indian jars, 
 decorated with the patient labour of years, 
 stood at intervals between the panels of 
 costly damask that covered the sides of 
 the lofty chamber ; while on various spider- 
 legged tables her ladyship’s collection of 
 china monsters, inherited from a former 
 generation, was dexterously arranged. 
 
160 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 The highly polished floor shone like a 
 mirror, in which the spindle chairs, with 
 lion’s claws for feet, seemed to cast long 
 fantastic counterparts. 
 
 At the closed door of the inner salon , a 
 small black boy, clad in bright scarlet 
 livery, and with his woolly curls brushed 
 and stiffened into a tall pyramid on the 
 top of his head, kept guard ; by his side 
 sat Toby, also resplendent in a collar of 
 tinkling bells. 
 
 From behind the closed door now and 
 then would issue a chorus of merriment 
 or the high ringing peal of her ladyship’s 
 laughter ; whenever this occurred the little 
 black boy and Toby would prick up their 
 ears and open their eyes, and draw up their 
 small persons in dignified attention, but 
 after various false alarms they grew care- 
 less and abandoned themselves to the 
 seductive influences of slumber. Thus 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 161 
 
 when the door was, at last, thrown open, 
 Toby and his companion were discovered 
 in the disgraceful position of sleeping while 
 on duty. 
 
 It was his Excellency who first discerned 
 the culprits, and by a gentle kick aroused 
 them ere her ladyship’s wrath could de- 
 scend upon them. Stumbling on to his 
 feet, the little page stood dazed and humi- 
 liated, bowing rapidly in eager succession 
 to each guest, showing rows of white teeth, 
 and making his little murmurs of “ Good 
 even’, missie; Good even’, massa,” with a 
 scared little look in his soft, bright eyes. 
 
 Lady Gage passed him with a sharp tap 
 on his woolly head, dealt none too lightly ; 
 Stephen Kemble tossed him a copper bit 
 and tweaked his ear ; Anais swept by un- 
 heeding, followed by Louis de Ventadore, 
 whose moody eyes took cognizance of 
 nought save her; but Dorothy, coming last 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of all the company, with Duncombe at her 
 side, stopped and handed him a large 
 yellow orange and a handful of sugared 
 comfits, with a soft inquiry and gentle 
 smile that awoke all the passionate attach- 
 ment and devotion for which his race were 
 so remarkable. 
 
 “ A Lady Bountiful, indeed, Mistress 
 Dorothy,” whispered Duncombe, “ but 
 why bestow your favours upon those who 
 can but ill appreciate them, when one 
 stands always pleading for the smallest 
 trifle at your hands, yet scarce dare sue 
 for it ? ” 
 
 The gild blushed deeply, while her heart 
 leapt up wildly at his words. She turned 
 her serious grave eyes upon him, and was 
 seeking words to make him answer, when 
 up darted Pen Dudley with her young 
 British officer at her side, and called out 
 shrilly, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 163 
 
 “ Good faith, saw I ever two such long 
 faces ! Well, brave Knight of the Doleful 
 Countenance, and you, fair Lady Melan- 
 choly, I bring you a message to dispel your 
 vapours ; her ladyship composes a minuet, 
 and requires one couple more to fill the 
 vacant space.” 
 
 Without a word Duncombe offered his 
 hand to Dorothy, and they moved down 
 the room towards the circle forming at the 
 lower end. . The musicians had already 
 arrived, and were tuning and scraping 
 their fiddles just without the large entrance 
 doors. 
 
 It was to be a court minuet, and formed 
 of six couples ; Lady Gage and Stephen 
 Kemble leading off, with Anais and De 
 Yentadore for vis-a-vis, followed by little 
 Dot and Gilderoy with Penelope and her 
 officer ; then came Cis Lovell, a fair, pretty 
 girl with a vain expression and an excited 
 m 2 
 
164 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 manner, who had for cavalier General 
 Oleaveland, an elderly portly man in a 
 British uniform; these chasseed to Polly 
 Buggies, a niece of the loyal General’s, 
 and her fiance, an officer from the frigate 
 Lively. 
 
 The stately measure commenced with 
 due solemnity, and was danced with all 
 dignity and composure. The pompous 
 reverences of the gentlemen, the sweeping 
 curtseys of the ladies, the crossings, bow- 
 ings, changes of partner, and intricate 
 evolutions, were carried out with the 
 utmost precision and gravity. But when, 
 in the course of time, the two French 
 demoiselles, with their respective cavaliers, 
 performed the pas seul, the pas a deux, 
 and the pas a quatre, in which the acme of 
 perfection, grace, dignity, and accuracy 
 was required, a murmur of admiration was 
 heard. 
 
 Dressed precisely alike in gowns of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 165 
 
 white silk cut low upon the bosoms, about 
 which gossamer lace was drawn in a full 
 ruche, with flots of pale saffron ribbon 
 confining the roses at their waists, their 
 brown hair drawn high upon their shapely 
 heads, and fastened with a silver comb, 
 they afforded a rare contrast to the 
 gaudily attired ladies who surrounded 
 them, with their powder, patches, and be- 
 wigged heads. But ’twas not the simpli- 
 city of their attire that elicited the ap- 
 plause, it was rather the strange and mar- 
 vellous likeness between the two sisters — 
 a likeness that seemed to grow and 
 deepen in intensity as they stood, all un- 
 conscious, as each with daintily raised petti- 
 coats in one hand, and with the other ex- 
 tended and elevated in that of her partner, 
 swept simultaneously down to the polished 
 floor in a salutation rivalled for elegance 
 and grace only in the grand French 
 court. 
 
166 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 When the dance was completed, the card- 
 tables were set out, and wine and stronger 
 liquors served on large silver salvers, 
 handed about by the soft-footed negro 
 servants wearing the scarlet livery of his 
 Excellency. 
 
 Anais took a hand at Quadrille with the 
 Governor and Gilderoy Duncombe, while 
 Lady Gage, Stephen Kemble, with General 
 Cleaveland and Cis Lovell, entered upon a 
 round game that provoked much merri- 
 ment and rather noisy laughter among the 
 players. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore thus deprived of 
 Anais found himself thrown upon the 
 kindness of Pen Dudley and Dorothy, who, 
 seated upon a low bench together, were 
 discussing the always interesting topic, the 
 intentions of the patriot leaders. 
 
 “ I wonder, Pen,” Dot was saying, 
 “ that thou canst so dance and flout about 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 167 
 
 and seem so gay and unconcerned, when 
 poor Pliil Troubridge spends his hours in 
 a rarely different fashion, and doubtless, 
 with a sad heart, thinks on thee as weary- 
 ing for him, and fancies not how rarely 
 well thou amusest thyself without him.” 
 Penelope shrugged her round shoulders 
 and looked rebellious. 
 
 “ I have no sympathy with the patriots, 
 Dot, and Phil is one fool the more, to be 
 led away by his over-hot brain to cry war 
 on those who govern us well enough if we 
 do but leave •them in peace. As to being 
 so mightily amused, you’d scarce have me 
 wear the willow before my time for Phil 
 Troubridge’s sake, I ween.” 
 
 “Ay, Pen,” answered Dorothy sadly, 
 “ thou may’st wear it yet in bitter earnest 
 ere the end be come. But sure, ’twas 
 scarce kindly, thy manner to poor Phil 
 on Sunday, and methinks he felt it sorely. 
 
168 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 for there was misery in his eyes when he 
 bade me farewell, and of a surety thy song 
 was but a sorry jest, and could scarce 
 please him should he hear on it. Hast 
 forgotten Oldtown, Pen, and Manor Farm, 
 and that Sunday in last February when 
 you and Phil were cried in church ? ” 
 
 She laid her hand pleadingly on Pene- 
 lope’s, and the latter, touched by her 
 sincerity, turned towards her with a half- 
 apology, when the words were arrested on 
 her lips by the clear calm voice of 
 De Yentadore. 
 
 “You plead with eloquence, ma tutelle, 
 and ’tis a pity such words should be 
 squandered unworthily. Mistress Pen, do 
 not stint yourself of one amusement on 
 your fiance’s account ; believe me, he seeks 
 his own pleasures where your feet would 
 never tread.” 
 
 At his first word Dorothy had shrunk 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 169 
 
 back as if dealt a blow, but now slie arose, 
 and standing before De Yentadore said, 
 her voice trembling a little, 
 
 “ Monsieur le Marquis, I do not believe 
 you. Phil Troubridge dishonours no 
 woman’s love where once he has pledged 
 his own. Have a care, Pen, lest thou lose 
 an honest heart when thou listenest to false 
 words.” 
 
 Then she walked swiftly from them, 
 made her reverence to Lady Gage, and left 
 the room unnoticed, save by little black 
 Pompey, who still held the orange she had 
 given him, though the comfits had long 
 since solaced him for Kemble’s pull at his 
 ear. 
 
 De Yentadore sank into Dorothy’s place 
 beside Penelope, and in low eager tones 
 told her of his seeing Phil at the “ George ” 
 with an unknown companion, and how, 
 attracted by his unusually devoted manner, 
 
170 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 he had suspected the sex of his comrade, 
 and had followed them home. With con- 
 summate cunning he worked upon her pas- 
 sions of jealousy and suspicion, with here 
 a suggestion and there an innuendo, until 
 Pen, colourless, but with flashing eyes, 
 turned full upon him and demanded more 
 explicit details. 
 
 “ Tell me her name, monsieur,” she 
 cried ; “I see you know it, and I will give 
 you all the service that lies in my power ; 
 but her name, her name, I must and will 
 have.” 
 
 De Yentadore looked at her intently. 
 
 “Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “it 
 concerns me much to so have roused 
 your feelings; it had been better had I 
 withheld my knowledge, since it so affects 
 you. Mistaken zeal in your cause must 
 plead my excuse.” 
 
 But Pen never heeded him. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 171 
 
 “ Her name, monsieur ; her name ! ” 
 
 Bending down until his lips almost 
 touched her ear, he whispered, with cruel 
 distinctness, one word, 
 
 “ Anais ! ” 
 
 Pen sat as if stunned ; and still the 
 fiddles scraped and twanged, and still the 
 light laughter floated across the salon , 
 and the gay voices of the card-players 
 proclaimed their losses and gains, and the 
 candles flickered, and the glasses jingled, 
 and all the faces swam before Penelope’s 
 eyes. 
 
 Anais ! 
 
 That one name rang in her ears with 
 a dull, dreary reiteration that would not 
 be gainsaid. 
 
 Anais, then, was false ! Anais, her friend, 
 her girlhood companion, the sharer of her 
 secrets, the confidante of her love — Anais 
 was false ! She had stolen away, by her 
 
172 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 matchless beauty, the heart of her only 
 lover ; she had caught him in the light of 
 her lovely eyes, enwrapt him in the 
 meshes of her silken hair, ensnared him 
 by the charm of her wondrous grace. 
 Anais was false ! 
 
 Moment after moment passed, and she 
 sat motionless and dumb. Louis de 
 Ventadore, watching her set features, 
 almost despised himself as the cause of 
 the agony he read upon her face. 
 
 But love spurned is a virtue changed 
 into a vice, while from out its former 
 innocence and candour springs a Medusa’s 
 head crowned with the noisome reptiles 
 of vengeance and hatred. 
 
 Anais had, once again, spurned his 
 passion, and, with a light laugh, had cast it 
 from her ; yet with his own eyes he had 
 seen her lavish favours upon the man 
 who stood affianced to her dearest friend. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 173 
 
 What love, unless as pure as heaven’s dew, 
 and as passionless as angel’s tears, could 
 still live unchanged and believing beneath 
 such a blasting ordeal? 
 
 When Louis de Yentadore quitted Pene- 
 lope that evening, he thought he had 
 gained one friend the more, and of a surety 
 Anais had made another enemy. 
 
174 
 
 OLD BOSTOX. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Lady Gage, meantime, and her party be- 
 came rather boisterous in their mirth ; she 
 and Cissie Lovell had glasses of mulled 
 port from which they sipped, or dipped 
 therein the sweet macaroon-fingers, before 
 transferring them to their dainty lips ; 
 General Cleaveland and young Kemble in- 
 dulged more freely in the same beverage, 
 while ready jest succeeded bright repartee, 
 and sparkling sallies were met with light 
 badinage. 
 
 Cis Lovell had never before mixed in 
 such grand society, for the schoolmaster’s 
 pretty daughter could boast of no higher 
 conquests than those among the young 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 175 
 
 students of Cambridge College, across the 
 river, where her fair face was often coupled, 
 at' midnight revels, with the royal toast ; 
 small wonder then that she grew more 
 and more excited and over-balanced by her 
 ladyship’s patronage and the too evident de- 
 votion of Cleaveland, seconded by Stephen 
 Kemble’s well-directed compliments. 
 
 Anais, catching now and then a more 
 uproarious burst of laughter, flashed her 
 eyes upon them scornfully, as she checked 
 her adversary’s advantage by some unex- 
 pected play ; then her manner would 
 soften, and she would become so gracious 
 and so gentle that Duncombe, gazing at 
 her, felt his heart throb more quickly, and 
 his blood course more hotly, under each 
 lanquid glance of her lovely, golden -lighted 
 eyes. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore, standing alone in 
 the deep-recessed window, also watched 
 
176 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the beautiful face, and for each sweet smile 
 she bestowed on Duncombe, he registered 
 one sharp pang the more. 
 
 At length, the round game being finished, 
 and the glasses replenished, not without an 
 exaggerated protestation from Cis Lovell, 
 however, which her ladyship quickly set at 
 rest, Stephen Kemble aroused their flagging 
 interest by asking who would like to call 
 upon Dame Fortune and demand an opinion 
 of the book of fate. Miss Lovell giggled 
 and simpered, and cried out, 
 
 “ Oh, la ! Mister Kemble, of a surety can 
 you read the future?” 
 
 “ Kay, Cissie,” answered Lady Gage, 
 “ for that I can answer. My cousin Kemble 
 had the art imparted to him by a veritable 
 sage and seer, who had it in turn from one 
 of the old Skiptons ; of a truth he foretells 
 many a strange future for those who trust 
 to him.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 177 
 
 “ Lend me your pretty hand, Mistress 
 Lovell,” said Stephen, who had been 
 shuffling and cutting the cards, dealing 
 them into little packs before him, “ and 
 you shall judge for yourself how faithful 
 and fair a fortune I will read you.” 
 
 With many little pretences, shakings of 
 her powdered curls, giggles, and languish- 
 ing looks directed towards Cleaveland, 
 Cissie withdrew her long silk mitts, and 
 laid her pretty hand, with its warm, soft, 
 pink palm upturned, in Kemble’s. 
 
 He bent his handsome head over it 
 gravely, seemingly much interested in its 
 contemplation. How and then he touched 
 the round, rosy finger-tips, or pressed 
 lightly the soft cushions at their base. 
 Cis bent over him eagerly. The general 
 looked askance and angry, and Lady Gage 
 leaned back in her chair and watched with 
 that half-formed jealousy and envy which 
 
 YOL. II. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 a handsome mature woman feels towards 
 a pretty maiden who has youth and inno- 
 cence to use as foils against beauty and 
 knowledge. 
 
 At last Kemble looked up, and, still 
 holding the little hand in his, consulted 
 his cards. 
 
 “You have a rare future before you, 
 Mistress Cecily,” he said, “ full of beauti- 
 ful promise and abounding in pleasure and 
 wealth. I see here” — pointing to the fine 
 line from thumb to wrist — “ a life replete 
 with success and darkened by few 
 shadows, and here ” — marking the crease 
 that crossed the palm — “ a fate more 
 generous than is often bestowed on so fair 
 a countenance, while here, again, the mar- 
 riage line, from your line of life to your 
 third finger, runs straight and equal, with 
 but one break. Jupiter, Saturn, and 
 Yenus ” — pointing in turn to the base of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 179 
 
 each finger — “ are all allied in your favour. 
 Mars alone is obdurate, and withholds 
 his promise in an otherwise cloudless 
 prospect. Mistress Cecily, the fates hold 
 you in especial favour, and if you but 
 counterbalance the god of war, your life 
 bids fair to end as brilliantly as it begins.” 
 
 “And is that all, Mister Kemble?” 
 pouted Cis, as he released her hand not 
 without a quick pressure that brought the 
 blood to her cheeks. “Of a surety I 
 thought you would point out a counter- 
 charm for my one malaise, and make 
 quite clear my road to happiness and 
 fortune. ’Tis a poor soothsayer cannot 
 prescribe an amulet for his own unpro- 
 pitious prophecies.” 
 
 “ Nay, Cis, you ask too much,” laughed 
 Lady Gage. “ What, not content with all 
 the gifts of Venus, Saturn, and Jupiter, 
 that you must needs find a parched 
 n 2 
 
180 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 pea in Mar’s nngallant frown ! Well, 
 then, I too will play at Kemble’s trade, 
 though I boast no training in the art. 
 Here, Pompey,” — turning to the little 
 black page who stood by her side, — “ get 
 thee to my boudoir and fetch thence 
 quills, ink, and writing-paper, and hark 
 ye, waste no time, else black Tom shall 
 count each minute lost on your back with 
 his leather pendulum.” 
 
 With a flash of his teeth Pompey 
 vanished, and as quickly returned laden 
 with her ladyship’s commissions. She 
 took them from him, giving him a friendly 
 box on the ear, which he accepted with 
 a grin and, 
 
 “ Tankee, missee ladyee.” 
 
 Lady Gage folded the large square 
 sheets of writing-paper into small length- 
 wise slips, and proceeded to give two to 
 each person. She had handed Cis Lovell 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 181 
 
 liers, and Stephen Kemble had taken his, 
 when, looking vexed and angry, she cried 
 out, 
 
 “ Saw I ever such a numbskull as 
 Pompey ! Sure he has brought me his 
 Excellency’s official parchment with which 
 to play at pitch-and-toss with fortune. 
 ’Tis lucky, General,” — bestowing on Cleave- 
 land a brilliant smile, — “ that you and I 
 are the ones doomed to use such stiff and 
 ugly mediums for our fancies, and of a 
 truth I now discover that Tom Flucker 
 has headed each sheet with place and 
 country, to save his lazy fingers, I’ll be 
 bound, when next his pen is needed. See 
 ye, Stephen ? ” — pointing to the top of the 
 page, where in the secretary’s firm, fine 
 writing was to be read, “ Boston, British 
 Colonies of America, 1775.” 
 
 “ Why vex yourself, cousin ? ” answered 
 Kemble. “ A stroke of the pen effaces all 
 
182 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 significance, though, by my soul, ’tis scarce 
 likely that his Excellency will send to my 
 Lord Dartmouth our foolish jestings as 
 official -documents.” 
 
 “ Surely not, Stephen,” laughed her 
 ladyship, “but as his Excellency’s wife 
 I am, mayhap, over-anxious. What say 
 you, General, shall you and I use official 
 paper or send Pompey for a fresh supply 
 from my private store ? ” 
 
 “ What Lady Gage can make shift to 
 use, surely I can find no fault with,” 
 replied Cleaveland gallantly, his words 
 addressed to her ladyship, but his bleared 
 eyes wandering towards Cissie Lovell, who 
 talked in an undertone to Kemble. 
 
 “ Then we will proceed with my pas- 
 time,” cried Lady Gage, arousing her 
 cousin by a sharp blow from her fan. 
 
 “ You will find, Mistress Cecily, that my 
 muse asks but little from her votaries, and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 183 
 
 therefore differs in dignity and severity 
 from cousin Stephen’s deities. You each 
 hold two folded papers ; on the last fold 
 of one, turned inwards, we are to write 
 our names and any number we may select ; 
 on the other the same number and the 
 god or goddess we most seek to propitiate. 
 Then I gather them together, and by the 
 sequence or factors of the numbers, allot 
 to each his or her partner for the future ; 
 the numbers and the patron evoked on 
 each paper shall alone be read and thus 
 recognized only by those who have set 
 them down. Now, cousin, will you set 
 example by filling in your blanks ? ” 
 
 For a few moments all was quiet, save 
 for the busy squeak of the quills travers- 
 ing the paper. 
 
 Cis Lovell was the first to hand in her 
 two slips, and on one was written “ Cecily 
 Lovell — 18,” on the other “ Mars — 18.” 
 
184 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Stephen Kemble followed with his 
 name — 24, sequenced by “ Minerva,” and 
 six times four. Then came General 
 Cleaveland, who wrote “ Helen — 9,” and 
 Lady Gage, who with rapid fingers had 
 traced “ Apollo — 12.” 
 
 Her ladyship gathered the eight slips of 
 paper into her hand and looked them over 
 with a grave and quiet countenance. 
 
 When she spoke she turned toward Cissie 
 Lovell, who, with crossed arms, hung over 
 the table in eager anticipation. 
 
 “ Have no fear, Cecily, for I read on two 
 separate papers these figures, eighteen and 
 nine, and these deities, Mars and Helen. 
 The half of eighteen is easily counted, and 
 the fair queen of Troy is known to have 
 subjugated a more perilous foe than our 
 amorous war-god. Methinks, child, I 
 send you a fairer fortune than my kins- 
 man Kemble, who can find no better god- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 185 
 
 dess to invoke than that sage Minerva, 
 and sets down four-and-twenty as his 
 mystic charm, while I boldly choose 
 Apollo for my patron, and seek good luck 
 in the factor twelve.” 
 
 Cissie Lovell, blushing up, and looking 
 rarely pleased, found voice to say, 
 
 “ Oh, but please your ladyship, I 
 thought we were not to know who wrote 
 the names or numbers.” 
 
 “ Nay, now, Cis,” laughed Lady Gage, 
 “ be not such a prude ; think ye that 
 games are never modified to suit the 
 humour of the hour ? I question not that 
 nine and nine make the eighteen summers 
 that have passed over your pretty head, 
 while all who are versed in ancient story 
 know well that Helen of Troy vanquished 
 valiant Mars, while as for me, I can guess 
 full well who ’tis my kinsman indicates by 
 his wise Minerva, though she is once and 
 
186 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 more than the four-and-twenty years he 
 has traced, while my Apollo will ne’er 
 again see the doubling of twelve that I 
 have written against him.” 
 
 Cissie answered with another blush and 
 a laugh, heightened by General Cleave- 
 land’s snatch at her hand, and Stephen 
 Kemble’s lurking smile. 
 
 Then the card couples broke up and 
 refreshed themselves with cakes and wine, 
 followed by a country-dance ; and when the 
 city clocks chimed out the hour past mid- 
 night, the last guest was making his fare- 
 wells to the governor’s wife. This was 
 Stephen Kemble, to whom her ladyship 
 whispered lightly, 
 
 “Said I not truly, Steenie? who dare 
 question when love holds the scales ? ” and 
 flashed before his eyes the blank parch- 
 ment signed “ Cleaveland.” 
 
 “ You are all powerful, my fair Minerva,” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 187 
 
 answered Stephen fervently, “ I can but 
 worship at your feet.” 
 
 An hour later and Lady Gage, closeted 
 with Thomas Faulkner, was filling in an 
 order to be delivered at the commissariat, 
 and this order was countersigned “ Cleave- 
 land,” and bore beneath the mystic number 
 nine, while written across the topmost page 
 was the Governor’s official mansion, the 
 month, the day, the year. 
 
188 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The heat continued during the next two 
 days with unabating intensity. The city 
 seemed as if laid under some spell by the 
 Druid god, and compelled to offer up 
 unwilling tribute to the terrible Bel. 
 
 The common stretched its dusty acres 
 of trodden parched grass in dreary mono- 
 tony, while from the tents of the encamped 
 battalions that were scattered over its 
 surface, issued complaints and groanings, 
 sometimes interspersed with curses both 
 loud and deep. 
 
 In the harbour, the war frigates, Lively , 
 Somerset, and Falcon, drifted at anchor, 
 the pellucid water gurgling against their 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 189 
 
 sides as it slipped by in restless little 
 wavelets, hurrying on to meet and lose 
 themselves in the billows that, out beyond 
 the bar, rose and sank in green undulations. 
 
 There was an undercurrent of sup- 
 pressed excitement in the atmosphere ; 
 men meeting stopped, and, even as they ex- 
 changed greetings, cast furtive searching 
 glances at each others’ faces, and shifted 
 uneasily when detained longer than civility 
 required. A few looked grave and care- 
 worn, and bore upon their countenances 
 traces of anxiety and fear. 
 
 Among these Governor Gage was the 
 most marked, for, in spite of his wearing 
 a brilliant coat, and having a smile and a 
 gracious word for every one, his face belied 
 all the confidence he sought to establish, 
 and her ladyship could have told of many 
 a mauvais quart-d’heure, during those 
 days, when it required all her tact and 
 
190 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 skill, and all Stephen Kemble’s discrimi- 
 nation, to keep within the bounds of his 
 Excellency’s suspicious temper. 
 
 There were no more festivities at the 
 Governor’s mansion after that "Wednesday 
 evening, and the only society from the 
 outer world was that afforded by the 
 officers, messengers, and aides, who were 
 constantly passing in and out, bearing 
 notes, papers, and orders. 
 
 The most frequent visitors were Bour- 
 goyne, Duncombe, and De Yentadore, who 
 still kept up his role of neutrality, and 
 sometimes, though more rarely, Lord 
 Percy ; these, as they passed to and from 
 the Governor’s private office, where sat 
 Tom Flucker writing as for his life, copy- 
 ing despatches, filling up orders, and draw- 
 ing out proclamations, would stop at the 
 withdrawing-room and pass an hour in 
 chat with the ladies assembled there. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 191 
 
 Dorothy had her tambour-frame, and 
 scarce raised her eyes save when Dun- 
 combe entered, and then would drop them 
 so soon as she caught an answering 
 glance. 
 
 Anais scorned all useful work, and 
 passed the hours in a state of restless idle 
 occupation. A subtle change had gradu- 
 ally stolen over her usual lighthearted- 
 ness, and where once her laughter would 
 have trilled out the sweetest and clearest, 
 a jarring note, or short suppressed sigh, 
 would more often find its way. 
 
 Her humours were as capricious as April, 
 and she kept little Dot in sore perplexity 
 by her changes of whim and fancy. When 
 Duncombe came she seemed especially 
 possessed by the spirit of contrariety and 
 perverseness ; she would laugh at his 
 sentiments, make game of his patriotism, 
 and scoff at his bravery, until, having 
 
192 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 driven him to the verge of angry retalia- 
 tion, she would as suddenly melt and 
 bestow on him her sweetest smiles and 
 most seductive glances. 
 
 Dorothy sitting by, quiet and perplexed, 
 would raise her sweet eyes in mute apology 
 when Tais became unwarrantedly vexatious, 
 but Gilderoy, sure of the interest he pos- 
 sessed in one heart, passed her glances by 
 as valueless, because of the waywardness 
 of the other, whose motives and whose 
 feelings he could not fathom. 
 
 The Marquis de Yentadore came less 
 frequently, and said but little, but he 
 watched and waited, and grew more and 
 more bitter and jealous as Anais, appa- 
 rently fearing neither his love nor his 
 anger, threw him but scanty words and 
 rarer smiles. 
 
 Pen Dudley also had grown strangely 
 silent of late ; she flirted only in a half- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 193 
 
 hearted manner with her young officer, 
 and held aloof from Anais, who seemed as 
 little to regard her vagaries as she did De 
 Yentadore’s. 
 
 And so the long June days passed 
 slowly, one by one. Three times the great 
 sun-god arose upon the city, and bathed 
 each street and park, each hill and wood- 
 land, each rill and stream with his gene- 
 rous golden rays ; and three times he 
 sank to rest, fading into the deep-purple 
 glory of the ocean ; and still no sign 
 was given, indicative of coming war- 
 fare. 
 
 In vain Bourgoyne stormed and wrote 
 his complaints to Lord Stanley; his Ex- 
 cellency would not take the initiative 
 on land, and Admiral Graves remained 
 equally inactive at sea; meanwhile Ge- 
 neral Cleaveland basked in the light of 
 Cissie Lovell’s eyes, nor dreamed of 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the paper, signed and ready for use, ly- 
 ing safely locked away in my lady’s escri- 
 toire. 
 
 The sixteenth of June, eve of St. 
 Botolph’s Day, patron and namesake of 
 Boston, broke as fair and cloudless as 
 either of its predecessors, and nature, 
 rejoicing in the strength and glory of 
 renewed motherhood, seemed overflow- 
 ing with gracious benignity. 
 
 The day wore on, each hour pressed hard 
 upon the flying footsteps of its forerunner, 
 while the golden sands of time fell swiftly 
 from out the crystal glass of opportunity. 
 The shadows of evening were already 
 creeping over the green heights of - Dor- 
 chester, where on the morrow Bourgoyne’s 
 troops were to break ground for camping. 
 Already some of the regiments upon the 
 common showed signs of departure; the 
 men were preparing their kits and over- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 195 
 
 hauling their knapsacks against the morn- 
 ing’s march, when, having gone forth with 
 floating banners and martial music, they 
 should bid farewell to the scenes and com- 
 panions of their Boston anchorage. A few 
 hours more and the city was wrapped in 
 profound slumber; the clear deep blue 
 heavens burned a thousand watch-lights, 
 while sleep held captive the restless human 
 souls, who all the long day had carried on 
 the warfare of life, with its perplexities, its 
 struggles, its battles, its victories and 
 successes, hiding their wounds with 
 desperate courage, and smiling valiantly 
 even as they received their death-blow ; or 
 shouting loudest in the front rank of pro- 
 sperity, as they trampled beneath their 
 hurrying feet those who, less strong than 
 they, fell by the wayside or were left 
 behind in this never-ending race, which 
 knows no goal save a chimaera of man’s 
 
19G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 conception, no prize but in the vanity of 
 man’s imagination. 
 
 For a few short hours the silence of 
 death’s twin-sister held the great throbbing 
 heart of humanity, and, as the night crept 
 on, brought to each spirit a modicum of 
 rest and forgetfulness. 
 
 In the Governor’s mansion the lights 
 were extinguished, the halls and gay salons 
 wrapped in silence and obscurity. His 
 Excellency slept calmly, forgetting alike all 
 troubles, political or domestic, the sting 
 of Bourgoyne’s sarcasm, or the covert 
 smart of her ladyship’s bitter retort. 
 
 Little Dot dreamed innocently of Manor 
 Farm and the white noisette roses nod- 
 ding above the great door, and smiled 
 as some sweeter fancy crossed her 
 vision. 
 
 Anais dreamed also, and in the magic 
 mirror of sleep read the fulfilment of her 
 
OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 197 
 
 heart’s desire, coupled with a future of 
 bright promise. 
 
 But Penelope, in the large guest- 
 chamber, tossed restlessly on the great bed 
 with its sombre hangings and its four 
 carved posts, like grim skeletons waving 
 their fantastic draperies before her hot 
 waking eyes. To her angry burning heart, 
 the night brought no repose, the darkness 
 no relief. 
 
 In her ladyship’s boudoir a shaded night- 
 lamp made a round, bright disk of light, 
 sufficient only to throw into deeper shadow 
 the recessed window overlooking the com- 
 mon. "Within this alcove stood Lady Gage 
 and Stephen Kemble; they drew close 
 together, and spoke in low whispers. Her 
 ladyship looked deadly pale, and her hands 
 trembled as she drew closer her black 
 cardinal roccelo ; young Kemble leaned 
 against the casement, one hand upon his 
 
198 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sword ; both gazed eagerly and earnestly 
 in the direction of Bunker Hill, whose 
 gentle elevation could be dimly traced in 
 the semi-darkness of the June night. 
 
 “ Steenie,” whispered her ladyship in a 
 shivering voice, “ art sure there is no 
 blunder ? My heart fails me when I think 
 on the risk we run should the patriots delay 
 one hour. With the dawn of Sunday the 
 King’s troops will have fortified Dorchester, 
 and what hope have we then against them, 
 entrenched on the heights and well armed 
 and well disciplined ?” 
 
 “ Have no fear, cousin,” answered 
 Kemble in as cautious a voice as hers. “ I 
 have it from General Ward’s own orders; 
 they are even now, at this moment, under 
 cover of the darkness, breaking ground 
 and establishing their defences and out- 
 works. When the day breaks, cousin, you 
 will see the fairy-work wrought by 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 199 
 
 patriot hearts and hands in one short 
 night.” 
 
 “ Ah, Steenie, what would I not give to 
 pierce the gloom that hangs between my 
 eyes and yon poor workers on the hill ? and, 
 still more, to lift the veil from futurity and 
 read the ending and the results of this 
 night’s work ? I have staked all, Steenie, 
 for my countrymen and their cause ; what 
 will the end be, and what my reward ? ” 
 The young man did not reply, and silence 
 fell between them for several moments ; 
 then she spoke again. 
 
 “ The order, Steenie, filled out by 
 Mucker and signed by Cleaveland, hast 
 thou delivered it to a trusty messenger ? ” 
 “ Have no fear, my cousin ; when the 
 hour comes Cleaveland’s eyes will be too 
 blinded by Cupid’s opiates to scan a parch- 
 ment, and the patriots will have more 
 grape-shot to encounter from Bourgoyne’s 
 
200 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and Howe’s battalions, than bullet or 
 ball ; moreover, there are those among the 
 King’s-men who make no secret of their 
 sympathy with our patriots, and who 
 would serve right willingly under Ward or 
 Warren. Take courage, cousin, our cause 
 is not one to be lightly lost or won.” 
 
 Again silence fell between them, broken 
 at last by a faint sigh and low whisper 
 from Lady Gage. 
 
 “Your hand, Steenie; give me your 
 hand. Faith, I grow a sad coward ! Hay, 
 but when all is said and done, I am but a 
 weak woman, Steenie.” 
 
 He put out his hand, and she clasped it 
 eagerly; her white fingers, with their circlets 
 of shining jewels, clinging nervously to his 
 firm, warm grasp. 
 
 Thus they stood, hand in hand, and 
 gazed out across the sleeping world to 
 where, in the darkness, the birth-hour of a 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 201 
 
 great nation was being ushered in, preg- 
 nant with the labour and throes of a people 
 willing to die that their offspring might 
 live. 
 
202 
 
 OI.D BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 At nine o’clock that same evening Phil 
 Troubridge stood beside his commander 
 and friend, Joseph Warren. The room in 
 which they were bore evidence of speedy 
 departure, having already assumed that 
 neglected appearance which, at such times, 
 seems especially to belong to apartments 
 usually in daily occupation. 
 
 The windows were opened, and the soft 
 mild breeze wafted in every now and again 
 the perfume of roses, mingled with the more 
 pungent scent of the syringa. Below, the 
 Mystic River flowed by in low murmurings, 
 as if foretelling the sad tragedy that the 
 morning sun should break upon, in all its 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 203 
 
 garisli details and pitiless realities ; beyond 
 gleamed the faint lights of Charlestown; 
 and, farther yet, the darkness grew more 
 apparent where the three guardians of 
 Boston reared their gloomy heights ; but 
 even the harsh outlines of Beacon, Copps’ 
 and Fort Hills grew softened and mellowed 
 in the tranquil obscurity of the June 
 night. 
 
 On the table, before which sat Warren, 
 was an open box, some papers sealed and 
 addressed, and a sword in its scabbard, 
 with a crimson sash knotted into the hilt. 
 Warren looked anxious, but very calm ; 
 the majesty of his brow and eyes seemed 
 to out-balance and subdue the more ambi- 
 tious courage depicted on his young com- 
 panion’s face ; he was dressed severely 
 in quiet colours, but wore, for the first 
 time, the epaulettes and cocked hat of a 
 major-general ; at his right hand lay a 
 
204 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Bible, open at the Psalm, In exitu Israel. 
 Philip Troubridge, in the sombre dress of 
 the colonial patriots, stood, hat in hand, 
 listening to Warren’s final commands and 
 directions ; the young face looked haggard 
 and worn, and the lines about the temples 
 and mouth told of an inward sorrow that 
 lay close to his heart ; but in his clear blue 
 eyes burnt the steadfast flame of honesty 
 and truth. 
 
 “ Philip,” the elder man was saying, “ it 
 is close upon the hour when we shall make 
 our first great strike for liberty and 
 principle ; already I can hear our boats 
 grate against their chains, and ere many 
 hours are passed we shall have embarked 
 upon a troublous ocean of hope, fear, 
 courage, and despair. Who can say whether 
 we two shall ever again look forth from 
 this window, over the Mystic, and build 
 dreams of a future, when our country shall 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 205 
 
 outrival even the mother who gave her 
 birth ? With to-morrow’s sun, my boy, 
 the struggle will begin, and ere it sinks 
 our cause will have registered many a 
 martyr in its ranks. But enough, I should 
 not seek to add to your gloom, rather let 
 me endeavour to look forward to a brighter 
 dawn for us and for those who, like us, 
 strive to set right a grievous wrong, to 
 redress a foul injury. It is necessary, 
 since you have been gone from me to 
 Philadelphia, that I should explain our 
 plan of movement and of action. General 
 Ward, under orders from our Congress, 
 has formed a detachment to take posi- 
 tion on the hills above Charlestown ; this 
 is composed of Prescott’s, Frye’s, and 
 Bridge’s regiments, under Prescott’s 
 command, supplemeuted by a body of 
 Connecticut men under Captain Thomas 
 Knowlton, who is from Putnam’s regi- 
 
206 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ment, with Colonel Gridley and Ins com- 
 pany of artillery and two guns. They are 
 all provided with blankets, trenching- 
 implements, and sufficient provisions for 
 at least twenty-four hours. Our desire is 
 to work in the darkness and to throw up 
 such earth-works and redoubts as shall 
 enable us to meet the British in fair 
 fashion, and to be prepared to defend our- 
 selves against a sudden onslaught from 
 them. You and I are the last to embark on 
 this enterprise, and I doubt not, when we 
 reach our landing-place, we shall find that 
 those who have gone before us have lacked 
 neither energy nor perseverance. "Well, 
 Philip, you would say something ? Have 
 you aught for me ? ” 
 
 Troubridge, stuttering a little and grow- 
 ing rather red, brought from beneath his 
 waistcoat a small, three-cornered note. It 
 looked the most harmless composition 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 207 
 
 in the world, and smelt so sweetly, surely 
 nothing but an innocent invitation to a 
 drum or rout could so impregnate itself 
 with such apparent virtue. 
 
 Warren received it silently, but with 
 one keen look directed towards the young 
 man’s countenance, which neither flushed 
 nor paled beneath his glance. Breaking 
 the seal, his dark eyes travelled quickly 
 over the two or three lines of minute 
 penmanship ; as he read, his face changed 
 curiously — it was not that the features 
 relaxed or altered in expression, but rather 
 as though some sudden inward light shone 
 out and left its joyous reflection upon his 
 noble countenance. 
 
 “ Philip,” he said in a low voice, “was 
 it the usual messenger who delivered this 
 into your hands ? ” 
 
 “ Stephen Kemble, General, and with a 
 thousand cautions as to its safe conveyance.” 
 
208 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Do you know its purport ? ” 
 
 ££ I know the penmanship, sir,” an- 
 swered the young man ingenuously and 
 with half a smile. 
 
 ££ ’Tis over-fine writing for a man’s 
 quill, truly, Philip, but it brings good 
 promise. Our men may thank a woman’s 
 wits if they fall somewhat less torn and 
 mangled in to-morrow’s battle. Hast ever 
 been in love, Philip ? You start, my boy ; 
 then mayhap even now your heart bears 
 its own burden ; if so you will feel all the 
 more tenderly towards one who risks her 
 all — love, respect, esteem, position — to save 
 her countrymen. Remember her in your 
 prayers, Philip, and couple her name and 
 her honour with those of your mother and 
 your sweetheart.” 
 
 Doctor Warren rose as he spoke, still 
 holding the little billet, locked, the open box, 
 placed his letters and papers in readiness 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 209 
 
 for the morning messenger, buckled on his 
 sword, and then, with a steady hand, held 
 • the note to the flame of the candle and 
 watched it burn and drop in tiny feathery 
 ashes beneath his fingers. When the last 
 spark faded, he turned towards his young 
 aide. 
 
 “ Never risk a woman’s reputation, 
 Philip, however strong the temptation be. 
 It is but a frail flower at best, killed by 
 one baleful breath, tarnished by one foul 
 touch. Now, my boy, one prayer, and 
 then let us go forth.” 
 
 Standing erect, with his hands clasped 
 upon the table before him, Warren read 
 aloud the 118th Psalm. Was it a fore- 
 shadowing of the eternal light, which the 
 morning sun should make known to him, 
 that so transfigured his noble coun- 
 tenance ; some prescience of the life to 
 come, that so illumined his eyes and 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 encircled his brow with the halo of 
 martyrdom ? 
 
 Philip Troubridge, gazing on that face 
 he so loved and honoured, felt its power 
 and its pathos, as one feels the strength 
 and weakness of a hero who falls in the 
 fight against the tyranny and injustice of 
 the world. A few moments later and the 
 two men had passed over the threshold, 
 which one of them would never recross, and 
 were making their way silently to where a 
 row-boat lay in the shadow of the landing. 
 A pass-word was given and answered as 
 they stepped aboard, and instantly four 
 stout arms pulled at the oars, and the 
 little craft shot into the flowing tide of 
 the Mystic. 
 
 The room in which Warren had sat 
 grew more and more desolate. The 
 candles guttered and burned low ; the 
 stars, increasing in number and brilliance, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 211 
 
 looked in coldly, touching with ghostly 
 rays the mouldings of the oak panel- 
 ling, the gilded picture-frames, the silver 
 drinking-horn, and tall glass pitcher ; the 
 wind rustled the window-curtains and 
 scattered the tiny heap of grey ashes, 
 which was all that remained of her lady- 
 ship’s last billet; a glove lay on the oak 
 floor, forgotten or dropped by its owner ; 
 it bore the impress of a living hand, the 
 fingers curving upward as though but 
 just relaxing a cordial clasp; as the wind 
 stirred it, it seemed to beckon in a 
 tremulous uncertain fashion to someone 
 concealed in the darkness ; a bat flew in 
 and circled round and round, first rapidly 
 and in wide areas, then more and more 
 slowly, narrowing his orbit, and at last 
 with a dull thud struck against the heavy 
 carved cornice and fell to the floor. 
 
 Then the silence and gloom of death 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 seemed to fall upon the place and only 
 the ghostly hand upon the floor told of 
 the life, warm, earnest, spontaneous, that 
 so short a time ago dominated and con- 
 trolled whatever it came in contact with, 
 bringing vitality and courage as its 
 rightful attributes. 
 
 Below the Mystic flowed swiftly, 
 silently, resistlessly ; and beyond lay the 
 ocean, dark, relentless, cruel. 
 
 When General Warren and Philip Trou- 
 bridge crossed Charlestown Neck and 
 reached Bunker Hill, it was close upon 
 ten o’clock ; here they - found the patriot 
 officers, under General Prescott, already 
 in consultation. The council thus hur- 
 riedly called together had to resolve 
 quickly and decisively what their plan of 
 action should be. 
 
 The hill upon which they stood was the 
 highest point of Charlestown, and rose one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 213 
 
 hundred and ten feet above the sea ; 
 it was distant from Copps Hill, where 
 lay the British battery, about one mile, 
 and from Beacon Hill, in Boston, a good 
 mile and a half. 
 
 After hurried deliberations the Ameri- 
 cans determined upon throwing up fortifi- 
 cations on Breeds Hill, lying a little to the 
 south of Bunker Hill ; this decided upon, 
 the work was at once put in hand under 
 Colonel Gridley and young Henry Knox, 
 who had laid aside his folios and calf-skins 
 to join with heart and soul in the patriot’s 
 cause. A redoubt was skilfully planned, 
 and sprang, as if by enchantment, into 
 existence ; the longest side, which faced 
 towards Charlestown, measured some eight 
 rods, and diminished in height and length 
 as it abutted on Bunker Hill. 
 
 It was midnight when the work began, 
 and all during the long night-hours the 
 
214 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ready workers toiled on in utter silence, 
 almost with bated breath. Not a sound 
 was heard, save when the officers, taking 
 each their turn with the men, whispered 
 some word of encouragement, as they 
 passed the tools from hand to hand ; 
 beyond this only the dull muffled striking 
 of the spades against the earth, or the 
 sudden sharp click, as the iron struck a 
 stone, or a murmured question and hurried 
 command, broke the stillness. 
 
 They might have been spectre-workers 
 engaged upon ghostly embattlements, so 
 absorbed, so quiet, so calmly in earnest 
 were they. There was that within their 
 hearts too sacred and too terrible to be 
 expressed in words. 
 
 One by one the hours flew by ; the stars 
 paled and faded ; the chill of early morn- 
 ing stole up from the sea ; the east grew 
 grey and luminous ; the dew began to 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 215 
 
 glisten on the blades of grass ; a hedge- 
 robin awoke and twittered cheerily, prun- 
 ing his feathers and turning his slender 
 throat and bright black eyes from side to 
 side ; and still the men toiled on, doggedly, 
 perseveringly. The daylight was no more 
 to them than the darkness ; the robin 
 piped to dull ears : theirs was a purpose 
 so grave and so awful that the song of 
 birds and the rustle of winds could bear 
 no part therein. 
 
 The light in the east deepened ; a soft 
 shining film of gold crept over the grey 
 heavens, succeeded by a rosy hue tinged 
 here and there with deeper crimson ; in the 
 midst appeared a huge tawny ball of fire, 
 whose trembling translucent beams shot 
 far athwart the flushing dawn ; the dew- 
 drops sparkled like gems ; the wild blue 
 gentian and red sorrel, the golden-rod 
 and pink milkweed, waved their pale-green 
 
216 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 leaves, that as yet sheathed the unblown 
 baby-blossoms ; the birds were all awake 
 and on the wing ; the wind murmured 
 caressingly, and brought on its pinions a 
 touch of the great salt sea beyond ; 
 moment by moment the glory grew and 
 deepened, until suddenly over all the earth 
 the sun-god awoke once more to majesty 
 and power, and the ever-new miracle of 
 creation was again repeated : the night 
 was spent — the day was at hand. 
 
 The work was completed now, and in 
 the strong daylight the greatness of the 
 toil, encompassed in those short night- 
 hours, stood revealed ; for it was no mean 
 fortress that had been wrought : it could 
 withstand many an onslaught. 
 
 “ And with God’s help,” said Gridley to 
 young Knox, “ it will enable us to strike 
 the first blow for our freedom.” 
 
 It was dangerous to work on longer, for 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 217 
 
 there, in the Charles River, lay his Majesty’s 
 war-frigates, and though the friendly 
 darkness had protected the little band from 
 their guns, who could tell when the first 
 man aboard, espying the new defences, 
 might give the alarm and open fire upon 
 them. 
 
 Already the pink and golden clouds were 
 paling and giving place to a clear bright 
 blue ; the sun had begun his daily travels, 
 and Saint Botolpli’s Feast was fairly 
 ushered in. 
 
 Then came an abrupt threatening peal 
 and sullen roar, as of thunder ; a trembling 
 of the earth beneath their feet ; a flash, as 
 of sudden lightning, blinding their eyes, 
 followed by a single voice raised high in 
 command, and the Lively’ s guns were pour- 
 ing forth their wrath and scorn upon the 
 fortifications that one short June nmht 
 
 O 
 
 had seen commenced and completed. 
 
218 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 The flash and thunder of Linzee’s guns, 
 followed by the answering retort from 
 Gridley’s nearest artillery, aroused the 
 echoes far and near, and awakened the 
 sleeping town as suddenly as though the 
 angel of doom had sounded his awful warn- 
 ing trump of judgment. 
 
 In a trice the vacant streets were filled 
 by a hurrying excited throng of men, 
 women, and children, all moving towards 
 Beacon Hill, from whence the fortunes of 
 the hour could be watched ; lights sprang 
 into existence, and illumined the dark 
 blank windows ; the trampling of horses’ 
 hoofs, mingled with the ringing of bells 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 219 
 
 and the hasty preparations of the encamped 
 battalions on the common. The pale 
 morning light fell cold and shadowy upon 
 the eager anxious faces of the waiting 
 crowd, while in the east the splendour of 
 the sun’s uprising was put to shame by the 
 blaze of fire and the clouds of smoke that 
 rose in rapid succession from the hot 
 throats of the antagonistic guns. 
 
 His Excellency, awakened rudely from 
 his peaceful dreams by his secretary’s 
 warning voice, hastily attired himself and 
 rushed forth in his usual impetuous fashion. 
 His dress was carelessly arranged, his 
 peruke thrust back unbrushed, his lace 
 frills and ruffles disordered, and his long 
 coat-tails flapping about him, as he half ran 
 half walked through the streets, with Tom 
 Mucker at his side. 
 
 Pen Dudley, lying in the great state bed, 
 her black eyes sleepless, though weary, 
 
220 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 caught the lurid reflection in the morning 
 sky through the open casement, and in a 
 moment had sprung up and was at the 
 window, gazing eagerly at the strange dawn 
 thus breaking on Saint Botolph’s Day. 
 
 The shouts and cries and loud roar of 
 the guns, the dense drifting smoke, and 
 the dull glow on the waters of the Bay and 
 in the heavens told its own tale. With a 
 cry of anguish Penelope fell upon her 
 knees. 
 
 It had come, then, at last; this grim 
 gaunt skeleton, whose echoing footsteps 
 had sounded so long and so fitfully in their 
 ears, had crept upon them in the silent 
 night-watches ; and now, as the day 
 dawned, war, red-handed and angry-eyed, 
 enveloped them all in his terrible power. 
 
 But where was Phil — her Phil ? Where 
 was the lover to whom her troth had been 
 plighted in the old church that dark Feb- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 221 
 
 ruary morning, when he and she stood hand 
 in hand and thought God’s earth a paradise, 
 and they the guardian-spirits of the fair 
 prospect ? 
 
 A louder roll and roar struck on her ears 
 and caused her to shrink back upon the 
 window-seat ; it seemed to her over-strained 
 nerves to bear an answer on its hoarse 
 notes, and to bid her look out to where the 
 smoke grew densest and the red glow 
 never slackened, if she would know where 
 Philip Troubridge stood, brave, steadfast, 
 enduring, with his soul in his work, and 
 his heart with the girl he loved. 
 
 “ Philip ! oh, Philip! ” she cried, “ come 
 back to me ! Forgive me ! I meant thee 
 no wrong. I was but vexed and sought to 
 flout thee. What, is a trumpery song to 
 part us ? Come back, Phil ; come back, 
 and I will ne’er vex thee again ! ” 
 
 But even her voice, laden with loving 
 
222 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 appeal, could not rise above that low con- 
 tinuous roar, echoed again and again from 
 the hill- sides. 
 
 Penelope sprang to her feet and flew 
 along the narrow passage towards the 
 rooms occupied by the two sisters; with- 
 out knock or word of warning she flung 
 wide the door and rushed in. Anais was 
 standing, tall and slim, before her toilette- 
 glass, the light folds of her negligee mark- 
 ing each line and curve of her graceful 
 figure; her hair was unbound and fell about 
 her shoulders in heavy soft masses, flecked 
 here and there with golden lights. The 
 window stood open, and without gleamed 
 the same lurid sky, while ever and anon 
 the sound of the guns struck heavily upon 
 the air. Penelope, hesitating for one in- 
 stant, caught the expression of weariness 
 upon Anais’ s face, ere with a fleet move- 
 ment she stood before her, and, putting one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 223 
 
 hand upon her shoulder, held her by the 
 burning misery of her eyes. 
 
 “Tais!” she cried, in a high quivering 
 voice, broken by sudden flat notes, “ tell 
 me, is it true ye have stolen him from me, 
 with your wiles and your graces, your soft 
 skin and tender eyes ? Thou might’st 
 have spared him, Tais, since we had loved 
 one another all these years. Do ye hear 
 the guns, Tais? he is there — Phil, my Phil — 
 slain maybe, dead, and not one word for 
 me ! Why did ye steal his heart, Tais ? 
 why did ye lure him from me ? Were not 
 thy wits sharp enough to read my secret 
 beneath all my merry-makings ? ’Twas 
 ungenerous ; ’twas unfriendly, Tais ; nay, 
 ’twas unwomanly ! ” 
 
 “ Hold, Penelope, you have said too 
 much,” cried Anais, aroused from her 
 careless, cold good-nature. 
 
 “ You are making some strange mistake, 
 
224 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 my girl, or mayhap your wits have got an 
 over-strain. I steal your lover ! I give 
 one look, one glance towards Phil Trou- 
 bridge ! Faith, what want I with cast-off 
 gallants ? Dost think I need a raw 
 country lad to sigh to or waste my words 
 upon ? Thou art mad, Pen ; thy wits are 
 over-done by too much tasting of over- 
 spiced flattery, but ill-suited to your 
 country tongue. I steal your Phil, for- 
 sooth ! Nay, now, by my soul, you try 
 me too far when you couple my name with 
 his ! ” 
 
 Her voice was low and monotonous, but 
 the scorn of it leapt out and lashed each 
 word into a stinging scorpion. 
 
 Penelope dropped her hand and stood 
 before her abashed. She had never 
 dreamed of such like anger; hers was 
 passionate, sudden, hot, ill-timed, but her 
 stings and barbs fell as useless and puny 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 225 
 
 as a child’s toy upon the calm cold mantle 
 of scorn and disdain in which Aniiis 
 wrapped herself. 
 
 “ I meant no harm, Tais,” she said at 
 last ; “ ’twas Monsieur de Yentadore who 
 told me of it, and of how you and Phil 
 had supped together at the “ George ” last 
 Sunday even, and how you walked 
 home together in the night-time ; and, 
 sure, with my own eyes I saw how mightily 
 you talked together at her ladyship’s 
 breakfast on that same Sunday. Nay, Tais, 
 but be not angry, I was wrong to suspect 
 ye; and, faith, I should ne’er have thought 
 on’t save for Monsieur le Marquis.” 
 
 But Anais seemed not to hear nor heed ; 
 at the first mention of Be Yentadore’s 
 name she had given a slight shiver, and as 
 Pen continued her excuses a spot of burn- 
 ing colour settled in each pale cheek. She 
 held a dainty lace kerchief in her hand, 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and unconsciously drew it back and forth 
 through her slender fingers. 
 
 “ So ’twas Monsieur de Yentadore who 
 tried to work thee mischief, my poor Pen,” 
 she said at last in a quiet gentle tone, L but 
 with a dangerous light in her eyes ; “ and 
 thou, silly fool, couldst not fight for thy 
 lover nor for thy friend. Certes ! we 
 women are but sorry lackwits at the best ! 
 But come, Pen, let this end. Monsieur le 
 Marquis has been over-zealous and over- 
 suspicious. I went, ’tis true, with thy 
 Phil to the George Inn last Sunday even ; 
 but ’twas only on a girl’s wager, Pen, and 
 had but a foolish reason. See, Penelope,” 
 she continued in an even lower voice, 
 through which there ran a half tender 
 tremble, “ thou lovest thy Phil ? Then — 
 then — what say ye, if I confess ’twas to 
 see the man I love , that I made Philip my 
 unwilling cavalier ? ” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 227 
 
 Anais had not looked at Penelope as she 
 spoke, but gazed over her head, beyond 
 and out of the window to where the red 
 glow had grown tawny and streaked in 
 the grey sky. She still toyed with the 
 lace kerchief, and the colour burned hotly 
 on her cheeks. Penelope, gazing at her 
 incredulous and overwhelmed, scarce noted 
 the tremble of the lips or the quiver of the 
 eyelids. 
 
 The man whom Anais loved ! That was 
 the one idea forming and reforming in her 
 busy brain. Anais, who had laughed at 
 all sentiment and scorned all romance, as 
 tales fit only for babes and old women, 
 now by her own confession had had re- 
 course to a midnight intrigue to see the 
 man she loved. With wide eyes Penelope 
 gazed at the lovely, mockiug face, and 
 tried vainly to sift from out her me- 
 mory any one gallant who had received 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 even ordinary courtesies at Anais’s 
 hands. 
 
 “Thou art surprised, Pen,” broke in 
 Tais’s light voice. 
 
 “Nay, then, is it so strange a thing that 
 I too should find pleasure and delight in 
 love ? Sure, her ladyship can scarce lay 
 claim to all the gallants who bend before 
 her. You, Pen, have chosen yours ; what’s 
 to prevent me then from learning, how- 
 ever late, the true state of my heart ? I 
 am in love, Pen, and — here, bend thy head, 
 child ; since thou thought’st me worthy of 
 thy jealousy, I will give into thy keeping 
 the name of him who has won me, and 
 mayhap will wear me ere many moons wax 
 and wane.” 
 
 Penelope, trembling with curiosity, came 
 close to her, and Anais, laughing a little, 
 bent her head over the upturned face, and 
 whispered a few words into the inquisitive 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 229 
 
 little ear. As she concluded, Pen started 
 back, and the lace kerchief fell to the floor, 
 torn from end to end. 
 
 “ Anais ! ” gasped out the girl in en- 
 treaty; but at that moment the inner door 
 opened, and little Dot came towards them, 
 her fair face shining in the early morning 
 light with a radiance too soft and ethereal 
 to belong to earth. 
 
 “ Not one word to Dot,” murmured 
 Anais warningly, as she turned and met 
 her little sister, taking her in her arms 
 and kissing her on brow and eyes and 
 mouth with unwonted fervour. 
 
 “ Tres-chere, that is the mere superieure’s 
 embrace thou givest me. She would be- 
 stow it on us when we were good, and our 
 Ange had no black tales concerning us.” 
 
 “ Then thou must have earned it rarely, 
 my daisy flower,” said the elder sister 
 gently and with half a sigh. 
 
230 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Ah, Tais, see thy beautiful lace ker- 
 chief that la vieille Mademoiselle de 
 Grasse gave to thee, ’tis quite ruined. 
 Regard, tres-chere. Nay, now, who has 
 done this mischief ? ” 
 
 And to the surprise of Penelope, as 
 much as of Dot, Anais answered coldly 
 and shortly, 
 
 “ Monsieur le Marquis de Ventadore.” 
 Before further inquiries could ensue, 
 the trampling of horses’ feet upon the 
 street below caused the three maidens to 
 hasten to the window. It was a battalion 
 of Lord Percy’s regiment, with Captain 
 Duncombe at its head, marching down to 
 reinforce Sir William Howe and General 
 Bourgoyne at Charlestown Neck. As 
 Gilderoy rode towards the Governor’s 
 mansion, he glanced beneath his hat and 
 plume with keen and eager eyes ; he knew 
 which casement belonged to the young 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 231 
 
 French demoiselles’ chamber, and his vain 
 young heart flattered his self-conscious- 
 ness that he would not pass unnoticed ; 
 thus, as he neared the residence, he turned 
 his bold blue eyes upwards, and car- 
 ried his hand in military salute to the 
 three beautiful faces clustered above 
 him. 
 
 The sun, having at length shaken himself 
 clear from the low-lying smoke, burst forth 
 in triumphant brilliance and struck ath- 
 wart the gold trappings of horse and rider, 
 magnifying each thread of bullion and 
 evoking a deeper tint in the scarlet coat 
 and crimson sash. 
 
 In this bright setting, this generous 
 waste of nature’s gold, little Dot beheld 
 the figure of Duncombe. It seemed to 
 her that the glory of St. Michael and 
 St. George shone on his face and in his 
 eyes, and her foolish heart fluttered and 
 
232 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 bounded, as bis glance sought ber eyes ere 
 it wandered away to greet ber companions. 
 Anais, watching ber sister’s countenance, 
 noted the quick shy look of pleasure, and 
 shut ber lips bard with a sudden strange 
 vehemence. 
 
 Pen Dudley had caught up a blue scarf, 
 and was waving it forth, crying out 
 loyally, “ God save King George ! ” Anais, 
 standing somewhat back, snatched a rose 
 from its slender glass, and with a proud, 
 graceful gesture tossed it down. Quick 
 as it fell, young Duncombe, leaning back 
 in his saddle, caught the red flower and 
 bore it off in triumph. 
 
 But little Dot, gazing all her soul away, 
 let slip her silver rosary, her dead 
 mother’s gift, and the horses’ hoofs ground 
 it to powder. 
 
 Thus he rode from them, to face danger 
 and death, wearing a blood-red rose, and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 233 
 
 ■with the cry for victory ringing in his 
 ears ; but little Dot’s circlet, strung to- 
 gether by many prayers, lay broken and 
 destroyed in the dusty highway. 
 
234 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 That evening, in the great withdrawing- 
 rooms of the Governor’s mansion, the story 
 of the day’s battle and successes flew from 
 lip to lip. Lady Gage, in her elaborate 
 French costume, with feathers in her 
 hair and jewels quivering at her throat, 
 listened to each separate version with 
 graciously- smiling lips and eyes that never 
 faltered ; no mere onlooker could ever have 
 surmised the agony she endured in each 
 stinging sneer uttered by venomed tongues 
 against the patriots and their cause. 
 
 An hour before she lay in her boudoir, 
 her heart and spirit broken, with the slow 
 hard tears of despair in her eyes, and the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 235 
 
 weary dull ache of defeat gnawing her 
 inmost soul. By her side knelt Stephen 
 Kemble, his face pale and troubled, his 
 dress disordered and dust-begrimed ; he 
 held one of her hands in his listlessly, with 
 the other she shaded her hot tired eyes. 
 
 All night long they had held vigil to- 
 gether, and then, as the day broke and the 
 flames of burning Charlestown made lurid 
 lights and shades upon the heavens, he 
 had left her to seek news of the issue, and 
 she had watched on alone, praying, at first 
 wildly and with the accents of demand in 
 her petition, then more quietly and with 
 an agony of despair, and at last in only a 
 feeble piteous cry for help and patience ; 
 and all day long the skies had been as 
 brass to her appeal, and only the dull 
 echoing roar of the cannon answered her. 
 Then, as the day drew in, she sank weary 
 and spent upon her couch. 
 
236 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Of what avail had been her schemes and 
 her intrigues, her falsehood and her zeal, 
 her love and her patriotism ? Had she not 
 given of her all generously, yet in what 
 measure should her reward be meted out 
 to her ? 
 
 As the night-shadows were fast over- 
 taking the June twilight, and the ceaseless 
 clangour and discord of fire-arms had died 
 into a muttered curse from out their 
 brazen throats, Stephen Kemble came to 
 her. She opened her weary eyes and saw 
 him standing before her, tall in the gloom, 
 with pallid face, and all the light insou- 
 ciance gone from his bearing. 
 
 “Is it thou, Steenie?” she said in a 
 weak voice. “ Why do ye stand so far 
 from me ? Is it ill news ye bring ? Then 
 out with it, since evil tidings ever find 
 ready messengers.” 
 
 “ Cousin,” the young man cried, falling 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 237 
 
 on his knees beside her, “ it is indeed ill 
 news I bring you. The patriots have been 
 beaten and driven back, forced to abandon 
 their hardly-built redoubt and entrench- 
 ments, and to beat retreat while escape was 
 open to them. They fought bravely and 
 well, cousin, but from the onset ’twas at 
 terrible odds ; for King George’s troops 
 not only far outnumbered them, but each 
 man seemed possessed of the strength of 
 ten. Twice they advanced, and twice the 
 patriots drove them back at close-quarters, 
 for they reserved their fire until the red- 
 coats stood within twelve rods of them ere 
 they let loose a terrible volley of small 
 arms ; the British faltered, stood still, and 
 then dashed apace towards the boats, while 
 some of their number helped on their 
 comrades’ flight by a bayonet-prick. Again 
 the King’s-men rallied, and again the 
 patriots, headed by Stark and Knowlton, 
 
238 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 repulsed them, while the men on either side 
 fell as leaves before a storm, and the 
 groans and cries of the wounded and dying 
 were grievous enough to strike sorrow to 
 any heart, however hard. But why pro- 
 long the tale, cousin, since ’twas all in 
 vain ? — a third time they recovered and at- 
 tacked our breastworks with their cannon, 
 racking them sorely from end to end, even 
 as they redoubled their efforts and attacked 
 us on three sides at once. The sequel is 
 too easily told ; our poor men were short 
 of powder, and had but few of their charged 
 balls to depend upon. Sir William Howe 
 pressed them sore, with General Pigot to 
 follow in his wake, while Bourgoyne and 
 Clinton, on Copps’ Hill, pushed each ad- 
 vantage to the full ; but in the face of all 
 this our brave patriots did not give the 
 word to retire until not one round of 
 powder remained, and the redoubt was 
 half-full of the redcoats.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 239 
 
 “ Gallant fellows ! ” murmured her lady- 
 ship. “ Yet, Steenie, bad as these nouvelles 
 be, methinks ye have worse in store for my 
 ears.” 
 
 “ Cousin,” answered the young man, 
 carrying the hand he held to his lips, “ of 
 a surety you surmise too well. The worst 
 is yet to come ; be brave, my cousin, and 
 tune your woman’s heart to endurance and 
 submission, for Warren is dead.” 
 
 There followed a moment of intense 
 silence, such silence as comes only at some 
 great and awful crisis, in which one counts 
 each heart-beat, and dumbly wonders if it 
 shall prove the last. Through the open 
 window floated an echo of a camp -song, 
 and the distant shout of the soldiers on 
 the common ; the moon, rising tranquil 
 and impassive, shot a cold inquisitive ray 
 mockingly upon the two figures within the 
 chamber. Lady Gage raised her sad eyes 
 to Kemble’s. 
 
240 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Warren is dead,” slie echoed in a dull, 
 weary voice. “ Ay, Steenie, these be in- 
 deed sad nouvelles. Nay, hesitate not to 
 say how and when he perished ; my heart 
 can bear a heavier load than thou know’st, 
 and yet hold its own.” 
 
 “ ’Twas toward noon, cousin, and after 
 the second rebuff King George’s troops 
 received from the patriots. As you know, 
 I left you early, ere the sun had well arisen, 
 and I made my way with difficulty to the 
 American encampment ; I saw Phil Trou- 
 bridge, who told me General Warren was 
 to the fore, hastening here and there, 
 bringing fresh courage and renewed hope 
 to each man who looked upon his face ; and 
 indeed I, who saw it calm and cold in 
 death, shall ne’er forget its influence. 
 Then came the last onslaught and repulse, 
 and once again we saw him, waving 
 his sword above his bare head, and urging 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 241 
 
 on our men to greater valour. Then came 
 a blinding volley from the enemy’s cannon; 
 when it cleared his form was missing. 
 Later in the day they bore him within our 
 lines, but he was dead, shot fatally; the cruel 
 ball had pierced from ear to ear, and our 
 brave leader was for ever lost to us. ’Twas 
 a pitiful sight, cousin, and one not easily 
 forgotten. We knew our fortunes were 
 lost from that hour ; and those who could 
 gathered within the redoubt, where General 
 Ward, with young Knox and Gridley, re- 
 ceived his lifeless form, while Phil Trou- 
 bridge, walking at his side, held his cold 
 hand. There was no time for tears — we 
 could but cover him decently and return 
 again to battle; but the memory of that 
 calm noble countenance, wrapt in the sleep 
 of eternity, nerved each patriot’s arm and 
 hand to deadlier aim.” 
 
 This had been Stephen Kemble’s tale ; 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 OLD BOSTON". 
 
 and Lady Gage, listening in silence, had 
 watched with unseeing eyes the moon- 
 beams traverse the rolling clouds, and shoot 
 bright pitiless rays between their floating 
 fleecy masses. When Kemble’s voice died 
 away, she turned upon him the weary 
 passion of her beautiful eyes, and in tones 
 quite low, but firm, said, 
 
 “ All then is over, Steenie; and we, you 
 and I, who have spent our all, have wasted 
 it in vain. Steenie, for me there lies in the 
 future naught but disgrace ; for a woman 
 who fails is a woman disowned by all ; but 
 for you there is a path more glorious and 
 successful even than that which we once 
 planned to tread together. When I am 
 gone from thee, Steenie, do not forget all 
 that my heart has held for thee. Love is 
 a great gift, but fidelity is a greater.” 
 Then she had drawn his head down 
 towards her with both her hands, and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 243 
 
 pressed a kiss upon his forehead, and 
 without another word withdrew from his 
 presence. When next he saw her ’twas in 
 her withdrawing-room, with all her faculties 
 strung to the highest tune, and her fair 
 beauty heightened by every artifice. 
 
 His Excellency was there and Lord Percy 
 with Bourgoyne and Louis de Yentadore, 
 but little Dot watched uselessly for Gilderoy 
 Duncombe. The conversation was naturally 
 confined to the exciting events of the day, 
 concerning which each new-comer had a 
 different version. General Bourgoyne, 
 standing beside her ladyship’s chair, was 
 detailing his experiences, and among those 
 who formed a circle about them stood 
 Anais and Lord Percy, with Dorothy and 
 the Marquis. 
 
 “ Then, General,” exclaimed Lady Gage, 
 with a light laugh, “ methinks ’twas not so 
 great a victory after all. Might is right, 
 r 2 
 
244 
 
 OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 as our primers have oft taught us ; but 
 might, as represented and exercised by 
 four thousand British soldiers against half 
 that number of raw recruits, can scarce be 
 accounted as a glorious right.” 
 
 “Your ladyship will pardon me,” 
 responded Bourgoyne, “ if I say that our 
 men found it but sorry work fighting 
 against an army whose rifles were loaded 
 with a diabolical invention of the evil one — 
 balls split into quarters, which, when fired, 
 inflicted terrible injuries ; and who held for 
 their watchword the command of Prince 
 Charles at Jagendorf, ‘ Silence till ye see 
 the whites of their eyes.’ Zounds, 
 madame, I myself heard one of the mis- 
 creants, a mere beardless lad, bid his men, 
 { fire low and aim at the handsome coats,’ 
 with all the coolness of an officer giving 
 orders on parade.” 
 
 “ I thought of a surety all was over for 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 245 
 
 our side,” chimed in General Pigot, “ when 
 the Yankees, Knowlton and Stark, beat 
 back our men a second time ; and had it 
 not been for Sir William I greatly fear 
 our soldiers would ne’er have returned 
 again to the charge.” 
 
 “ Indeed, ye have reason, Pigot,” ex- 
 claimed his Excellency; “ for never saw I 
 one who bore so charmed a life as Howe ; 
 he was in all places at once, and, if I may 
 so profane the Scriptures, all things to all 
 men. Nay, but for you and him the day 
 had been lost once and more to our troops, 
 and St. Botolph’s sun set in ignominy for 
 his Majesty.” 
 
 “ Your Excellency speaks with cause,” 
 answered Lord Percy in his arrogant 
 scornful fashion ; “ but, methinks, had the 
 issue been otherwise we should have had 
 negligence rather than bravery to thank 
 for our defeat.” 
 
246 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ How now, my lord,” cried the Governor, 
 “ do you accuse any man here of treachery 
 towards his Majesty ? ” 
 
 “ Nay, your Excellency,” replied Percy 
 in his coldest tones; “treachery is more 
 often the toy of women and — fools. I but 
 referred to a certain general whose strange 
 distribution of ammunition savours over- 
 much of predilection towards the enemy. 
 Ask Sir William with what ’twas his guns 
 were loaded on the second charge, and had 
 we aught deadlier than grape-shot at any 
 hour, and who without a reason would 
 furnish forth such feeble material at such 
 a time ? I doubt not Sir William will have 
 but a sorry report to make of his Majesty’s 
 commissariat. Love is proverbially blind, 
 your Excellency; but Cupid used as a 
 screen for treachery is too grave a matter 
 to be lightly passed over by my Lord 
 North.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 247 
 
 “ By my soul, your lordship must make 
 more plain your meaning,” exclaimed 
 Governor Gage, “ else must I ask ye to 
 wash out thy hint of perfidy in the stream 
 of my honour.” 
 
 “ Your Excellency has but to command,” 
 answered Percy ; “ I but to obey. I make 
 reference to General Cleaveland, who, 
 holding the care and discharge of all 
 ammunition, saw fit to order forth grape- 
 shot for his Majesty’s troops to use 
 against the insurgents. ’Tis well known 
 who holds his heart-strings, but ’twould 
 be a brave Pallas who would dare control 
 in such a matter. Mayhap we have a 
 betrayer in our midst ; but be it so, I bid 
 ye look each man to his conscience, for of 
 a surety his Majesty will ill-brook such an 
 offence against his person, and he who has 
 turned traitor to the king must answer for 
 it with his life. Good lack ! your Ex- 
 
248 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 cellency, look to her ladyship; she seems 
 sorely overcome ! ” 
 
 All eyes were at once turned upon Lady 
 Gage, who, pale and trembling, had fallen 
 back upon Dorothy’s outstretched arm ; 
 but in a moment, even as her husband 
 hastened towards her, she recovered her 
 self-possession, and with a graceful bend 
 of her head craved pardon for her silly 
 vapours; ’twas caused by the heat and 
 excitements of the day. 
 
 But though she laughed gaily and 
 parried badinage and repartee with Ge- 
 neral Bourgoyne, her cheeks and lips were 
 ashen, and the muscles about her throat 
 strained and drawn ; ere the evening was 
 far advanced she begged permission to 
 retire, and with a stately curtsey left the 
 room, still leaning upon little Dot. 
 
 Stephen Kemble, mingling with each 
 group, heard many sneers and inuendoes 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 249 
 
 anent her ladyship’s marked preference 
 for the patriots and their cause, and 
 her not oyer- well-concealed chagrin at 
 the result of the day’s battle ; while there 
 were not lacking those who openly accused 
 her of double-dealing, and prophesied a 
 speedy recall and consequent disgrace 
 both for her ladyship and his Excellency. 
 
250 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Manor Farm was looking its best and 
 fairest in the long, golden August days. 
 The garden-borders .were all aflame with 
 tall yellow and crimson dahlias, flanked by 
 sun-flowers and dark-hued hollyhocks ; 
 the sweet noisette roses were still in bloom 
 above the wide door, and down in the 
 meadow-land the slender golden-flood and 
 lithesome blue aster made a glory of rich 
 colour ; the maple and beech woods were 
 clad as yet in their summer livery, 
 dimmed, maybe, and worn by the sun and 
 keen salt breeze, but offering pleasant and 
 suggestive haunts of green shade and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 251 
 
 quietude ; tlie sea, in the distance, gleamed 
 deepest azure, growing purple and jade- 
 green under the shadow of headland or 
 idly-drifting boat. A sense of peace and 
 graciousness lay upon earth and sea, 
 strangely at variance with the curse of 
 war and strife that held the land from 
 shore to shore. 
 
 The doors and windows of Manor Farm 
 stood open to the sunshine ; across the 
 oak floor sounded the light tread of flying 
 feet, and within the high-panelled rooms 
 echoed the tones of shrill sweet girl- 
 voices. Anais and Dorothy, with old 
 FTanon, were once more at home, and it 
 seemed as though even the insentient stone 
 walls rejoiced, while the strange incom- 
 prehensible voice of nature took up a new 
 song of jubilee, upon the return of these 
 two fair maidens. 
 
 Little Dot was very happy. She danced 
 
252 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 in and out of tlae dark old Louse, up and 
 down tLe dim staircase and shadow- 
 haunted corridors, bringing youth and 
 brightness as attendant spirits in her 
 train. To her the very air that blew 
 across her face, when she opened her 
 lattice window in the early morning, 
 brought a different and more wholesome 
 message than the winds she had known 
 in Boston town ; and the distant sound of 
 the sea, breaking across the sands, held a 
 sweeter music to her ear than the most 
 dulcet flattery, or artfully-turned compli- 
 ment paid in her honour, by the most 
 skilled gallant of her ladyship’s drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Her pure and passionless soul, within 
 its fair tabernacle, knew nought of worldly 
 ambition, and in its love sought only the 
 quiet fervour of self-abnegation with which 
 to pay tribute to the beloved one. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 253 
 
 There are such natures, rare as the blue 
 roses of unsatisfied desire : they are those 
 whom sorrow, and sometimes joy, perfect 
 into saints. 
 
 Two months had come and gone since 
 St. Botolph’s Day, and already the re- 
 -sults of Bunker Hill battle were becoming 
 more and more apparent. 
 
 That hot Saturday in June had closed 
 in victory for his Majesty’s troops, but it 
 was a victory strangely mixed with alloy. 
 They had gained the day, but they had 
 failed to subdue the patriot colonists. 
 
 Far and wide had spread the result of 
 Bunker Hill, and even as his Excellency 
 rejoiced, surrounded by his officers, an 
 army thousands strong was mustering from 
 north and south, from east and west, with 
 a new leader at its head — a man of iron 
 courage and determination, of implacable 
 temper and indomitable perseverance. And 
 
254 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ere a month had passedWashington entered 
 Cambridge, and beneath the great elm- 
 tree, hoary then with age, read his com- 
 mission, as commander-in-chief of the 
 American army, to his officers and aides, 
 and received their oaths of allegiance. 
 
 Thus Boston lay in siege, and day by 
 day the cordon tightened little by little. 
 
 The season had grown more oppressive 
 as the summer lengthened, and Monsieur 
 de Yentadore, noting the pale cheeks and 
 listless air of Anais, had sought and ob- 
 tained a permit for the two sisters to leave 
 the town and repair to Manor Farm, where 
 he, acting as their protector, came often 
 to see them, always appearing suddenly 
 and leaving as abruptly. But so far his 
 expedient had proved unsuccessful, for 
 Anais recovered neither her roses nor her 
 vivacity, in spite of the pure sea-breezes, 
 or the calm quiet routine of country life. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 255 
 
 But to Dorothy the change brought 
 fresh animation and renewed vigour. She 
 too had drooped in Boston and grown 
 heavy-eyed and languid, and indeed after 
 St. Botolph’s Day, with its loss of her 
 silver rosary, she had faded and shrunk 
 into but a shadowy resemblance of her 
 former self. A week at Manor Farm, 
 however, had worked wonders, and little 
 Dot was once more in joyous tranquil 
 spirits, full of gentle gaiety and dainty 
 wit. Her busy fingers flew in and out, 
 over and under her tambour-frame, as her 
 gay young voice carolled the old French 
 hymn to the Virgin, which Gilderoy Dun- 
 combe had first heard her sing. 
 
 Anais, watching her with weary dis- 
 satisfied eyes, marvelled at her placid 
 contentment, and grew to doubt the 
 meaning of that shy fond look she had 
 caught upon her face that June morning 
 
250 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 when Gilderoy rode by in the full blaze of 
 the golden sunshine. He had secured 
 her red rose as his badge, but had he 
 not worn closer and held dearer the 
 love-light in Dorothy’s sweet eyes ? 
 
 The two sisters sat within their sea- 
 green parlour in this hot August noon- 
 time. On the wall hung the two pictured 
 maidens, holding their roses and smiling 
 demurely, in spite of their prim attire. The 
 harpsichord stood open, and across its 
 quaint bar rested a sheet of manuscript 
 music ; while on the floor a handkerchief 
 and thimble set with tiny brilliants lay 
 unnoticed. 
 
 Within one of the deep window-recesses 
 sat Dorothy at her tambour-frame, and 
 beside her knelt Anais, her paints and 
 brushes strewn about on floor and 
 cushioned seat, while her fingers fa- 
 shioned, in a somewhat listless manner, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 257 
 
 a flight of gay-coloured butterflies upon the 
 sea-green window-shutters. 
 
 There had been silence between them 
 for some moments, only broken by the 
 click of Dot’s bright-pointed needle, as it 
 pricked its way industriously through the 
 stiff satin. 
 
 Presently Anais tossed down her brush 
 impatiently, and with a sudden movement, 
 impetuous and weary, threw back her 
 head and stretched out her arms in an 
 indisputable yawn of discontent. Dot, 
 holding her virtuous little needle sus- 
 pended in her fingers, looked at her with 
 a slight uplifting of the delicate eyebrows. 
 Anais laughed. 
 
 “ Nay, Dot, of a surety ’tis useless my 
 striving to be aught but sadly plagued in 
 this triste spot. I have not thy convent 
 training, petite ; and my impatient heart ill- 
 brooks this dull monotony, when each day 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 but repeats its fellow with, the fidelity of tbe 
 letters of the alphabet in thy old worn book.’ ’ 
 
 “ Ah, Tais,” answered Dorothy, “ I do 
 so marvel that thou findest more to thy 
 mind the bustle and ado of the town than 
 the tranquillity and repose of Manor Farm. 
 To me the birds and trees, the sea and 
 flowers, the dear dumb brutes, are more 
 kind and sympathizing than the fine mes- 
 sieurs and grandes dames whom we met 
 at her ladyship’s.” 
 
 “ Sayest thou so, maDot?” her sister 
 replied, looking earnestly into the innocent 
 eyes ; “and yet methinks that thou foundest 
 Boston not altogether distasteful, and 
 there was one among the gallants whose 
 presence was scarce displeasing to thee, 
 and whose words fell not unmusically 
 upon thy ear. Is it not so, Dot ? G-ilderoy 
 Duncombe could e’en make a town life 
 rival thy beloved country.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 259 
 
 But Dot’s eyes were lowered upon her 
 embroidery, and Dot’s fingers were busy 
 assorting her bag of silks. The colour 
 deepened somewhat in her cheeks, and her 
 heart fluttered beneath her bodice, but she 
 made no further answer to her sister’s 
 question. 
 
 Anais watched her, at first with a 
 curious intent look, which gave place by 
 degrees to one of surprise and re- 
 lief. 
 
 “ How now, ma Dot, am I mistaken, 
 and has our gay Gilderoy failed to win my 
 little sister’s heart? What, not even in 
 all the long weeks he passed as her guest ? 
 Nay, then, his pleadings must have 
 strangely lacked the feu sacre of love. By 
 my faith, a lukewarm wooer was never to 
 my mind, and methinks such an one would 
 find scant mercy at my wits ; but thou, 
 Dot, art such a baby- woman ; convent-bred, 
 s 2 
 
260 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 thou hast no wiles to fan the fading 
 embers into burning flames.” 
 
 “ Nay, Tais, I leave that for thee,” 
 answered Dorothy gaily ; “ ’twould scarce 
 do for both sisters to feign at love with 
 the same playfellow, lest one should lose 
 the game and win but a sorry heart.” 
 Then with bent head and in a grave 
 voice she added, 
 
 “ Monsieur Gilderoy has ne’er bade me 
 to listen to his love-words.” 
 
 “ Petite,” her sister cried lightly, “ I 
 did but plague thee. Why, what should my 
 daisy-flower be doing with the fickle little 
 god, who is fit companion only for such 
 as have broken many an arrow with him 
 in fair encounter ; besides, thou art vouee 
 a la Sainte Yierge, ma Dot, and a Virgin’s 
 vow-child should have no heart for the 
 world’s vanities. Now I, Dot, am very 
 worldly and very vain, and I cannot well 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 261 
 
 endure to live uncourted or unnoticed ; for 
 while love is a rare good gift, petite, power 
 is a better ; and a woman all-powerful is 
 greater than a woman beloved. You shake 
 your head. Nay, then, answer my hypo- 
 thesis with a better.” 
 
 “ I cannot bandy words like thee, Tais ; 
 but to my simple wits love seems the first 
 best gift in life ; for love counts strength, 
 patience, endurance, and sacrifice as its 
 endowment, and thus bestows a sweet 
 nosegay of virtues upon the beloved one 
 that can never decay, for they are the 
 immortal flowers of paradise ; but power, 
 Tais, is hard and implacable; it holds 
 one’s soul in the grim grasp of jealousy 
 and envy, and it crumbles and falls away 
 at the first touch of adverse fortune, leav- 
 ing naught but the dead leaves of earth to 
 survive it.” 
 
 “ Thou arguest with rare eloquence, 
 
262 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Dot,” cried Anais, her cool voice touched 
 with mockery ; “of a truth I knew not 
 thy tongue held such wise words on its 
 tip. Now, how earnest thou, at Manor 
 Farm, to learn to think and reason in 
 such a fashion ? I must look to my own 
 arguments when next I try a tilt with 
 thee.” 
 
 The tears welled up into Dorothy’s eyes; 
 she put out her hand quickly towards 
 Anais. 
 
 “ Oh, tres-chere, I do not like thee to 
 speak to me in such a mocking fashion; 
 thou knowest well I have no wits or learn- 
 ing such as thine. I do but tell to thee 
 my foolish imaginings, which come to me 
 as I sit and dream over my broderie. Of 
 a surety I can but ill argue with thee, 
 since my wisdom grows only in my love 
 for thee.” 
 
 “ Did I wound thee, daisy-flower ? For- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 263 
 
 give me ; I am in an evil temper, Dot ; but 
 ’tis no reason I should bring a pang to 
 thy sweet heart. ’Tis Monsieur le Marquis, 
 Dot, who is the cause of all my testi- 
 ness.” 
 
 “ Methinks ’tis ever Monsieur le Marquis 
 whom we have to thank for all our ills,” 
 rejoined Dorothy with asperity. 
 
 Anais laughed. 
 
 “ There is little love lost between ye, 
 Dot, of a surety ; but thou must learn to 
 like him, for one day he may claim a 
 nearer right to thy respect, if not to thy 
 affection.” 
 
 “ Tais,” cried her sister, “ what 
 meanest thou ? ” 
 
 Anais rose from her kneeling position, 
 and walked to the harpsichord ; she struck a 
 few notes in the prelude of the song before 
 her, and then, without warning, broke out 
 in sudden, passionate haste, 
 
2(34 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Lon, Ion la ! comme on se leurre 
 D’etre et d’etre fier, 
 
 Lon, Ion la ! qu’on rie, qu’on pleure, 
 Demain recommence hier. 
 
 Ou l’on est tombe, l’on tombe, 
 
 Nous ne cessons d’etre fous 
 Que les deux pieds sous le tombeau 
 Lon, Ion la ! dessous ! dessous ! 
 
 She ended as abruptly as she had begun, 
 and came and stood before her sister, her 
 head erect, her hands clasped behind her, 
 her bosom heaving in quick hurried throbs. 
 
 “ What mean I, my daisy-flower? Nay, 
 that is a hard question to answer, almost 
 as difficult as the one Monsieur le Marquis 
 submits to me c for the last time,’ as he is 
 good enough to say in his billet. Now 
 listen, ma Dot, and take a lesson in love’s 
 grammar.” 
 
 She drew from her reticule a letter 
 folded and sealed with a twisted cipher 
 formed of the letters L. de V. ; the address 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 265 
 
 was written in a fine flowing hand. Anais 
 unfolded the large sheet, and field it from 
 fier with a slight gesture of disdain, while 
 a fine little smile curled her pretty lips. 
 
 “ He pleads well, Dot, and with fervour ; 
 no lukewarm lack-lustre passion here. 
 I. am Aurora and Venus and Diana and 
 Helen, all in one, even as I am cold as the 
 snow, beautiful as the morn, and incon- 
 stant as the moon. My certes ! but ’tis 
 well worth reading ; ’tis not often one falls 
 upon such words of fire and flame in these 
 days of faint-hearted wooers. So, Monsieur 
 le Marquis, you bid me reply, once for all, 
 and put you out of misery ; and you urge, 
 not too generously, my uncle, the Comte de 
 Grasse’s, wishes in the matter. You have 
 loved, and waited, and wooed, and loved 
 again, you say, for three long years, and 
 yet I am obdurate. You recall my baby- 
 hood, and that one April day in the old 
 
266 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 chateau of Provence, and. how you yielded 
 your hoy’s sword to me because I desired 
 it; and now in manhood you demand, in 
 recompense, my hand to repay you for the 
 loss of your toy-sabre. What answer shall 
 I make, ma Dot, to his pleading ? for, look 
 you, ’tis no mean nor empty position he 
 offers ; a peer of France, with a lineage 
 and a name unsullied and ever loyal to the 
 white lilies, with a coronet and a title 
 never worn save by daughters as pure as 
 they are noble. Shall I cast it by, Dot, 
 for a wild fancy — an empty dream ? My 
 head would carry nobly the bravest coronet 
 e’er seen, and my throat would not ill be- 
 come the diamonds of a Marquise. ’Twould 
 please our uncle mightily, and mayhap I 
 might retrieve the falling fortunes of our 
 house ; who knows ? for our own King 
 Louis bears favourable sentiments towards 
 De Yentadore, and our beautiful Queen 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 267 
 
 lias been known to ask how he prospers in 
 his wooing. Nay, Dot, you do not answer. 
 Now put on thy wise air, petite, and tell 
 me again that love weighs down the scales 
 against power ? ” 
 
 Dorothy, who had grown pale and dis- 
 turbed as Aniiis continued in her half- 
 earnest half-jesting fashion, arose now and 
 pushed back her tambour-frame recklessly ; 
 she came close to her sister, and with infi- 
 nite tenderness put her arms about her, 
 while her sweet young voice grew almost 
 shrill in its earnestness. 
 
 “ Tais ! oh, I pray thee, hush. What is 
 all this thou sayest ? Is it not answered in 
 one word ? — do you love Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis ? Believe me, tres-chere, I, thy little 
 sister, vowed to the Virgin and unused to 
 the world or its fashions and its follies, 
 living among God’s flowers and birds, with 
 only the sound of the sea, and the blue 
 
268 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 heavens, and the bounteous meadows sur- 
 rounding me, and an ignorant peasant 
 woman for my companion, yet T, little 
 Dot, know full well that nothing in all this 
 life can equal love, just as nothing in all 
 the life to come can atone for the wilful 
 misuse of it. Tais, do not become the wife 
 of Monsieur le Marquis, if thy heart con- 
 tains one secret of which he holds not the 
 key.” 
 
 She lifted her earnest pleading face ; 
 her eyes were dim with unshed tears ; her 
 lips eloquent with divine affection; and 
 Anais, looking down upon that sweet 
 countenance, realized dimly how true and 
 earnest and pure was the soul that thus 
 called to hers, and how little it could 
 comprehend her storm-tossed vacillating 
 nature. 
 
 She gave a short laugh and kissed 
 lightly the upturned brow ; then, taking the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 269 
 
 trembling bands in her firm fingers, said 
 gaily, 
 
 “ Thou pleadest well, petite, for one 
 who knows naught of the divine comedy. 
 Nay, I might almost persuade myself that 
 ye keep concealed from me some tender 
 passion of thy own to lend such eloquence 
 to thy speech. But fear not for me, Dot ; 
 when I marry Monsieur le Marquis ’twill 
 be because none other can vie with him in 
 attractions. Dry thine eyes, child ; me- 
 thinks young Gilderoy would ill-brook to 
 see tears in thy sweet orbs.” 
 
 Dorothy drew back without a word, and 
 pressing her kerchief to her face left the 
 room. Her heart was full to bursting, for 
 never before had Tais so repulsed her. 
 
 Anais, left alone, walked to the window 
 where stood Dot’s embroidery ; the busy 
 little needle, with its shining trail of silk, 
 left sticking upright in the heart of a 
 
270 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 rose, her scissors, shaped like a pelican, 
 and her silver thimble lay upon the frame. 
 With eyes blinded by sudden scalding 
 tears, Anais looked upon these mute sou- 
 venirs of her little sister’s presence ; then 
 with a low sob she fell upon her knees, 
 and buried her face on the cushions of 
 Dot’s chair. Monsieur de Yentad ore’s 
 letter fluttered from her fingers, and lay 
 unheeded upon the floor. 
 
 In the distance the breaking waves 
 dashed up against the pier, and the note 
 of the whip-poor-will echoed monotonously. 
 
 At length Anais raised her face ; it was 
 set and pale, and the fine lines about the 
 mouth were tense and drawn. She sat 
 very still, and looked upon the waving 
 trees and the golden August sunshine, but 
 her heart was bitter within her. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” she cried, after many moments 
 had passed, “ why should I hesitate ? On 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 271 
 
 one side stands love and power wooing 
 me and asking but a cool return ; on the 
 other a heart that beats only for my little 
 sister, and yet that I, with a passionate 
 longing born of despair, yearn to make 
 my own. Truly I have fallen, since I be- 
 grudge to my daisy-flower the sunshine of 
 love.” 
 
 She sought for the Marquis’s letter, 
 and holding it in unfaltering fingers read 
 it once again from beginning to end. 
 When she had finished she refolded it with 
 a smile. 
 
 “ Be it so, monsieur ; when next we 
 meet you shall have your answer, once 
 and for ever.” 
 
 Little Dot, alone in her wide old cham- 
 ber, heard a crash of chords upon the 
 spinet and a gay voice trilling out a 
 careless French ballad, and as the notes 
 struck sharp upon her ear, she bowed her 
 
272 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 head and thanked Grod that her secret was 
 safe within her own breast. 
 
 “ For if we both do love him,” mur- 
 mured she, “ Tais can ill bear to be 
 thwarted ; while I, am I not vowed to the 
 Saint Virgin ? ” 
 
 END or VOL. II. 
 
 GILBEET AND EIVINGTON, LIAIITED, ST. JOHN’S SQT7ABE, LONDON. 
 
OLD BOSTON 
 
 % Jv0;McW« 
 
 A. DE GRASSE STEVENS 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 YOL. III. 
 
 ilonttrm : 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIYINGTON, 
 
 CROWN BUILDINGS, 189, FLEET STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
 \_All rights reserved . ] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Louis de Yentadore makes a final appeal — 
 
 Anais’ answer ..... 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Lady Gage bids farewell to Boston — Dorothy 
 
 enters upon a new life . . . . 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 “ The Society for Promoting Theatrical Amuse- 
 ments” — Eaneuil Hall — Dramatis per- 
 sonal ....... 32 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 “ Zara ” — Tears and laughter — A messenger of 
 
 war 
 
 52 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 After the play — Gilderoy Duncombe — “ ’Tis 
 
 little Dot ! ” . ... 72 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Desolation and gloom — A sister’s misery— 
 
 Strange nouvelles — My Lord Truesdale . 84 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Penelope turns tempter — A lie — Anais falters — 
 
 “ I am that slave ! ” . . . . 102 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Duncombe’s inheritance — Anais’ betrothal — 
 Dorothy returns to Manor Farm — A 
 charade party — The roar of cannon — “ Yes, 
 
 I promise ” — The patriot camp — A flag of 
 truce . . . . . . .114 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The seventeenth of March — It was the face of 
 Gilderoy — The marriage-day is named — 
 Wedding favours — Dorothy’s abnegation — 
 For the last time . . h 
 
 142 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Vll 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Anais’ wedding-morn — The bride — A cry for 
 pardon — It was love and death — The 
 sacrifice completed . . . . .164 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Penelope and remorse — Louis de Yentadore — 
 
 Is this revenge ] 181 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A century of love and passion — The mystery 
 revealed — The Squire’s constancy — Lady 
 Truesdale — Ann’s legacy — The task 
 completed . . . . . .199 
 

OLD BOSTON. 
 
 10 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Not often in this life is the strength of a 
 resolution, good or bad, put to the test 
 even while the resolve is still fresh -born 
 within the heart ; the action, which is 
 the outcome of the determination, is not. 
 always that which is first decided upon,, 
 but is more often so changed and modified 
 by circumstance or subtle reasoning as to 
 bear but little resemblance to the original 
 intention. How it would have fared with 
 Anais de Grasse in her answer to Louis 
 de Yentadore, had time and calm delibera- 
 tion been vouchsafed to her, can never be 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 known, for even as she arose from the 
 harpsichord, after her gay French chanson, 
 the echo of whose refrain little Dot caught 
 and rejoiced over, Monsieur le Marquis 
 entered the room. 
 
 He came unannounced and without 
 warning, and had evidently walked the 
 short two miles that separated Oldtown 
 from Manor Farm, as his low shoes and 
 black silk stockings powdered with dust 
 testified; his dress, otherwise, was fault- 
 less, and his velvet coat and satin vest, 
 his fine lace frills and long cravat, were 
 all of the richest texture and fabric ; he 
 wore a short sword at his side, and carried 
 a large hat, laced and turned up with a 
 silver cord. 
 
 Anais, with a half- cry of surprise, which 
 held within it an undernote of alarm, 
 noticed, as he bowed low before her, that 
 his always colourless face bore to-day a 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 3 
 
 pallor almost deathlike ; while beneath his 
 dark brows his black eyes burnt in sullen 
 angry fire. Gathering together with a 
 great effort her failing courage, she swept 
 him a low curtsey, and when she arose 
 from her graceful salute her face was 
 cold, composed, and slightly mocking ; 
 albeit her heart, beneath its pretty muslin 
 bodice, beat with quick unequal throbs. 
 
 “ Of a truth, monsieur,” she said gaily, 
 “ you seem to delight in dramatic effects 
 and uncalled-for surprises. Methinks 
 ’twill scarce astound me to learn that ye 
 have, in secret, become a member of her 
 ladyship’s company for promoting theatri- 
 cal amusements, and we in the winter 
 shall reap the benefit of your studies, 
 while we enjoy the genius of Monsieur de 
 Yentadore, when he treads the boards of 
 Faneuil Hall.” 
 
 “ It pleases you to jest, mademoiselle,” 
 b 2 
 
4 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 answered De Yentadore coldly, “ but of a 
 surety that is no new role in you for me 
 to cavil at ; it has pleased you to jest at 
 me and my passion since first I saw the 
 light of your cliild-eyes, or learned the 
 sound of your baby-voice. I was but a 
 boy then and better versed in my catechism 
 and the lives of the saints than in the 
 humours and caprices of a little maid, 
 whose will had ne’er been broken by 
 obedience to others.” 
 
 “ I marvel then, monsieur, that, learning 
 wisdom with age, ye did not shun in after 
 years the woman whose will as ill brooks 
 control, as did the little maiden’s of your 
 boyhood’s knowledge. A burnt child 
 dreads the fire, monsieur; ’tis one of 
 Nanon’s homely sayings, but ’tis a true one. 
 Why keep so near the flame that scorches, 
 but cannot warm ? ” 
 
 She walked from him as she spoke, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 5 
 
 and unconsciously took Dorothy’s high- 
 backed chair before the tambour-frame ; 
 the little needle, resting idly in the heart 
 of the unfinished rose, attracted her by its 
 shining point, and in an absent fashion 
 she drew it in and out without regard to 
 pattern or design. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore, watching her, felt 
 his heart grow hot within him ; she looked 
 so beautiful with all her wealth of loveli- 
 ness, and yet withal so unapproachable, 
 so cold, so illusive. His sallow cheeks 
 flushed, and a wave of impotent passion 
 and pain shook him ; his better nature 
 had become warped and distorted under 
 the influence of her beauty and her scorn ; 
 his life was wasted, sighing at her feet; 
 he had become despicable in his own 
 eyes, in that he could not break the chains 
 that held him, and fling back his love 
 upon her, with a laugh as light, a smile 
 
6 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 as disdainful as lier own. He came to 
 lier and stood beside her, his arms folded, 
 the red flush on his cheeks and the light 
 of passion in his dark eyes. 
 
 “ Anais,” he said in a low stern voice, 
 “ let us have done with this trifling ; it 
 has lasted over-long betwixt us, and my 
 humour improves not under it. Why do 
 I seek the flame that scorches, but cannot 
 warm? you ask. Hay, why does a silly 
 moth seek again and again the candle that 
 has already singed its soft wings, or a 
 faithful hound fawn upon and caress 
 the cruel hand that inflicts only stripes 
 and injuries upon it? The moth is as 
 feeble a creature as God’s universe counts, 
 and a dog as noble a one ; yet both, look 
 you, lose their weakness and their 
 strength where they love, and are content 
 to receive injury and death from the one 
 they love. I am your silly moth, made- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 / 
 
 moiselle, and your faithful hound ; you 
 burn me in the flame of your beautiful 
 cold eyes ; you beat me back with your 
 slender white hand; yet I return again 
 and again to the fire and to the blows, 
 because ’tis you that inflict them. Who 
 will e’er serve you as I have done, even 
 since the day, so long ago, when I gave 
 my little sword into your baby-hands, 
 because you stamped your little foot and 
 cried out imperiously, Je le veux ? I 
 pledged my family honour and motto in 
 your service to your dead mother, and, 
 boy though I was, treasured my vow 
 even as I treasured the memory of your 
 golden-lighted eyes and your falling curls 
 that seemed to hold God’s sunshine in 
 their meshes. I prayed for you morning 
 and evening, and I consecrated myself 
 your knight-errant by a boyish vow taken 
 at my mother’s altar; that was my boy- 
 
8 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 love, foolish, innocent, but sincere and 
 with a touch of saintly purity, mayhap. 
 And once again I pledged my heart and 
 hand in your defence ; it matters not when 
 nor where ; but I was a man then, and the 
 boyish dream had faded somewhat; my 
 manhood had bestowed its ripened enthu- 
 siasm upon calmer affections and more 
 satisfying demands ; these and my dead 
 mother’s memory filled my heart, and I had 
 no desire for aught beyond. Then I saw 
 you, and you rested not until you held 
 me enthralled again, bound in chains 
 forged by your fair hands and riveted by 
 alluring glances from your beautiful eyes. 
 It ill beseems me to recall to you how 
 ’twas that I first told my passion to you ; 
 but you listened not unwillingly then, 
 while on your lips were gracious words, 
 accompanied by half-tender looks.” 
 
 He paused abruptly and with visible 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 9 
 
 emotion. Anais, still idly pulling in and 
 out the shining needle, made no response ; 
 she had grown from pale to red, as he 
 continued, and now the colour turned her 
 cheeks crimson; her bosom heaved; her 
 fingers trembled; but she neither raised 
 her head nor made him any answer. 
 "Without the hot August sun flooded 
 earth and sea ; the silence of summer 
 noontide held nature in its warm embrace. 
 
 Louis de Yentadore, in sudden passio- 
 nate abandonment, threw himself upon his 
 knees beside Anais, and with earnest 
 vehemence besought her consideration. 
 
 “ Regard me, Anais, as I kneel before 
 thee ; I lay my life at thy feet, even as I 
 have laid myself, my nature, my very soul; 
 I have given thee all ; I have sacrificed my 
 friendship, my country, my ambition, even 
 my mother’s memory, to be near to thee, to 
 catch one kind look from thine eyes, hear 
 
10 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 one gentle word from thy lips ; yet do I 
 count these but as empty offerings and ill 
 worthy of thee, when I gaze upon thy fair 
 beauty.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, monsieur,” interrupted 
 Anais very coldly, “ but your raptures 
 move me not ; mayhap they have been too 
 oft repeated to awake an answering note 
 in my heart. Since once I favoured ye 
 with kind glances and gracious words, me- 
 thinks that should suffice. How know ye 
 but my humour may have changed ? A fine 
 lady, monsieur, is entitled to as many 
 caprices as she can count lovers.” 
 
 Her ill-concealed mockery, ending in a 
 trifling laugh, that tinkled forth as clear 
 and cool as silver bells, stung De Ventadore 
 to the quick. In a moment all that was 
 true, noble, earnest in his love was trans- 
 formed into a passionate desire to crush 
 and rend this fair proud woman before 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 11 
 
 him, until she in her turn fell humiliated 
 and subdued. He sprang to his feet, and 
 in a voice grown harsh and discordant by 
 pain exclaimed, 
 
 “ You mock me, madame, and think with 
 your proud insolence to drive me from you ; 
 but *tis cowards only who dread a woman’s 
 tongue. I have scorned to tell you that I 
 know your secret, guarded though it be so 
 carefully. What, did you think love was 
 so blind as not to read the signs of his 
 own language when written on so fair a 
 tablet as your countenance ? You love, 
 madame, and you love unasked, un- 
 solicited ! The proud Mademoiselle de 
 Grasse has fallen so low as to give un- 
 sought her heart to one who cares not for 
 the gift, and who doubtless would toss it 
 back with scorn copied from her own. 
 You love Gilderoy Duncombe, madame, 
 and you lower your pride and drag your 
 
12 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fair name in the dust and mud of a public 
 Inn at midnight, because, forsooth, you 
 must gaze upon his handsome face, and 
 listen to his singing voice, even though 
 raised in ribald jests and songs, scarce fit 
 language for your dainty ears. Did you 
 think I could not read beneath the blind of 
 honest Phil Troubridge’s presence ? Nay, 
 madame, he who learns his lessons in your 
 school has small chance of e’er forgetting 
 them. You thought to hide your secret ; 
 well, I give you credit, for you have veiled 
 it securely enough from the world; but 
 there is one pair of eyes watching always, 
 from which naught that you do can ever 
 escape. What think you, madame, ’twill 
 scarce be welcome nouvelles for the Comte, 
 your uncle, when I make report to him 
 that his favourite niece scorns and rejects 
 me, because of her ill-concealed and un- 
 requited passion for a British soldier, a 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 13 
 
 Captain in Lord Percy’s command, and a 
 cadet without fortune or title.” 
 
 “ Hold, Monsieur le Marquis,” cried 
 Anais, her voice ringing sharp and shrill 
 as she stood before him, upright, tall, and 
 slim as a young poplar, all the haughty 
 pride of her race eloquent in each line of 
 face and form ; the brilliant sunlight caught 
 at her golden-tinted hair, and set it aflame 
 about her pale face and flashing eyes. 
 “ Methinks you forget yourself. Is it to 
 me you dare to address such language ? 
 Since when, monsieur, has a gentlewoman 
 failed to claim respect from a noble of 
 France ? My uncle, methinks, would 
 scarce listen with patience to your tale of 
 jealousy, and ’twould but ill redound to 
 Monsieur le Marquis’ credit, that he sought 
 vengeance in foul slander, where he failed 
 to win by softer wooing. My secret, as it 
 pleases you to term it, exists only in your 
 
14 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 frenzied brain, monsieur, and were I a 
 man, I would give thee back the lie in 
 something less vapid than words. You 
 saw me at the “ George,” ’tis true, and ’tis 
 also true that I came to see and watch 
 Gilderoy Duncombe ; but methinks you 
 can ill read a woman’s heart when you 
 accuse her of seeking, without persuasion, 
 the presence of her lover. Have you ne’er 
 heard of a more pure sentiment, monsieur, 
 than the love you prate of so eloquently ? 
 One that would shield and defend the 
 object of its care, and seek to learn in time 
 what like is the nature to which drifts the 
 heart of innocence and truth ? ’Twas for 
 Dot, monsieur, my little Dot, that I sought 
 the Inn ; her young love shall ne’er be 
 given unworthily while I have power to 
 protect her.” 
 
 Then with an unexpected graceful 
 movement she extended her hand to him, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 15 
 
 and in a sweet pleading voice exclaimed, 
 ** Nay, I ask for no apologies. Let us 
 be friends, Louis, not enemies. See, have 
 I wounded thee ? — forgive me — and I too 
 will forget thy harsh words. Shall we 
 return to the old days, mon ami, and bury 
 the past few weeks, with their burden of 
 jealousy and suspicion, while we evoke a 
 future of confidence and trust? I give 
 thee my hand, monsieur; take it as an 
 earnest of my sincerity.” 
 
 And such was her matchless charm that 
 Louis de Yentadore, bending his head over 
 her outstretched palm, felt his doubts and 
 jealousies fall from him at her magic 
 touch. 
 
 Later that day, Dorothy, seeking her 
 tambour-frame, found the heart of her un- 
 finished rose sadly botched and blurred, 
 the needle broken, the silk twisted, while 
 on the floor lay Monsieur le Marquis’ love- 
 
16 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 letter, torn into tiny fragments, which the 
 evening wind rustled and played with, and 
 scattered heedlessly about the polished 
 floor. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The summer sped with lagging steps, and 
 autumn, accepting as a legacy of fair de- 
 light her sunshine and soft winds, wrapped 
 his more rugged limbs in her beauteous 
 garments, and played a farce with Dame 
 Nature with as jovial a mien and as 
 tripping a footfall as any maid or gallant 
 in her ladyship’s troop of charity-actors. 
 
 Boston was alive with gaieties and fes- 
 tivals ; each evening saw some rout or 
 drum, some dance or card-party, while the 
 afternoons were spent in tea-drinkings at 
 the various loyal homesteads in the 
 suburbs. These parties were escorted to 
 and from the town by detachments of 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Lord Percy’s regiment, often headed by 
 Bourgoyne in all his bravest attire, and 
 were very lively gatherings ; the ladies in 
 flowered saque and petticoat, wearing 
 plumes and powder, and outvying one 
 another in the size and design of their 
 patches. Pen Dudley appeared once with 
 an entire regiment of King’s-men over her 
 right eye, and an absurd likeness, in petito, 
 of Duncombe nestling at the left corner of 
 her round mouth; the men, of necessity, 
 were generally en militaire, but the red- 
 coats, with their glittering adornments, 
 furnished ample scope for coquetry, and 
 the damsels were all of a mind in pre- 
 ferring his Majesty’s uniform to the dress 
 of a private gentleman. 
 
 Thus riding and driving gaily along, 
 awaking the echoes by idle chatter and 
 careless jest or song, these pleasure-seekers 
 made merry while they could, nor cast one 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 19 
 
 thought on days to come, when the blithest 
 lips among them would lie cold and still, 
 the strongest arm fall nerveless and heavy, 
 the truest heart be silent and unresponsive 
 at death’s calm, irresistible command. 
 
 And without the city’s limits waited and 
 watched a mighty throng — silent, alert, 
 vigilant ; thus had they waited and watched 
 all through the long summer months with 
 the dogged patience and indomitable per- 
 severance that had been born in their 
 hearts on St. Botolph’s Day, when Bunker 
 Hill saw them repulsed and defeated. 
 The day and the hour would come, in 
 due time, for their vengeance, and they 
 could wait without faltering for it, even 
 though the sound of the royalists’ festivity 
 and mirth floated to their ears across the 
 Charles River, and mocked them in their 
 bitter silence with its ring of life and 
 gaiety. 
 
 o 2 
 
20 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Washington, holding converse with his 
 officers in the dark-wainscoted parlour, 
 where once the restless feet of Sir William 
 Pepperill’s boys and girls had danced in 
 and out, but which now was dedicated to 
 sterner and harsher purposes, would also 
 catch an echo of the revelry over the water, 
 and raising his grave face impatiently to 
 where the portrait of the same Pepperill 
 boys and girls hung above the great carved 
 chimney — which Sir William’s fancy had 
 caused to be copied from that one in 
 Dives, where had sat the Conqueror and 
 Mathilda whispering together with the 
 curious twisted cipher of their names 
 above their heads 1 — would, with imper- 
 turbable calm, request young Hamilton to 
 close the long windows that gave upon the 
 terrace. 
 
 1 This portrait is still in existence in the same 
 house in Cambridge. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 21 
 
 Patience tliat is the outcome of injus- 
 tice bears a hundred charmed lives, and, 
 though choked back here and cut down 
 there, will rise again immovable, irresistible, 
 forcing its way with quiet persistence until 
 one day, without scarce knowing how, it 
 gains its reward, the wrong becomes 
 righted, the injustice wiped out in the clean 
 waters of restitution and reconciliation. 
 
 An ais and Dorothy were again in Boston, 
 but not now sheltered beneath his Excel- 
 lency’s hospitable roof; that mansion stood 
 empty and deserted ; the great withdraw- 
 ing-room was denuded of all its acces- 
 sories — gone were the spindle-legged chairs, 
 the girandoles, the consoles laden with 
 their china monsters, and in her lady- 
 ship’s boudoir, where she and Kemble had 
 watched together that long sad June 
 night, the stillness of death reigned; no 
 trace of Toby or Toby’s silken basket 
 
22 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 remained, save a bit of red libbon and a 
 broken bell, forgotten, on the dusty floor. 
 
 Lady Gage bad prophesied truly when, 
 in the bitterness of her spirit, she had told 
 Stephen Kemble that a woman who failed 
 was a woman disgraced. She had failed, 
 and there were not lacking those who 
 represented to his Majesty that ’twere as 
 well the handsome American and her vacil- 
 lating husband should be removed ere 
 fresh mischief could ensue. Neither Bour- 
 goyne nor Percy had forgotten her lady- 
 ship’s terror, her pale cheeks and shaking 
 lips, when the tale was told of Cleaveland’s 
 thoughtlessness, which bordered so close 
 upon treachery ; and the former hesitated 
 not to write to Lord Stanley in no mea- 
 sured terms concerning her ladyship’s 
 ardour and complicity in the patriot’s 
 cause. 
 
 Therefore when the order came recalling 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 23 
 
 Governor Gage to England, and relieving 
 him of all command either in the army or 
 state, it was a matter of satisfaction rather 
 than regret or surprise to both parties. 
 The royalists desired to be rid of a dan- 
 gerous woman and a weak Governor ; while 
 the patriots, bearing in mind Gage’s cruel 
 order to set Charlestown in flames, and his 
 irresolute uncertain conduct towards them 
 at all times, rejoiced at any change that 
 presaged relief from the evil of inconstancy. 
 
 Thus on the 2nd of August, when the 
 royal frigate that bore his Excellency 
 and Lady Gage to England sailed out of 
 Boston port, there were scarce a score of 
 well-wishers gathered to wave them fare- 
 well or breathe a God-speed. The only 
 heart that would have borne its testimony 
 valiantly in her behalf, or have sounded 
 her praises for courage and patriotism at 
 the expense of her fame and position, lay 
 
24 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 cold and dead — shot down on Bunker Hill 
 by a red-coat; and the only hand that 
 would have been raised in blessing on her 
 woman’s heart and head was for ever 
 clasped in death’s firm hold; thus, un- 
 honoured and unregretted, Lady Gage 
 parted from her home and her country, 
 which owed its very victories to her firm 
 nerve and courageous soul ; and while 
 Mister Josiah Quincey, good patriot as 
 he was, watching the vessel unfurl sail, 
 slipped the diamond ring from off his 
 finger, and wrote upon his window : 
 “ Through this pane saw I General Gage 
 sail out of the harbour of Boston ,” 2 he 
 little recked of the breaking heart and 
 ruined hopes, buried beneath a woman’s 
 gay laugh and flippant word, that the good 
 ship was bearing away. 
 
 Stephen Kemble, more faithful in adver- 
 
 2 A fact. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 25 
 
 sity than in high fortune, standing beside 
 his kinswoman on the deck, watching the 
 city fade from his sight, and the great 
 ocean stretch boundless before him, saw 
 the tears rush to her eyes, and felt her 
 fingers tighten oyer his own ; with a move- 
 ment of greater sympathy than he often 
 displayed, he carried her hand to his lips 
 as he said, 
 
 “ Courage, cousin ; be not too down- 
 hearted ; in the future those who know all 
 will venerate and love thee even as I do.” 
 
 And she, looking into his young eyes, 
 felt the bitterness of failure grow less keen, 
 and the misery of disgrace less cutting. 
 
 “ Since I have thee, Steenie, and thy 
 praises, I can well afford to let the world 
 pass from me.” 
 
 Therefore Monsieur de Yentadore, de- 
 prived of the neutral ground of her lady- 
 ship’s residence, sought another home for 
 
26 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 his young charges. Gradually, and with 
 much caution, he had become more and 
 more identified with the colonist faction ; 
 and though he still mingled freely with the 
 royalists, it was somewhat under protest 
 and because Bourgoyne regarded him with 
 unusual favour ; while among the patriots 
 he ranked as a trusty and clever ally, who 
 could so well colour his motives to suit his 
 actions as to outwit either party. 
 
 He had placed the two sisters, after 
 much deliberation, under the care and 
 protection of J osiah Quincey and his wife ; 
 true, they were known and recognized as 
 ardent sympathizers with the colonists, 
 though so far they had remained unmo- 
 lested, and quietly occupied their family 
 mansion in Boston, close to the river, and 
 overlooking Charlestown and Cambridge. 
 Nor were these the only doors open to 
 the French demoiselles, for both Mistress 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 27 
 
 Priscilla Dudley, Penelope’s aunt, and 
 Mistress Ruggles, wife to the general, 
 solicited the honour and pleasure of re- 
 ceiving them ; but De Yentadore, while 
 paying many ambiguous compliments to 
 each of the royalist ladies, quietly con- 
 signed the sisters to Mistress Quincey, 
 who, although a somewhat stiff and par- 
 ticular lady, made them kindly welcome. 
 They had been her guests for some weeks, 
 and the autumn was far advanced and fast 
 giving place to winter. Sir William Howe 
 had been created Commander-in-Chief and 
 Governor of Massachusetts in the room of 
 General Gage, and he and Bourgoyne 
 spared neither time nor money to keep the 
 officers and townspeople so well amused, 
 that they forgot the army waiting without 
 the city and the day of reckoning that 
 must come between them. 
 
 Anais cared but little for the dull routine 
 
28 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of the Quincey menage; its rules and regu- 
 lations oppressed and wearied her, while 
 she scoffed openly at the puritan habits 
 enforced by her hostess. These restric- 
 tions, however, mattered but little to her 
 in reality; for since her open betroth ment 
 to the Marquis de Yentadore, which took 
 place in the Quincey drawing-rooms, with 
 all the form and ceremony consequent 
 upon so solemn a proceeding, and accom- 
 panied by a corbeille so magnificent that 
 even Pen’s envious eyes twinkled with 
 delight, she, as the future Marquise, 
 was treated with every consideration and 
 dignity. She entered into each gaiety as 
 it occurred, and was the instigator of half 
 the giddy revellings that turned night into 
 day ; she found a ready abettor in Penelope 
 and Mistress Ruggles, both gay, vain, and 
 reckless; while De Yentad ore, happy to 
 have won her at any price, followed in 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 29 
 
 her train, but dared not risk dismissal by 
 censure or reprimand. 
 
 But to Dorothy the old house by the 
 river-side was full of charming nooks and 
 corners. She had a bedchamber, almost 
 as wide and dim as that at Manor Farm, 
 overlooking the broad Charles, and here 
 she hung up her crucifix, and her picture 
 of the martyred St. Dorothy with her 
 crown of roses ; and in the window she 
 set her tambour-frame, and laid alongside 
 of it her livre d’heures and the worn 
 leather-bound copy of Elizabeth’s poets, 
 from which Duncombe had read the “Manly 
 Heart.” 
 
 She was quite happy, save for a dim, 
 uncertain anxiety concerning Anais, whose 
 betrothment she could not bring herself to 
 like ; for had she not Nanon with her, and 
 was not Tais more loving and tender than 
 ever, and did not kind Mistress Quincey 
 
30 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 praise her useful hands that were equally 
 skilled in broderie as in still-room 
 delicacies, and could as well fashion a 
 
 i 
 
 posset or bran pudding for Mister Quincey’s 
 dinner, as a lily or a rose upon the 
 richest Genoa velvet ? And then did not 
 Gilderoy come often to the river-side 
 house on pretence of a book, or a bar of 
 music, or a nosegay of roses from Manor 
 Farm, or a new pattern for Nanon’s lace 
 pillow ? — and, since Tais was betrothed, for 
 whose sake could he come if not for hers ? 
 
 And thus dreaming and musing, little 
 Dot took up the marvellous golden goblet 
 with both her hands and eagerly pressed 
 her young lips to the wine of passionate 
 first love that it contained. 
 
 She accompanied Anais to many of the 
 balls and routs, the tea-drums and quadrille- 
 parties which the elder sister favoured, 
 and the two beautiful French maidens, so 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 31 
 
 amazingly alike in face and figure, the one 
 a future marquise, and the other to 
 espouse a Captain in Lord Percy’s com- 
 mand, if the gossips spoke correctly, were 
 soon as well-known and sought after as 
 any belle at court ; in their wake came 
 always De Yentadore and Buncombe, 
 followed by Pen Dudley and an attendant 
 gallant, with Mistress Ruggles as duenna ; 
 and this merry party gathered about them 
 all that was maddest, gayest, most reck- 
 less in that society of sparkling wit and 
 brilliant intellect, which rendered the 
 winter of 1775 especially renowned in 
 Boston’s annals. 
 
32 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A merry group was gathered together in 
 Mistress Ruggles’ drawing-room, early in 
 January. There was Anais and Dorothy, 
 with De Yentadore and Duncombe close at 
 hand ; Pen Dudley, highly flattered by the 
 attentions of Lord Percy; and Polly 
 Ruggles, with her little cousin Bess, 
 giggling and simpering, and breaking 
 forth into sudden shrieks and cries of 
 admiration at each fresh proof of Anais’ 
 sharp wit and tongue. 
 
 Sir William Howe and pretty Mistress 
 Ruggles were seated somewhat apart from 
 the younger galaxy, and near to them stood 
 Lord Rawdon, conning assiduously a manu- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 33 
 
 script sheet which he held in one hand, 
 while with the other he executed divers 
 gestures indicative of the various senti- 
 ments called forth by the page before him. 
 
 All the tongues were rattling together ; 
 every one was talking, and no one was 
 listening ; the excited faces and eager 
 movements bespoke the matter under dis- 
 cussion one of unusual interest. And this, 
 indeed, was the case, for on the morrow 
 evening a performance was to take place,, 
 given by the “ Society for Promoting 
 Theatrical Amusements,” in the interests 
 of sweet charity, which was to far out- 
 rival any former efforts. 
 
 In the first place the play selected was 
 a favourite one, being Mr. Aaron Hill’s 
 !C Zara,” as performed at the Theatre 
 Eoyal before His Eoyal Highness, to 
 which Major-General Bourgoyne had con- 
 tributed both prologue and epilogue, the 
 
 vol. nr. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 former to be spoken by Lord Rawdon, and 
 the latter by little Bess Buggies, who 
 counted but ten birthdays ; while as a 
 culminating tour de force, Bourgoyne’s 
 comedietta, styled the “ Blockade of Bos- 
 ton,” was to close the evening, and in this 
 last piece all the officers and gallants best 
 known in the beau monde were to take 
 part, and render the entertainment an 
 assured success. Small wonder then 
 that every maiden’s heart beat fast, while 
 fair cheeks flushed, and bright eyes 
 glowed ; scarce one among them but 
 owned some favoured swain whose genius 
 they burned to see recognized at the 
 expense of every other damsel’s gallant. 
 
 Anais and Penelope were to enact the 
 parts of the two beautiful slaves, Zara and 
 Selima, while Buncombe, greatly to De 
 Yentadore’s chagrin, played the role of 
 Osman, the royal lover ; in the after 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 35 
 
 farce, Lord Percy, Duncombe, and the 
 Marquis, all bore characters. Dorothy had 
 refused to appear upon the stage, a refusal 
 Anais had not tried to combat when 
 apprised of it. 
 
 “ As thou wilt, petite,” she had said, 
 with a light caress; “ of a truth, a daisy- 
 flower has but little occasion to bloom 
 before the foot-lights ; best leave that for 
 bolder blossoms, ma Dot, whose bloom 
 cannot be hurt by smirch or stain of lamp- 
 black.” 
 
 “Ah, Tais ! ” Dot had cried, a troubled 
 look upon her face, “ I wish thou didst 
 not speak so mockingly, nor look so gay 
 and debonnaire. Methinks ofttimes thy 
 heart is sore, tres-chere, despite thy 
 smiles and laughter.” 
 
 “ What, carry a sore heart beneath 
 these, petite Dot ! ” Anais had replied 
 quickly, pointing to the shimmering jewels 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 that clasped her graceful throat, and that 
 rising and falling above her rounded 
 bosom, glowed and paled with crimson 
 fire. “ Nay, now, know you not that the 
 De Ventadore rubies carry a panacea for 
 all ills in their magic stones ? Hey-dey ! 
 tears, my daisy-flower, and for what ? 
 Because thy Tais is to be great and 
 powerful, and take thee away from this 
 triste country to our own fair France, 
 where we shall be happy, Dot, so happy, 
 and forget — forget all things that belong 
 to life here ! ” 
 
 “ But Monsieur le Marquis cannot be 
 forgotten, Tais, since he goes with us ? ” 
 
 “ Thou croakest sadly, petite,” the 
 other answered shortly, “ poor De Venta- 
 dore will trouble us but little, I warrant 
 thee, in the future.” 
 
 Then she had put her arms about her 
 little sister and kissed her, but Dot, spring- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 37 
 
 ing back with a wild cry, clasped her 
 hands over her eyes, sobbing forth, 
 
 “My dream, tres-chere, oh, my dream!” 
 Anais grew pale, and for a moment her 
 firm voice faltered as she replied, 
 
 “ Thou art childish, Dot, or hast the 
 megrims, to let a foolish nightmare 
 afright thee so, and all because of what, 
 forsooth ? Why, only that I wear rubies 
 upon a throat more passing fair than 
 another woman’s, and thy silly wits must 
 needs fashion them into a necklace of 
 blood, bestowed by an unknown poniard. 
 Ma certes, Dot, I reckoned thee of stouter 
 heart and nerve than that.” 
 
 Dorothy wiped the tears from her eyes, 
 and smiled at Tais with cold white lips ; 
 but after her sister had gone, carrying 
 with her fair beauty and gleaming jewels 
 all the life and colour from the dark old 
 bedchamber, she had sat very still; the 
 
38 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 memory of that evil vision was not easily 
 effaced, and would recur, over and over, to 
 her mind with cruel persistence. 
 
 Presently she gathered up her work and 
 went below to Mistress Quincey’s parlour, 
 where tea was already served upon the 
 thin-legged table, and Mister Quincey far 
 advanced in his second cup. Dot told 
 them of the approaching festivities at 
 Faneuil Hall and who the actors were, 
 and what the play, but when she finished 
 her little tale, Mistress Quincey raised her 
 hands and eyes to heaven in mute pro- 
 test ere in. her sternest voice she ad- 
 monished the maiden. 
 
 “ Far be it from me, Dorothy, to deprive 
 ye of one innocent joy or proper recrea- 
 tion, and ye are not beholden to me in any 
 wise. But play-acting, and in Faneuil 
 Hall ! My certes, that it should come to 
 this again, and I live to hear on’t ! I 
 marvel Peter Faneuil doth not arise and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 39 
 
 smite the Philistines for thus again 
 desecrating the cradle of liberty ! ’Tis 
 five and twenty years since such a thing 
 was seen amongst us, and I mind me well 
 my mother’s telling of it. She attended 
 with my father, and the play was Mister 
 Otway’s “ Orphan,” but so angered and 
 incensed were the public that they arose 
 in a multitude and closed the doors, tore 
 down the scenery, and threatened the 
 actors with violence ; they were glad 
 enough to escape with their lives, I war- 
 rant ye, and ’twas considered a wise and 
 prudent act on his Excellency’s part when 
 he sanctioned the bill prohibiting any 
 repetition of such performances for the 
 space of five and twenty years. 1 Ay, that 
 was in ’50, Josiah, and I but a growing 
 maiden; then, of a surety, ’tis only this 
 year that the interdiction has become 
 extinct. I will say no more, since ’tis 
 
 1 A fact. 
 
40 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 thy sister and thy friends who find 
 pleasure in it ; but thou art too young a 
 child to care to learn the counterfeiting 
 ways of stage and actor.” 
 
 Then little Dot had promised that she 
 would not take part in the plays, but only 
 go to be amused and see her Tais in the 
 role of Zara. 
 
 Thus it was that, amid all the busy 
 chattering tongues at Mistress Buggies’, 
 she took but little part ; she sat quiet on 
 a low bench, not far from Anais, with 
 Gilderoy Duncombe coming and going 
 between them, happy in true girlish fashion 
 because all about her was gay and lively, 
 and because youth turns unconsciously to 
 youth, and puts forth long clinging ten- 
 drils of trust and belief and hope towards 
 those of its kind who make response to 
 their joyous, artless appeals. 
 
 In the midst of all the clatter and bustle 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 41 
 
 a servant entered, and approached Mistress 
 Ruggles, bearing tlie first copy of the 
 day’s News-Letter and Gazette, still damp 
 from the press. At sight of this the little 
 group at the upper end of the room came 
 flying down towards Sir William and Lord 
 Rawdon, headed by Penelope, who always 
 managed to be first in every excitement. 
 
 “Is it put in?” “How looks it?” 
 “ What place hath it ? ” “ Oh, I beseech 
 
 ye do let me have a sight on’t,” saluted 
 Mistress Ruggles’ ears as the little crowd 
 drew in about her and pushed their pretty 
 young faces close to hers. 
 
 “Here, Pen,” laughed their hostess, 
 standing up and holding the newspaper 
 above her head, “if ye can catch it ye shall 
 have it, and read aloud its news to us.” 
 
 Penelope with a quick dexterous move- 
 ment slipped behind her, and in a moment 
 was mounted on a chair, from which 
 
42 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 vantage-ground she caught and held the 
 white hand while she wrested the paper 
 from its hold. A shout of laughter and 
 praise saluted her, followed by impatient 
 demands for her to read it. Standing on 
 the chair, her face flushed, her short black 
 curls falling about her forehead and throat 
 in dire disorder, Penelope flourished the 
 News-Letter before them, and, in her high 
 voice, accompanied by much manner and 
 motion, read out the glowing account of 
 the first performances given by the amateur 
 society, “ for their own amusement and the 
 benevolent purpose of contributing to the 
 relief of distressed soldiers, widows, and 
 children. 5 ’ 
 
 After praising the actors and acting in 
 the comedies of “ The Busybody,” “ The 
 Citizen,” and “ The Apprentice,” the critic 
 extolled the aims and objects of the society 
 as being “ humane, disinterested, and pro- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 43 
 
 ductiye of innocent amusement and in- 
 struction ; nor were the entrance fees 
 excessive, one dollar for tlie pit, and a 
 quarter-dollar for the gallery, while the 
 performance beginning at six of the even- 
 ing gave ample time for all to be well 
 accomplished in good season.” So far 
 Pen read in a rapid piping tone, but now 
 she stopped, and with a roguish look at 
 Lord Percy and Duncombe, began in a 
 more solemn and dignified manner. “ We 
 are here begged to announce that the 
 managers will have the house strictly 
 surveyed, and give out tickets for the 
 number it will contain. The most positive 
 orders are given out not to take money at 
 the door, and it is hoped” — here Pen grew 
 very dramatic — “ that gentlemen of the 
 army will not use their influence over the 
 sergeants who are door-keepers, to induce 
 them to disobey that order, as it is meant 
 
44 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 entirely to promote the ease and comfort 
 of the public by not overcrowding the 
 theatre. 2 The tragedy of * Zara,’ with 
 prologue and epilogue, followed by a 
 brilliant farce from the pen of Major- 
 General Bourgoyne, is set down for per- 
 formance on the evening of January 8th, 
 and we can assure a most finished and 
 elegant achievement, as many of our 
 leading belles and beaux have consented 
 to appear, notably one, renowned for 
 beauty and for the high alliance she is 
 shortly to contract. This demoiselle will 
 fill the role of Zara to which Mrs. Cibber 
 added such lustre and renown when enact- 
 ing it before His Royal Highness the 
 Prince, to whom Mister Hill has had the 
 honour of dedicating his dramatic effort.” 
 
 “ There, gentlemen of the army,” cried 
 Pen, springing lightly from her perch, and 
 2 From the News-Letter and Gazette of the day. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 45 
 
 fluttering tlie paper in lier hand ; “ me- 
 thinks your consciences can take home a 
 sound slice of warning, for ’twould appear 
 ye are not sans reproche in the matter of 
 bribing your sergeants ; while as for you, 
 Tais,” — with a flash of her bright black 
 eyes — “ sure ’twould seem that ’tis to you 
 we are to owe the success and the fortunes 
 of the evening. To unite beauty and 
 ambition is rare luck, and I make you my 
 compliments, mademoiselle.” 
 
 Anais made no reply save by a haughty 
 movement of her head and hand as she 
 turned towards Lord Itawdon and entered 
 upon a discussion concerning certain 
 arrangements for the morrow. 
 
 “And now, my merry maskers,” ex- 
 claimed Mistress Ruggles, who had looked 
 on laughing at Pen’s saucy sallies ; “ his 
 Excellency begs that we shall favour him 
 with a slight resume of our roles and those 
 
46 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 who play them. Lend me your play-book, 
 mademoiselle,” she added, turning towards 
 Anais ; “I see you have within it, writ 
 against the personae of the Royal Theatre, 
 our more modest force.” 
 
 Anais handed to her the stiff yellow- 
 covered volume with a gracious smile, and 
 Mistress Ruggles taking it exclaimed at the 
 elegant binding. 
 
 “ Now, by my word, mademoiselle,” 
 she cried, “ but ye are rarely lucky, this is 
 a copy of the third edition, and printed for 
 John Watts in the year fifty-two, and. has 
 both prologue and epilogue writ by Colly 
 Cibber, who spoke the first, with pretty 
 Mistress Clive to cap his efforts in the last. 
 Look, your Excellency, ’tis in truth a pretty 
 copy, and since you have ne’er seen the 
 play, ’twere worth your giving it a 
 glance.” 
 
 Sir William took the little thin book into 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 47 
 
 his hands and regarded it with interest, 
 while Penelope, standing beside him, and 
 who was no respecter of persons, read off 
 aloud the title-page from first line to 
 
 last. 
 
 The Tragedy 
 of 
 
 “ZARA,” 
 
 As acted at the Theatre Eoyal, 
 
 Covent Carden, 1752. 
 
 Persons Eepresented : — 
 
 Ofman 
 
 Lnftignan 
 
 Zara 1 
 Selima / 
 bereft an 
 Chatillon ) 
 Orafmin 
 Melidor 
 
 Saltan of Jerufalem By Mr. Barry. 
 C Laftof the Blood of the Chrif- 
 l tian Kings of Jerufalem 
 
 Slaves to the Sultan 
 
 ■ Mr. Sparks. 
 
 French Officers 
 
 Minifter to the Sultan 
 An officer in the Seraglio 
 
 C Mrs. Cibber. 
 | Mrs. Elmy. 
 
 ( Mr. Dyer. 
 
 ( Mr. Usher. 
 Mr. Eidotjt. 
 Mr. Brausby. 
 
 Scene. — The Seraglio at Jerufalem. 
 
 “ Now doth it not sound grand, your 
 Excellency ? ” she added, haying come to 
 the end of the leaf ; “ and do but look at 
 this fine picture-print that heads it, sure 
 ’tis Osman and Nerestan when the amorous 
 sultan forgets love in jealousy. Nay, but 
 
48 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fancy our presuming to enact such roles ! 
 Ma certes, I marvel Mistress Cibber doth 
 not fly to ye on a broomstick, Anais, and 
 work her spite upon ye against thy steal- 
 ing the part in which she made so wondrous 
 a fame ; while as to little Bess, sure 
 Mistress Clive could ne’er withstand the 
 sharp tooth of envy saw she thy red lips 
 outstrip her nimble tongue.” 
 
 “Have done, Pen,” laughed Mistress 
 Buggies ; “ sure ’tis as difficult to stop thy 
 rattle as ’tis to cure my General of his 
 Sunday snoring. How then, your Excel- 
 lency, ’tis thus we have cast it : Osman, 
 who is handsome, brave, generous, and 
 loyal, we have bestowed upon Captain 
 Duncombe, judging him fittest for the part 
 since he is young and not ill-looking.” 
 
 “ And also because, like Osman, he 
 bears but scant good-will towards the 
 Frenchman,” whispered Pen in .Polly 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 49 
 
 Ruggles’ ear, but with a pert glance 
 directed towards De Yentadore. 
 
 “ Lustignan, the noble, aged, captive 
 king, Lord Percy has chosen to fulfil ; Zara, 
 the beautiful slave, a Christian, though she 
 knows it not, fits to a nicety our favoured 
 Mademoiselle de G-rasse, who graces 
 whate’er she undertakes, while Selirna, her 
 friend and fellow-slave, Penelope Dudley 
 is well cast for ; Nerestan and Chatillon, 
 are roles filled by Lord Rawdon and young 
 Ruggles, my husband’s nephew ; Orasmin, 
 the trusty minister of state, Monsieur le 
 Marquis undertakes, while Melidor is 
 counted to Will Pepperill. A pretty com- 
 pany, is it not, your Excellency ? and with 
 so much beauty and talent, ’tis sure to 
 make success its own from the outset.” 
 
 “ By my faith, madame,” replied Sir 
 William, “ you so stir up what’s left of 
 youthful blood within me, I fain would 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 hold a role myself beneath your tutor- 
 age.” 
 
 “ ’Tis a pity,” broke in Duncombe, 
 “ that Bourgoyne, to whom we owe all 
 this pleasant masking and mimicry, is 
 not here to look upon the results of 
 it.” 
 
 “ Has your Excellency any news 
 concerning him?” asked De Venta- 
 dore. 
 
 “ Hone save that he has reached Eng- 
 land in safety and in good condition; ’tis 
 scarce time, as yet, to be looking for the 
 consequences of his arrival.” 
 
 “ Yet did he sail in November,” replied 
 De Yentadore, “ and we are now in the 
 new year. What think you, your Excel- 
 lency, mayhap he has found unwilling ears 
 in which to pour his tale ? ” 
 
 But Sir William feigned to be so deeply 
 absorbed in rendering some trifling service 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 51 
 
 to Mistress Ruggles, as not to hear the 
 marquis’ question, and ere long the party 
 broke up and drifted away to other amuse- 
 ments and occupations. 
 
52 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 At last tlie gala-night had fairly arrived? 
 and by five o’clock of the. evening scarce 
 a seat was vacant in Faneuil Hall; the 
 officers’ private body-sergeants, acting as 
 door-keepers and ushers, filled their part 
 to perfection, and so assiduously and ex- 
 peditiously did they work, that the crowd 
 who besieged the doors, and who held 
 tickets, met with no difficulty or dis- 
 courtesy, while those who trusted to cajole 
 or bribe an entrance went away with rueful 
 faces and disappointed hopes. 
 
 Dorothy was among the first to arrive, 
 accompanied by Aunt Priscilla, Mister 
 Dudley, and Polly Ruggles ; they had seats 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 53 
 
 in the pit, and were surrounded by their 
 acquaintances and friends ; but Dot had 
 eyes and thoughts for nought save her 
 Tais. It was the girl’s first taste of plea- 
 sure in this guise, for beside the childish 
 miracle-plays, acted by the nuns and older 
 children at Christmas time in the old 
 Provence convent, she had never beheld 
 the glamour and bewilderment of a theatre 
 and its accessories. 
 
 The hall was lit by numerous candles 
 fixed in sconces and girandoles, and gaily 
 festooned with flags and wreaths of holly, 
 mixed with the scarlet berries of the 
 pigeon-vine. His Excellency, attended by 
 his suite and Robert Mackenzie, his private 
 secretary, arrived in state, and was con- 
 veyed to the crimson- draped seats in the 
 front of the pit. After his entrance, which 
 was full fifteen minutes before the hour 
 set down, the hall filled as if by magic ; 
 
54 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the doors were closed, the sergeants 
 placed themselves in a row against them, 
 and stood as if on duty at St. James’s 
 Palace. 
 
 Excitement had now reached its highest 
 pitch, and the whole multitude seemed 
 swayed by one universal sentiment of 
 admiration, which showed itself in deafen- 
 ing applause as the curtain slowly rose 
 and discovered the two slaves Zara and 
 Selima in earnest converse. 
 
 Never had Anais looked more beautiful ; 
 her innate good taste had taught her to 
 discard the accepted dress of the day as 
 ill befitting the character of a slave of the 
 Saracen sultan. She was attired in a long 
 garment of softest white muslin, some- 
 what resembling a Greek peplum, which 
 fell in full graceful folds ; her slender 
 waist was confined by a golden girdle set 
 with jewels ; the loose open sleeves were 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 55 
 
 gathered to the shoulder and held by 
 cameo clasps, leaving the lovely arms 
 exposed, their beauty of form unmarred 
 by bracelet or jewel ; the golden glory 
 of her hair was unbound, and fell about 
 her shoulders in long waving masses ; a 
 fillet of pearls and rubies held back the 
 truant locks from her noble forehead, 
 their deep crimson sheen seemingly re- 
 flected a thousand times in the shining 
 meshes ; beneath this lustre of art and 
 nature her marvellous eyes gleamed clear 
 as mountain tarns when their brown depths 
 are kissed to sudden splendour by the 
 ardent sun-god. 
 
 Penelope, arrayed more fantastically, 
 made an excellent foil, with her dark 
 colouring, her piquant face, and rapid 
 movements, for the exquisite and perfect 
 beauty of her companion. 
 
 Peal after peal of admiration rent the 
 
56 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 air ; ladies waved their fans and kerchiefs, 
 the men arose in their seats and cried 
 bravura, brava, with vehemence. Twice 
 Zara essayed to make her opening speech, 
 and twice renewed applause rendered her 
 words inaudible. She stood, unabashed, 
 confronting them, her eyes luminous, her 
 lips parted, her bosom heaving ; she shot 
 one glance towards Dorothy, which seemed 
 to read her very soul, and to ask as plain as 
 spoken words, “ Is this not power ? Will 
 you deny me now that it outstrips aught 
 else ? ” And Dot, catching the questioning 
 gaze, hung her head, while the tears rushed 
 to her eyes for very love of Tais’ beauty. 
 When the tumult had somewhat subsided, 
 Anais spoke, and her clear full voice, with 
 its slight foreign intonation, held the 
 audience spellbound. 
 
 The plot of Zai*a is slight, but full of 
 interest. Osman is sultan in Jerusalem, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 57 
 
 and holds captive Lustignan, the last 
 descendant of Philip and Louis ; he also 
 owns a favourite slave, Zara, whose birth 
 is wrapped in mystery, but who is supposed 
 by Selima, her companion slave, owing to 
 a small cross worn about her neck, to be 
 the child of Christian parents. Zara is 
 very beautiful, and Osman loves her ; she 
 returns his sentiment with a love more 
 deep and tender than his own. He offers 
 her marriage, and in accepting him, so 
 great is her love, she agrees also to 
 acknowledge the faith of the Saracens. 
 Nerestan, a captive French officer, has 
 been allowed to go on parole to France to 
 seek ransom for ten Christians, one of 
 whom he swears shall be Zara ; two years 
 pass, and nothing is heard from him until 
 the very day appointed for Zara’s nuptials, 
 when he arrives with the ransom, but it 
 not being sufficient to include the captive 
 
58 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Lustignan, lie offers his own freedom in 
 exchange for that of the old king ; but 
 Osman, at the entreaty of Zara, frees 
 Lustignan, and Zara herself brings the 
 tidings to Nerestan and Chatillon ; on 
 the appearance of Lustignan he discovers 
 that Zara and Nerestan are his two lost 
 children, and therefore brother and sister. 
 Lustignan implores Zara to return to 
 her Christian faith, which she, at the 
 expense of her love, consents to do. 
 Osman now grows suspicious at her tears 
 and altered demeanour, which she cannot 
 explain, being pledged to secrecy as to her 
 faith and birth, both to her father and 
 brother: Osman intercepts a letter from 
 
 Nerestan to Zara, and is rendered still 
 more jealous ; he awaits the proposed 
 coming of Nerestan, who is secretly to 
 bear the news of Lustignan’s death and 
 blessing to his sister. Hearing Zara’s 
 agitated welcome, his jealousy overcomes 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 59 
 
 him, he draws his poniard and stabs her ; 
 she dies. Then follow explanations and 
 upbraidings : Osman frees all Christians 
 in captivity under him, enriches Neres- 
 tan, stabs himself, and so the tragedy 
 ends. 
 
 Anais in the character of Zara won the 
 admiration of her audience when first she 
 appeared before them as the beautiful 
 slave, but they reserved their sympathy 
 until she fairly forced it from them in her 
 answer to Selima, who reproaches her 
 for becoming an apostate and forgetting 
 Kerestan, and upbraids her for her avowed 
 love of Osman. Penelope, with quick- 
 flashing eyes, rendered with spirit the 
 words of Selima, 
 
 “ Hereftan, who was born a Chriftian, here 
 Afferts that you like Him had Chriftian Parents : 
 Eelides that Crofs, which from your Infant Years 
 Has been preferved, was found upon your Bofom, 
 As if delign’d by Heav’n, a Pledge of Faith, 
 
 Due to the God, you purpofe to forfake ! ” 
 
60 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Zara, rising from her low seat beside 
 tlie open casement, approached with slow 
 steps her friend and accuser, her face was 
 lighted by a superb scorn, which flashed 
 from her eyes and echoed in her voice as 
 she answered slowly, 
 
 “ Can my fond Heart on fuch a feeble Proof, 
 Embrace a Faith abhorr’d by Him I love ? 
 
 I fee too plainly, Cuftom forms ns All ; 
 
 Our Thoughts, our Morals, our moft fix’d Belief, 
 Are Confequences of our Place and Birth : 
 
 Born beyond Ganges, I had been a Pagan ; 
 
 In France a Chriftian — I am here a Sarace7iy 
 
 But when Selima presses her with 
 questions such as 
 
 “ Why will you join your Hand with this proud 
 Ofman’s, 
 
 Who owes his Triumphs to the Chriflians’ Ruin 1 ” 
 
 her whole demeanour altered, and with 
 mantling cheek and half-unconscious 
 shame, she answered in a low, sweet 
 voice, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 61 
 
 “ Oh ! — who could flight the offer of his Heart ? 
 
 Hay — for I mean to tell thee all my Weaknefs ; 
 Perhaps I had, ere now, profeffed Thy Paith, 
 
 But — Of man loved me — and Pve loft All : — 
 
 I think on none but Ofman ” 
 
 Then with another sudden change from 
 melting mood to one of proud humility, 
 she continued, 
 
 “ Oh ! my Friend ! 
 
 I talk not of a fceptre which he gives me ; 
 
 Ho — to be charm’d with that were Thanks too 
 humble ! 
 
 Offenfive Tribute, and too poor for Love ! 
 
 ’Twas Ofman won my Heart, not Ofman' s crown : 
 
 I love not in him aught befides Himfelf. 
 
 Thou think’ft perhaps that thefe are ftarts of Paffion 
 But had the Will of Heav’n, lefs bent to blefs him, 
 Doom’d Ofman to my Chains and me to fill 
 The Throne that Ofman fits on — Euin and Wretched- 
 nefs 
 
 Catch and Confume my wifhes, but I wou’d — 
 
 To raife me to myfelf, defcend to Him ! ” 
 
 As she finished she sank upon her knees 
 and extended her arms to heaven, the 
 curtain fell, and from that moment Anais’ 
 
02 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 triumph -was complete, and as the play- 
 proceeded each scene added fresh laurels 
 to her crown. 
 
 Little Dot looking on, unconscious of 
 the tears that dropped from her eyes and 
 fell upon her tightly clasped hands, knew 
 not when most to admire her Tais. In the 
 scene with Osman, whom Gilderoy perso- 
 nated with rare ease and spirit, she felt her 
 heart grow cold. Such passion leapt from 
 his eyes when he caught her hands in his 
 and cried with fervour, 
 
 “ Glory and Zara join — and charm together.” 
 
 And she responding seemed but to echo 
 his desire in her protest. 
 
 “ I hear at once with Blufhes and with joy 
 This paffion fo unlike your Country’s Cuftoms.” 
 
 Then Osman, throwing all prudence to the 
 winds, caught her in his arms, and the 
 fair face burned beneath his impetuous 
 kisses, while he exclaimed, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 63 
 
 “Paffions like mine difdain my Country’s Cuftoms, 
 The Jealoufy, the Faintings, the Diftruft; 
 
 I know to love you, Zara. 
 
 I truft your virtue and I court your foul. 
 
 Nobly confiding I unveil my Heart 
 And dare inform that ’tis All your own : 
 
 My Joys must All be yours — only my Cares 
 Shall lie conceal’d within — and reach not Zara.” 
 
 Each time the curtain fell the applause 
 grew louder and more prolonged, and as 
 by degrees the interest centred uncon- 
 sciously closer and closer about Osman 
 and Zara, some subtle, intangible influence 
 seemed to transform this current into a 
 sympathy keen and tender, not for the 
 sultan and his beautiful slave, but for 
 Anais and Gilderoy Duncombe ; even De 
 Ventadore, in his character of Orasmin, 
 caught himself wondering how ’twould 
 fare with Gilderoy when the play was 
 over ; while as to little Dot, her heart was 
 overburdened by its unwonted load of 
 
64 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 suppressed misgiving and regret. The 
 scene between Lustignan and his two lost 
 children was acknowledged by repeated 
 bursts of admiration, but when Nerestan 
 and Zara appeared alone, scarce a breath 
 broke the stillness. It was not on ISTe- 
 restan’s words they hung, for though Lord 
 Rawdon spoke them with dignity and 
 spirit, they scarce heeded his outburst 
 of scorn and upbraiding, which she, 
 as Osman’s slave, merited at Christian 
 hands. 
 
 “ Who is this flave of Ofman’s ? Yes, this flave ? 
 Does ihe not boaft the Blood of Twenty Kings 1 
 Is the not Luftignan’s unhappy Daughter 1 
 A Chriftian and my Sifter 1 — Yet a flave ! 
 
 A willing flave ! — I dare not fpeak more plainly.” 
 
 But when Zara replied, and with courage 
 born of love confessed her undying 
 passion for the sultan, and urged her 
 brother to express — “ nor to be tender 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 65 
 
 on this Point” — the punishment deemed 
 meet in Christian laws for one 
 
 “ Who to herfelf 
 Unknown and all abandon’d by the World, 
 
 Loll and enflav’d, has in her Sovereign Mailer 
 Found a Protector, Generous as Great, 
 
 Has touched his Heart and giv’n him All her own,” 
 
 a storm of applause rent the air, fol- 
 lowed by a groan of scorn and contempt 
 that almost drowned the answering words 
 of Nerestan — 
 
 “ The Puniihment of fuch a Slave ihould be 
 Death in This World — and Pain in That to come,” — 
 
 which in turn gave place to tears and 
 sobs as Zara cried wildly and with quiver- 
 ing lips,— 
 
 “ I am that Slave— ftrike here and fave my Shame ! 
 Strike — ftrike — I love him, yes by Heav’n 
 I love him ! ” 
 
 But it was in the last scene between 
 Osman and Zara that the enthusiasm burst 
 
 yol. in. 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 all bounds, and threatened to become 
 alarming. Anais, pale and trembling, with 
 wide eyes and quivering lips, her hair dis- 
 ordered, and shorn of all the gleaming 
 jewels, stood before Osman and listened to 
 his burning words of anger and jealous 
 suspicion. Gilderoy’s blue eyes flashed 
 cold and clear as summer lightning, while 
 in his voice the passion of outraged love 
 and trust rang hard and fierce. 
 
 “ Go Madam — you are free — From Ofman’s Pow’r 
 Expect no "wrongs — but fee his Face no more.” 
 
 "With a cry of intolerable anguish, too real 
 not to pierce all hearts, Zara fell at his 
 feet and cried in piteous tones, — 
 
 “ If I am doom’d to lofe you, 
 
 If I muft wander o’er an Empty World 
 Unloving and unlov’d — Oh ! yet do juftice 
 To the Afflicted — do not wrong me doubly : 
 Punilh me, if ’tis needful to your Peace 
 But fay not I deferv’d it ! 
 
 My Fate and my Defects require I lofe you : 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 67 
 
 But ah ! my Heart was never known to Of man ! 
 May Heav’n that punifhes, for ever hate me 
 If I regret the lofs of aught but You — ” 
 
 And with this cry she sank prone before 
 him in a faint. 
 
 Sobs and tears greeted the downfall of 
 the curtain, mingled with the most extra- 
 vagant expressions of praise and admira- 
 tion. But little Dot sat very quiet ; her 
 tears were gone, the burning flush on her 
 cheeks had dried them ; her hands lay still 
 upon her lap, her brain throbbed, and her 
 heart kept pace with its wild pulsations. 
 Oh, was it true ? was it true ? or was it 
 only Osman and Zara, not Anais and 
 Gilderoy, to whom she had been listening? 
 So absorbed was she that the murmurs 
 and excitement had all subsided, the cur- 
 tain was again raised, and Lord Rawdon 
 was delivering his speech, ere ever she 
 had collected her scattered wits. 
 
 F 2 
 
G8 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 The prologue to the farce drew a comic 
 picture of Boston hemmed in on every side 
 by rebels who could claim no cause, no 
 leader, no army, and no hope. With 
 vigour and sprightly sensibility Bourgoyne 
 depicted the rights of the King, the loyalty 
 of the colonists and the troops, and their 
 certainty of success and victory ; then with 
 gentle energy and leniency he urged the 
 soldiers to — 
 
 “ Unite the Warrior’s with the Patriot’s care, 
 
 And whilft you burn to conquer, wifh to fpare.” 
 
 And finally pointed a pretty moral against 
 rebellion by recommending that — 
 
 “Duty in Female Hearts fhould give the Law, 
 
 And make e’en Love obedient to Papa.” 
 
 This sally drew from the easily-swayed 
 audience as ready laughter as Zara had 
 evoked tears, and to this chorus the farce of 
 “ The Blockade of Boston ” was begun. It 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 69 
 
 was a merry mixture of satire, adventure, 
 and intrigue, strung together by a facile 
 pen and ready wit, which kept every one 
 in good humour and roars of laughter. 
 While the fun was at its height a ser- 
 geant rushed upon the stage, panting ana 
 dishevelled, his long boots splashed, his 
 eyes affrighted ; waving his hat he shouted 
 violently, 
 
 <c The Yankees ! the Yankees be upon 
 us ! Flee, flee, I beseech ye, the city is in 
 flames ! ” 
 
 Enormous applause followed this most 
 natural piece of acting, which broke forth 
 again and again as often as the man essayed 
 to speak. 
 
 At last in despair he appealed 
 to Lord Percy, who soon comprehended 
 the truth and importance of his tale, and 
 in a few rapid sentences explained it to 
 his Excellency ; he at once hastened from 
 
70 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the hall, followed by his suite and all the 
 gentlemen actors, who scarce waited to 
 exchange their buskins for their regi- 
 mentals. 
 
 And now ensued a scene of dire con- 
 fusion and alarm ; the panic soon spread 
 and affected every one ; it was sauve qui 
 peut. Delicate women were pushed down 
 and trodden upon by stronger mortals, who 
 lost all sense of chivalry or courtesy in the 
 eager haste and terror that overcame and 
 mastered them. The lights flickered and 
 flared ; the pretty draperies and trimmings 
 were torn down or hung disordered from 
 the walls ; seats were overturned and piled 
 one upon another. In vain the sergeants 
 strove to maintain order, they were over- 
 powered and born down by the excited 
 crowd ; and all the time, without, sounded 
 the regular tramp, tramp of the hastily 
 marching troops, while a lurid glare of fire 
 lit up and flashed upon the window-panes, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 71 
 
 and the roll of the drums echoed through 
 the narrow streets. 
 
 Thus ended the evening of January 8th, 
 and the tragedy of “ Zara.” 
 
 Five-and-twenty years had intervened 
 since Faneuil Flail had resounded to the 
 woes and joys of Melpomene — the ending 
 of that tragedy had been forestalled by the 
 just anger of a puritan audience who saw 
 in the play nought to praise or to commend 
 — and for a quarter of a century its walls 
 had been dumb to the melody of all mimic 
 sentiments. The tread of the patriots and 
 their stern renunciation of home and fire- 
 side, as they laid down their muskets and 
 matchlocks, was the last drama enacted 
 there, until, in the midst of distress and 
 danger, came pleasure hand in hand with 
 pain, and bade her votaries once more gather 
 at her call and reopen the austere old 
 Huguenot’s memorial, to the melodious 
 strains of Thalia and Erato. 
 
72 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 In the confusion and tumult that sur- 
 rounded her, Dorothy became separated 
 from her friends, and when she at last 
 reached the doors and made her way into 
 the street, she could discover nothing of 
 them. 
 
 By this time the immediate vicinity of 
 the Hall was comparatively quiet, for as 
 fast as the people gained the streets they 
 fled, with one accord, to their homes or 
 towards Charlestown, where the leaping 
 flames, that flashed high against the 
 heavens, marked the sudden attack of the 
 patriot forces. 
 
 Already the echo of the marching 
 troops sounded faint and far, the roll of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 73 
 
 the drums muffled and plaintive, as the 
 shouts of the excited populace died to an 
 indistinct hoarse murmur. The night was 
 very clear though cold, the snow lay on the 
 ground, the stars in the dark northern sky 
 gleamed with the chill far-away radiance 
 of winter, though ever and anon a higher 
 leaping flame seemed to flash amidst them, 
 casting a warmer tinge over their bright 
 disks. 
 
 Gathering her dark crimson roccelo 
 closely about her, and drawing its fur-lined 
 hood further over her face, Dorothy pre- 
 pared to find her way home alone. Never 
 before in all the span of her girlhood’s 
 years had she trod the streets without an 
 escort, for if no one else was present to 
 conduct her on her errands of pleasure or 
 duty, old Nanon never failed ; it was not 
 deemed proper or seemly that a young 
 damsel of her birth and condition should 
 e’er be seen unprotected. 
 
74 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Dorothy, however, was brave at heart, 
 albeit a timid little maiden in outward 
 seeming ; and being pure in soul and inno- 
 cent in conscience, she feared nought evil 
 from the hands of her fellow-men. With 
 swift firm steps she sped on her way, and 
 had already left behind her the more popu- 
 lous thoroughfares of Orange, Newbury, 
 and Marlborough Streets, and was skirting 
 the common, meaning to take a short cross- 
 path to the Quincey mansion, when, from 
 out the shadows, a figure sprang to her 
 side, laid a not ungentle, but detaining, 
 hand upon her arm, and a voice, which, in 
 its first whispered accents, she recognized 
 as Duncombe’s, broke the silence of the 
 night hour. 
 
 “ Didst thou think to escape me, my 
 love ? Nay, not though ten thousand 
 rebels lighted ten thousand flames, and set 
 them all atween us, would I be balked of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 so 
 
 speech with thee to-night. I have waited 
 over long, beloved, and my patience sinks 
 lower than any plummet dropped in mid- 
 ocean. I can ill brook disdain or coldness 
 from man or woman, but from you, so 
 dear art thou become, I e’en caress and 
 fondle thy scornful and bitter words, even 
 as a Catholic maiden tells her beads 
 in reverent repetition of the selfsame 
 sentence. Listen — nay, but you shall, 
 though you turn your face from me so 
 that I catch no glimpse of it nor its 
 wondrous witchery — sweetheart, the hour 
 has come when my wild heart will no 
 longer be controlled — I love thee ! — and 
 though my tongue spoke with thrice the 
 eloquence of thy French wooer, it could 
 add no greater depth to the plain English 
 of my speech — I love thee, and, by all the 
 gods of old, I have read in thine eyes the 
 answering look of passion that cannot be 
 
76 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 quenched by vows or prudent promises. 
 Ah ! you start and quiver ’neath my un- 
 varnished language ! Then didst thou 
 think that Osman’s passion was but a part 
 put on with his turban and loose robe, and 
 laid aside again when the play was ended ? 
 By my soul, it is not so ! My arms have 
 held thee once, my peerless Zara, and my 
 lips have tasted the sweetness of thy 
 mouth, while my eyes have drunk deep at 
 the magic well of thy sweet orbs. Did 
 Zara hesitate to proclaim her love for 
 Osman before all the world ; then why 
 shouldst thou, sweetheart, deny me one 
 little word of favour, when only the 
 heavens above can o’erhear thee ? ” 
 
 So rapidly had Duncombe poured forth 
 his flood of eloquence and pleading, 
 Dorothy had no chance to interrupt or 
 check him. At his first words all her 
 woman’s heart had leapt responsive in wild 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 77 
 
 tumultuous joy ; the skies above her seemed 
 set aflame with the glory and the wonder 
 of it ; and she, scarce knowing what she 
 did, drew back, abashed at her un- 
 reasoning delight in his mad appeal ; the 
 earth trembled beneath her feet ; her head 
 throbbed wildly; the depth and immensity 
 of her own love, for the first time, became 
 real and apparent to her, and for one short 
 delicious interval she let her will and her 
 desire float down the stream of pure 
 delight, side by side with Gilderoy’s vehe- 
 ment protestations. 
 
 But even as she lingered over his fond 
 greeting, and ere she had fully com- 
 prehended her own emotions, she realized 
 that ’twas not to her he spoke these words 
 that burnt and scorched her very soul. 
 In a moment, with a sudden intolerable 
 sense of shame and misery, she recognized 
 that ’twas to Andis he addressed this flood 
 
78 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 of love and passion, of bitter rebuke and 
 pleading reproach — Anais — her sister — 
 Anais the betrothed of Louis de Yentadore. 
 As if dealt an unexpected blow, she shrank 
 cowering against an elm-tree that stood, 
 tall and gaunt, hard by the common, and 
 to her excited fancy it seemed that all 
 its bare brown boughs, high above her 
 head, quivered at her weight of woe, and 
 whispered her misery to its myriad tender 
 offspring of branch and twig. She drew 
 her parched tongue across her hot lips, 
 and essayed to make some sound that 
 should stop him in his mad outburst, a 
 scream, a sigh, a long-drawn breath, but 
 she was powerless, her voice refused all 
 utterance; and thus trembling, affrighted, 
 horrified, she felt herself borne down 
 and overcome by Gilderoy’s impetuous 
 words. 
 
 In the shadow of her hood and beneath 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 79 
 
 the shelter of the tree, leafless though it 
 was, Buncombe caught but fitful uncertain 
 glimpses of her face, and indeed the won- 
 derful likeness that existed between the 
 two sisters would, in such a guise and at 
 such an hour, have proved a sufficient 
 excuse for his mistake ; but he had no 
 thought nor time for ought beside his love. 
 He had watched Anais leave the theatre, 
 wrapped in a loose roccelo and hood, 
 escorted by Be Ventadore ; he had followed 
 them at a distance for some paces, when 
 he was intercepted by a messenger from 
 Lord Percy, and after he had freed himself 
 of this hindrance, the two figures had passed 
 out of sight. With a half-suppressed oath 
 he turned back and hurried on some matter 
 of business, and it was in pursuance of this 
 that he was crossing the common, when 
 he saw walking before him, quickly and 
 lightly, a tall slight form muffled in a cloak 
 
80 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and hood ; he caught also a glimpse of the 
 rounded cheek and chin beneath the head- 
 covering ; his heart stood still ; it was 
 Anciis, and she was alone ; another moment 
 and his firm hand was on her arm and his 
 voice vibrating in her ear. He felt the 
 slight shiver that shook Dorothy’s frame, 
 but instead of quenching his ardour it but 
 redoubled it. 
 
 “ Do not fear, beloved,” he cried, his 
 voice sounding curiously distinct in the 
 absolute stillness and solitude that en- 
 wrapt them. “ Ah, you tremble and are 
 affrighted, my proud love, is it my vehe- 
 mence that scares thee? Hay, but believe 
 me, I can be as tender to thee and as 
 gentle as any woman, ay, even as little 
 Dot herself.” 
 
 At this half-unconscious mention of her, 
 Dorothy gave a low’ sob — it seemed so cruel, 
 oh, so cruel and bitter, to hear her little 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 81 
 
 household name mentioned so carelessly 
 by lips she held so dear ; but Gilderoy’s 
 quick ear catching the sob, he hastened 
 to assuage its burden by every fond 
 and soothing epithet e’er conned in love’s 
 vocabulary. 
 
 “ Nay, sweetheart, do not grieve or 
 fright thyself ; ’tis, after all, so small a 
 consequence this matter of thy betrothal 
 to De Yentadore ; leave it in my hands, or 
 better still, beloved, throw all restraint to 
 the winds, bid Dame Prudence farewell, 
 fly with me, Anais, and I swear, by all that’s 
 sacred, that I’ll give to thee, as my wife, a 
 fairer heritage and a prouder title than 
 any Frenchman of Louis’ court can bestow. 
 Or is it Dot you grieve o’er ? Art jealous 
 at my fancy straying towards her sweet 
 face? In truth she is a lovely blossom, 
 and had I not seen thee, doubtless my 
 heart had sought her for mate, but thou. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 oli my pearl above all other jewels ! who 
 could see thee and not swear to win and 
 wear thee? Not I, and when beneath thy 
 man’s cloak and hat I caught thy glance 
 that Sunday evening at the Inn, I knew 
 thee, spite of all disguise, and, by my faith, 
 I vowed to make thee mine. Answer me, 
 sweetheart, give me one little word ! Sure 
 Zara spared them not from Osman. Hast 
 not one syllable to drop upon my thirsty 
 heart ? Nay, then, I’ll read my answer in 
 thine eyes ! ” 
 
 And suddenly he drew the girl to him, 
 threw back the shadowing hood, and gazed 
 upon the pale grief-stricken face that the 
 clear stars revealed. There was a second 
 of agonized silence, then with a low 
 horrified groan Gilderoy spoke her 
 name. 
 
 “ My God ! it is little Dot ! ” 
 
 But ere he could lift his hand or utter 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 83 
 
 one detaining word, she broke from him 
 with a cry of bitter anguish, and turning 
 fled with unerring feet straight towards 
 the dark quickly flowing river. 
 
84 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 The ineffectual attempt on the part of 
 the patriots to fire Charlestown had ended 
 in seeming failure, since Captain Knowlton 
 and his contingent succeeded only in 
 destroying the British commissariat and 
 in bringing the theatrical performance in 
 Faneuil Hall to an abrupt termination. 
 
 The royalists made light of the fright 
 they had received, and many were the 
 pasquinades and squibs, at Knowlton’ s 
 expense, that found birth and currency 
 at the officers’ mess or over some late 
 carouse at the ever hospitable “ George.” 
 But in spite of all Sir William’s efforts 
 the gaieties ebbed after the last repre- 
 
OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 85 
 
 sentation of “Zara;” even the ladies and 
 damsels held aloof from further revels, 
 and ’twas only the giddiest and maddest 
 among them who still indulged in racquets 
 and routs. A spirit of mistrust and 
 apprehension dominated the city and its 
 inhabitants, scarcely apparent or acknow- 
 ledged, yet as tense and unyielding as 
 old chain-armour — so flexible and respon- 
 sive that it may be tossed from hand to 
 hand yet which, when worn, becomes 
 an insupportable weight. 
 
 January had passed, and February, with 
 its short grey days and cold east winds, 
 was telling its hours in sombre, fleeting 
 measures. The snow lay upon the ground 
 to the depth of several feet, and drifted 
 across the common in sullen dense sheets, 
 like the cere-cloths of an army ; the streets 
 resounded to the tinkle of sledge-bells 
 and the riug of iron-shod hoofs upon the 
 
86 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 frozen surface. The soldiers quartered 
 in the South Church, where Warren’s 
 voice had echoed on that fateful 5th of 
 March, complained bitterly of the cold 
 and deprivation they were subjected to ; 
 even the officers gathered about the wide 
 hearth of the George Inn, drinking their 
 mulled port and spiced beer, grew querulous 
 and fault-finding, and expressed openly 
 their sentiments against Sir William Howe, 
 and their enforced idleness to pleasure 
 his conceits. But over the river, in Cam- 
 bridge, and over the spreading country, 
 the sufferings of the patriots amounted 
 to those of martyrdom. Houseless and 
 homeless, with scarce a roof above them, 
 or clothing to protect them from the 
 elements, with only the frozen ground 
 beneath them and the pitiless gloom of a 
 winter sky above them, they watched day 
 succeed day, week follow week, month 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 87 
 
 give place to month, yet bring no relief 
 or succour. Even action was denied them ; 
 and only those who sit perforce inactive, 
 while their hearts burn within them to be 
 up and doing, can understand the heroism 
 contained in the power of waiting. Had 
 it not been for the daily visits of their 
 Chief and General, who brought with his 
 presence and in his strong calm face and 
 grave demeanour the power of patience 
 and endurance, their hearts must have 
 failed from sheer desolation, and their 
 spirits quailed before the hopelessness of 
 their position. 
 
 And gloom took up its abode in the 
 old Quincey mansion by the river, rising 
 up each morning, and lying down each 
 night, side by side with the little family 
 gathered within its walls. Mister and 
 Mistress Quincey passed all the daylight 
 hours in earnest work for the patriots ; 
 
88 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 often absent from breakfast until night- 
 fall, and brooding silent and anxious 
 during the dull sad evenings. 
 
 Anais went more abroad than ever, and 
 Penelope was her constant companion. 
 Since that miserable night at the theatre, 
 with its still more miserable ending, 
 Dorothy had kept aloof from the gay 
 world, and framed such cogent excuses for 
 her absence that Anais ceased to entreat 
 her, and Pen Dudley to wonder at her lack 
 of taste. 
 
 The girl was very much alone in these 
 short winter days ; for after Mistress 
 Quincey and Anais had departed, the one 
 bent on charity, the other on amusement, 
 there was no one left in the old house 
 save Dorothy and old Nanon ; the latter 
 dozed and nodded in the chimney-corner 
 over her lace-pillow, while the former made 
 a feeble pretence of work as she bent her 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 89 
 
 pretty head over the tambour-frame, and 
 mechanically pulled her needle in and out. 
 
 The melancholy and sadness of desola- 
 tion enveloped the old mansion, and the 
 fair sweet face looking forth from the 
 lattice window, in whose eyes was the 
 pathos of joy slain in its birth, beheld 
 a frozen expanse of river and country, 
 not more dead or dreary than the heart 
 that beat in so young a bosom. 
 
 Gilderoy Duncombe came no more to 
 the house beside the river ; the summer 
 was slain, the roses dead, the birds’ song 
 hushed in their joyful throats, the river 
 pulseless and icebound, only the great 
 sea roared in angry protest, and dashed 
 its white-crested waves against the far 
 distant horizon. As her flying feet had 
 borne her away from Duncombe, Dorothy 
 was conscious of nought but the shame 
 and horror of her position, accompanied 
 
90 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 by a vague self-reproacb and censure. It 
 never occurred to her that she was the 
 one to be pitied ; all her good and generous 
 nature went out in tenderness and sorrow 
 towards Duncombe and her sister, but 
 it was a tenderness and a sorrow born of 
 the irrevocability of their fate, for to a 
 French demoiselle of high lineage, the 
 breaking of a betrothal-vow was as im- 
 possible as the soiling of the family 
 honour. Her one prayer, as she sank 
 upon her knees before her crucifix and 
 dropped her head upon her hands, had 
 been a whisper half-pleading half-defiant, 
 “ Anais must never know. ” 
 
 Did she doubt her sister then, or did 
 she rate fidelity as so high a virtue that 
 not even a breath of temptation should 
 come near to sully its pure robe? Her 
 cheeks grew pale and lost somewhat the 
 round baby curves about chin and throat ; 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 91 
 
 her eyes looked forth less fearlessly, and 
 with the anguish of interior suffering in 
 their depths ; her elastic step grew slow 
 and listless ; her hands fluttered nervously, 
 and the uncertain blood rushed tumultu- 
 ously to brow and face at the slightest 
 word ; but her heart was very steadfast as 
 it repeated over and over, day and night, 
 the one short refrain, 
 
 “ Anais must never know.” 
 
 Nay, let her heart bend or break beneath 
 the burden laid upon it ; let life’s fairest 
 blossoms and hopes lie thick strewn upon 
 the path her tired feet must tread ; let 
 even her hold on faith and trust in God 
 grow uncertain and insecure, still Anais 
 must never know that she, her little sister, 
 had listened to the love words meant only 
 for her ears, though uttered by one who 
 should have held her betrothal-vows as 
 sacred as those of marriage. 
 
92 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 So pure was Dot’s heart and purpose, 
 it was impossible for her to fathom the 
 height and depth of such a passion as 
 swayed Gilderoy Duncombe, and when 
 she recalled the remorse and sorrow in 
 his voice when he found ’twas little Dot 
 whose face shone on him under the pale 
 starlight, she fondly imagined that he 
 would curb his feelings, seeing her pain 
 and grief, and leave Anais untempted and 
 free to fulfil her promise to De Venta- 
 dore. 
 
 So in this wise the winter days came 
 and went; each grey morning, tipped 
 only to brighter semblance by the red 
 blaze of the rising sun, heralded the 
 nearer approach of a crisis pregnant with 
 the fate of a nation; and each evening, 
 with the night shadows, apprehension and 
 despondency drew closer the cordon of 
 fate about the city. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 93 
 
 There were those, however, who looked 
 carelessly on the drama of destiny played 
 so openly before them, who scoffed at all 
 evil prophecies, and so long as the fiddles 
 twanged and light feet twinkled, and 
 gallant tongues made music to rosy ears, 
 held the future to be as bright as the 
 present, and laughed to scorn all portents 
 of evil and misfortune. 
 
 Foremost in this giddy throng were 
 Anais and Penelope Dudley, who with 
 Mistress Ruggles found nothing too gay 
 nor reckless for their indulgence. Had 
 Penelope forgotten the earnest young 
 patriot soldier, who, out in the cold and 
 snow, as he kept his sentry-watch, pacing 
 up and down the narrow limits, thought 
 only of the girl who held his heart, and 
 who, royalist though she was, still was his 
 promised bride ? Phil Troubridge never 
 doubted her, and the fire of patriotism 
 
94 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 was kept alight and clear through the 
 truth and honesty of his love. 
 
 It lacked an hour of noon, one morning 
 when the occupants of Mistress Ruggles’ 
 drawing-room were aroused from their 
 somewhat listless occupations by the 
 announcement of Lord Percy and the 
 Marquis de Ventadore. Penelope sprang 
 up at once from her lounging attitude on 
 a cushioned bench, where she had been 
 sedulously inserting the grey kitten’s head 
 into the toe of her high-heeled brodequm , 
 and began an eager greeting to Lord 
 Percy ; Anais raised herself languidly and 
 replied but coldly to the salutations of 
 her lover; while Mistress Ruggles, with a 
 simper and a smile, asked what nouvelles 
 they brought, for of a surety they were all 
 a-dying with the megrims and the dumps. 
 
 Whereupon Lord Percy, who looked even 
 more important than usual, burst into a 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 95 
 
 hearty laugh and cried, extending his snuff- 
 box towards her, 
 
 “ Ay, but per Bacco and Mars ! I bring 
 ye excellent news, fit to drive away any 
 double-distilled essence of vapours or ill 
 conditions. What think ye, mesdames, we 
 are to lose our favourite Adonis, our Sultan, 
 who must leave behind him a fairer seraglio 
 than he can hope to find in England,” with 
 a low bow to the three ladies, which they 
 scarcely recognized, however, in their eager 
 cries and questions. 
 
 “ Was it of Captain Buncombe he spoke ? 
 Sure now, were they to lose him ? Nay, 
 but that was cruel nouvelles and scarce to 
 be endured.” Only Anais was silent, but 
 the soft curve of her lips grew straight and 
 hard ; the pulses in her throat and temples 
 beat visibly beneath her fair skin. 
 
 “ ’Tis even so, mesdames, the gallant 
 Gilderoy is no longer to follow the fickle 
 
96 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 fortunes of Mars, since lie is promoted to 
 tlie ranks of Midas, and can well afford to 
 look down upon us as fit sport for his less 
 prosperous days.” 
 
 “ You speak in riddles, my lord,” broke 
 in Anais, her voice hard and cold. “ Me- 
 thinks we are all past childhood’s days and 
 would prefer your nut without its husk of 
 useless lacquer.” 
 
 “ ’Tis easy given, madam,” answered 
 Percy, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 
 “ Captain Gilderoy Duncombe of the brave 
 Fifty-Second exists no longer, and we who 
 have known and loved him must greet him 
 now as the Yiscount Truesdale of True 
 Castle on the Border. ’Tis a pretty ro- 
 mance, by my faith ! Our Gilderoy has a 
 grand-uncle of extreme old age, and well 
 nigh eaten up with infirmities ; he owns 
 neither wife nor child, nor is there a brother 
 or brother’s child to inherit from him, thus 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 97 
 
 Duncombe, through his father’s decease, 
 becomes heir presumptive and is so re- 
 garded by his venerable relative. But Gril- 
 deroy and my lord fall out one summer 
 day, and this hot-tempered youth must 
 needs offer his sword and his service to our 
 King. And now behold as pretty a reward 
 for contumacy and self-will as was ever 
 bestowed on devotion and obedience : my 
 lord falls dead at his own hearth, and our 
 gay young captain finds himself possessor 
 and inheritor of both title and estates. 
 "YVhat say you, madam, is it not a pretty 
 tale ? Match me a fellow to it and I will 
 forfeit my next minuet with witching 
 Mistress Penelope.” 
 
 “ Mayhap your lordship will wait until I 
 pledge my hand to ye in the dance ere you 
 renounce it so over glibly,” cried Penelope 
 pertly, with a petulant toss of her head. 
 
 “ Nay, now, I like not your nouvelles 
 
 VOL. in. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 my lord,” exclaimed Mistress Ruggles, 
 beating a light tattoo with her finger-tips 
 upon his snuff-box; “for of a truth our 
 gallant Gilderoy is my most favoured beau, 
 always ready with hand or heart to offer 
 courtesy or compliment, as best fits the 
 occasion. Now that he becomes a Vis- 
 count, forsooth, methinks his dignity will 
 scarce sit so light upon him as it does at 
 present, when he holds commission under 
 Mars. But does he leave us soon, my 
 lord?” 
 
 “ In the next royal frigate that sets sail. 
 It is of great importance that he hastens 
 home, for, beside his own affairs, ’tis ru- 
 moured that he is spoken of favourably at 
 court, where a post of some honour awaits 
 him, coupled with an alliance to a lady not 
 far removed from the blood royal. The 
 Truesdales, madam, have ever served 
 loyally and well the kings of Britain.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 99 
 
 “ Good lack ! and so we shall lose our 
 handsome Captain, our Sultan, whose royal 
 will was ever to bring pleasure to his 
 devoted slaves. Alack ! and what shall we 
 do without him ? How dull and vapid will 
 be our routs and drums, our balls and 
 racquets ! ” sighed Mistress Ruggles with 
 affected melancholy, casting up her fine 
 eyes at Lord Percy. “ With Duncombe 
 transformed into a golden Heracles and 
 flown to the open arms of his awaiting 
 Hebe ; with mademoiselle become Madame 
 la Marquise, dispensing her gracious favours 
 at the Court of Louis ; with my poor Bour- 
 goyne already a rover, and you, my lord, 
 mayhap so soon to follow in his wake, sure 
 what’s left to us in Boston, but sore despair 
 and weariness of spirit ? ” 
 
 “ He gained the luve of ladies gay, 
 
 Hane eir tull him was coy, 
 
 Ah ! wae is mee ! I mourne the day, 
 
 Tor my dear Gilderoy ! ” 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sang out Penelope, waving her kerchief 
 and then applying it to her eyes with 
 exaggerated grief. 
 
 “ Methinks, mesdames,” broke in De 
 Yentadore’s quiet voice, “ that ye will 
 have but scant time in which to mourn 
 any gallant, even one held so dear as, 
 ’twould seem, is Captain Duncombe ; for, 
 if I mistake not, ere many weeks pass by 
 our winter of inactivity will be changed, in 
 a moment, to a somewhat less colourless 
 reality. I gather that the patriots wax 
 hot and impatient, and lest Sir William 
 bestir himself, they will give him cause 
 and opportunity wherewith to regret his 
 months of fiddling and dancing, when 
 desperate men stood about his very door. 
 ’Tis an excessive dolour, doubtless, to lose 
 one fiddler or masker from out the merry 
 crew ; but what, think ye, will it be when 
 you all must fly before the avenging force 
 
OLD BOSTON'. 
 
 101 
 
 of an army which, while ye danced and 
 sang at your leisure, has been silently 
 gathering its strength, and as silently 
 hemming ye in on every side ? Methinks 
 ’twill be tears in place of smiles then, and 
 terror-weighted footsteps to outstrip the 
 measure of minuet or racquet.” 
 
 Never before had De Ventadore spoken 
 so openly or so harshly ; his listeners, awed 
 into silence by the gravity of his manner 
 and language, shuddered and quailed before 
 him as though overcome by the prescience 
 of evil his words evoked. 
 
102 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Anais remained the night at Mistress 
 Ruggles’, sharing Pen’s bedchamber. She 
 could not return. to that wide old room in 
 the house beside the river, where Dorothy 
 slept and dreamed, as the bearer of news 
 that must change for ever her little sister’s 
 life. To them Gilderoy was Gilderoy no 
 longer, and who could say that the Viscount 
 Truesdale would prove constant to the love 
 of Captain Duncombe ? 
 
 Penelope lay upon her bed wrapped in 
 a rich negligee, quilted and lined with fur, 
 her small bare feet thrust into satin brode- 
 quins, elaborately embroidered and edged 
 with down ; over her dark curls she wore 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 103 
 
 a crimson turban, beneath which her black 
 eyes flashed and scintillated ; the grey 
 kitten was asleep beside her, an uneasy 
 slumber subjected to Pen’s capricious 
 fondlings. Anais had not as yet removed 
 her evening gown of primrose satin, over 
 which fell a train and panniers of blue 
 velvet; the costly lace that scarce con- 
 cealed her neck and bosom was not more 
 white and fine than the fair surface it 
 adorned ; on her throat gleamed the De 
 Ventadore rubies, and in her hair a dia- 
 mond bird, mounted on springs and set 
 with precious gems, quivered and glistened 
 with every movement of her head ; she had 
 withdrawn her long gloves, and as she 
 stood beside the bed she drew them slowly 
 through her fingers. 
 
 Penelope was watching intently the 
 beautiful face above her; it looked cold 
 and hard in the flickering candle-light — 
 
104 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 each line was accentuated, each feature 
 sharpened and intensified; the eyes had 
 grown narrow and emitted strange yellow 
 flashes ; on the cheeks burned two crimson 
 spots ; the curving bow-like mouth was 
 stern and set. Penelope was speaking, 
 her shrill voice sounding more earnest 
 and eager than usual. 
 
 “Nay, Anais, but these be strange 
 nouvelles which my Lord Percy has 
 brought to us. What, will ye hesitate, 
 now ? ’Tis no longer Duncombe who 
 pleads, and whom ye must consider ; but — 
 my Lord Truesdale. Ay, a noble title, 
 Anais, and one to outshine any French 
 Marquis’s coronet. Do you hold back ? 
 Nay, then, let him go, and I warrant ye 
 will ne’er see him return to woo ye. Once 
 safe in England, where a royal sweetheart 
 waits him, ’twould not be a woman’s wiles 
 if she let him go from her free. But 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 105 
 
 thou art a coward, Tais, as afraid to break 
 with poor De Ventadore as thou art to 
 hold to him.” 
 
 She ended with a contemptuous sneer 
 that stung Anais to the quick. 
 
 “ Thou shalt not call me a coward, Pen,” 
 she cried, her eyes blazing ; “ that has 
 ne’er been said of one of our race, and 
 methinks ’tis a surer sign of cowardice to 
 tremble and turn cold at the prospect 
 of breaking one’s betrothal-vows, than ’tis 
 to shudder at the keeping of them. But 
 thou know’st well ’tis not this which binds 
 my heart and soul, and keeps me deaf and 
 dumb to Gilderoy’s pleadings ; ’tis my 
 little sister that I think on, ma Dot, whose 
 heart must break and die if I take her 
 lover from her. My daisy-flower, that no 
 rough winds should breathe upon, could I 
 but spare her.” 
 
 The cold proud voice broke into plain- 
 
106 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tive tenderness as she spoke her sister’s 
 name, and the hard set mouth trembled 
 and grew gentle at the mention of little 
 Dot. Penelope, watching her, felt a sudden 
 rush of pity and compunction cross her 
 selfish nature. Should she hold back her 
 hand and let the current of events drift, as 
 it pleased, this frail bark called love, not 
 heeding whether it was wrecked against 
 the rocks of pride and passion, or was 
 carried far out to sea, tossed from breaker 
 to breaker, until submerged in the mael- 
 strom of disappointment and failure ? 
 
 But Pen had a purpose, in accomplishing 
 which she scrupled not to use as instru- 
 ments the human tools placed ready to her 
 hand. The Marquis de Yentadore had 
 destroyed her faith and trust in the two 
 beings she most loved and admired — Philip 
 Troubridge and Anais de Grasse — and 
 from his seeds of suspicion and mistrust, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 107 
 
 sown in a soil only too fruitful, had grown 
 a rank harvest of jealousy and revenge. 
 Anais and Philip had deceived her, yet it 
 was not on Anais or Philip she desired to 
 be avenged, but upon De Ventadore, who 
 had so cruelly opened her eyes when she 
 would willingly have kept them closed. 
 
 In one way only could she strike where 
 he would feel, and wound where he could 
 not shield : let Anais be false to her be- 
 trothal-vows, prove traitor to her name 
 and lineage, and deal him a blow all the 
 more deadly, because so irreconcilable with 
 the traditions of her race, and he would 
 taste to the very dregs the bitterness of 
 the draught he had forced to her lips that 
 evening in the fair summer-time, when 
 the fiddles twanged and the lights gleamed, 
 and De Yentadore poured his evil tale into 
 her ear. The good impulse passed from 
 her, and when she spoke again, it was with 
 
108 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 a certain distinctness of utterance that did 
 not fail in its effect upon her listener. 
 
 “ Anais, of a truth thou art a strange 
 mixture, yet would I not have thee other 
 than as I know thee. Dost remember 
 the name you whispered in my ear, in 
 the early morning, on St: Botolph’s Day ? 
 ’Twas the name of the man you loved, you 
 said; but methinks De Ventadore would 
 scarce recognize it for his own. And who 
 was’t came riding by all in the sunlight ? 
 Was’t not (xilderoy Duncombe who caught 
 thy red rose, and wore it all that hot Satur- 
 day pinned to his coat ? A charm he called 
 it, for never shot nor bullet touched him ; 
 and though all of the Fifty-Second fell 
 about him dead or dying, he came forth 
 from the field unharmed, and wearing your 
 flower even as he bore it away. Ay, ’tis 
 so, Tais, and ye know it ; you cannot deny 
 the truth of the passion he pleads, nor the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 109 
 
 love you bear in your heart for him. Who 
 is Monsieur de Yentadore, with his dreary 
 old chateau in Provence, and his brain full 
 of dreams and vagaries, to be compared 
 to Gilderoy, Lord Truesdale, of True 
 Castle, with an appointment at court, 
 where you can rival all the belles or 
 beauties, whether at St. James’s or Carlton 
 House ? And if you find the De Yentadore 
 rubies become your white throat, what 
 think you, will not the Truesdale diamonds 
 far outshine them ? Power is it, you 
 crave ? and therefore you marry yon 
 French Marquis, when, by a turn of your 
 hand, a glance of your eye, you can com- 
 mand both power and love, and with these 
 two joined you can well combat and conquer 
 and reign supreme.” 
 
 “You are a rare tempter, Pen,” re- 
 sponded Anais, in a dull, heavy voice, from 
 which all sweetness had died ; “ but though 
 
110 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 my head listens and responds — ay, and my 
 heart also worse luck — yet do I think on 
 Dot. Perchance if I stand firm and heed 
 not his protestations, he will see the beauty 
 of my little sister’s soul, and turn to her 
 and find his best happiness in her keeping. 
 Ah, Pen, ’ tis a pure soul, unsullied and 
 innocent ; ’twere better far for him could 
 he forget me for her.” 
 
 Again Penelope was stirred to faint 
 contrition by the memory of Dorothy’s 
 tell-tale face on that June morning when 
 she dropped her silver beads unheeded, 
 and Gilderoy’s horse crushed them in the 
 dust. She hesitated for a moment ere the 
 ready lie left her lips. 
 
 “ Then that will he never do,” she an- 
 swered shortly. “ Dost think a man 
 stands a-wooing where he is not wanted ? 
 Ma certes, that were a sorry business, and 
 scarce a worthy office to fulfil ! Dorothy 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Ill 
 
 will have none of him, be well assured; 
 she looks with scruples on his life, and 
 when he but hinted love, she turned a deaf 
 ear to his tale.” 
 
 “ Art sure of what thou say’st, Pen ? ” 
 asked Anais, her eyes seeking those of her 
 friend with eagerness. “Has he — has Dot 
 — told ye this ? Sure, thought I that her 
 secret heart was indifferent to him — that 
 she was spared the torment of loving — 
 why then — why then — ” She ended ab- 
 ruptly and turned away, unwilling that 
 Penelope’s sharp eyes should read the 
 desire and longing in her face. 
 
 n o 
 
 “ Hay now, of a surety, content yourself, 
 Tais,” Pen made answer, her voice more 
 shrill and hard than ever; “ for of a truth 
 it is so, and should you pass Gilderoy by, 
 he will ne’er go a-wooing again on this 
 side the seas.” 
 
 Anais did not answer ; she had walked 
 
112 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 away from Pen, and now stood beside tbe 
 window, looking down upon the snow- 
 covered earth, and upon the large feathery 
 flakes so silently falling. 
 
 A tumult of passion had been set loose 
 in her heart by Penelope’s last words ; 
 they opened a possibility of happiness so 
 overwhelming and bewildering as to make 
 her shudder and turn faint. Until now 
 she had scarce acknowledged to herself 
 how absolutely she loved Duncombe ; her 
 proud heart, that had never quailed before 
 man’s anger, sank now at his lightest 
 word ; her dauntless eyes, that held nought 
 but scorn for those who wooed her, could 
 scarce conceal the joy his presence gave 
 her, while her courageous spirit, fearless 
 to a fault, fell before his in meekest sub- 
 mission. 
 
 Hitherto the thought of Dot’s love and 
 Dot’s grief had been her shield against all 
 
OLD BOSTON. 113 
 
 wliispers of the tempter ; but now — now 
 that this barrier was removed, and Dot 
 was free in heart and fancy, she saw 
 revealed her inmost soul, with all her 
 weakness and all her strength, stripped 
 naked of all conceits or follies, and to her 
 lips there sprang Zara’s wild, triumphant 
 words, — 
 
 “ I am that slave — I love him ; 
 
 Yes, by heav’n ! I love him ! 99 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 r 
 
114 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The News-Letter and Gazette had two 
 startling bits of news for the gossips in its 
 next issue. 
 
 The inheritance of Captain Duncombe 
 to the title and estates of the late Viscount 
 Truesdale and the prospect of his speedy 
 departure for England — coupled with the 
 announcement that the marriage of the 
 Marquis de Ventadore and Mademoiselle 
 de Grasse, niece of the Count, was de- 
 finitely arranged, and would take place 
 on the 20th of March, at Manor Farm, 
 the Count’s country-seat near Oldtown — 
 gave ample scope for all the busy tongues 
 in Boston, and furnished such appetizing 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 115 
 
 food for speculation and surmise, as to 
 drive all weightier and more important 
 matters out of sight. 
 
 Since De Yentadore’s outburst before 
 Lord Percy and Mistress Ruggles, he 
 had been silently shunned or evaded by 
 the royalists ; an uncomfortable impres- 
 sion as to his loyalty prevailed in certain 
 circles, and he found Jiimself passed by or 
 received coldly at the houses or in the 
 salons where once he was made gladly 
 welcome. 
 
 Proud as he was suspicious, De Venta- 
 dore needed but one such rebuff to with- 
 draw entirely from all his former asso- 
 ciates, and in so doing he openly and 
 haughtily proclaimed his sympathy with 
 the patriots and his willingness to serve 
 in their cause. 
 
 Thus, during the next three weeks, 
 Anais came and went unattended by her 
 
 i 2 
 
116 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 lover ; and wherever she appeared, at, 
 every ball, or drum, or rout, Lord Trues- 
 dale followed as her shadow. The gossips 
 and scandalmongers wagged their heads 
 and whispered behind their fans, arching 
 their brows and pursing their lips, while 
 they prophesied all that was evil for the 
 absent Marquis; though they greeted with 
 the sweetest smiles and becks that their 
 hypocritical faces could assume, the 
 fair French demoiselle and her devoted 
 attendant. 
 
 Louis de Ventadore had once remon- 
 strated with his fiancee on her pursuit of 
 pleasure and excitement, appealing to her 
 affection for him as he asked her to 
 forego all gaieties where he could not 
 accompany her. She had listened 
 patiently, beating her foot the while 
 against the cricket on which it rested, 
 and when he finished raised her beautiful 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 117 
 
 face, cold and perfect as some Greek 
 goddess, as she answered, 
 
 “Monsieur, you honour me by your 
 concern for my reputation ; after the 
 twentieth of next month your commands 
 and your wishes shall be obeyed — till then 
 I must claim the disposition of my 
 freedom as shall best pleasure me.” 
 
 And De Yentadore, meeting the glance 
 of her clear, scornful eyes, felt himself 
 abashed and conquered, though as he 
 passed from her presence his teeth met 
 savagely and he struck his hand against 
 his sword-hilt. Pen Dudley, meeting him 
 on the threshold, smiled mockingly and 
 called out gaily, 
 
 “ Ma certes ! monsieur, we see ye but 
 seldom of late. Of a surety you will be 
 one of the number to-night who sup with 
 his Excellency and play at the new French 
 game of charade ? Tais is to lead off 
 
118 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the sport, with Lord Truesdale to aid her ; 
 ’twill be a rare sight, and, by my faith, I 
 counsel ye not to lose it.” 
 
 Had Dorothy been by, perchance Anais 
 would have plunged less recklessly into 
 the vortex of pleasure and folly that sur- 
 rounded her. But Dorothy was at Manor 
 Farm. She had drooped and grown pale 
 of late, and when Tais, putting her arms 
 about her, asked what ailed her, she had 
 cried like a tired child, begging to be 
 allowed to return with FTanon to her 
 country home. Anais had soothed her, 
 promising she should have her wish, so 
 ere three days had passed the great Dudley 
 coach, with its four horses and claret- 
 coloured liveries, stopped at the riverside 
 house, and conveyed little Dot and Nanon 
 to Manor Farm. Mistress Quincey had 
 grieved to part with her, and kissed many 
 times the sweet pale face that of late 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 110 
 
 seemed to have gained such a look of 
 patience. Even Mister Quincey, as he 
 lifted her into the coach, bent his stately 
 head over her little gloved hand, calling 
 on Heaven to bless and protect her. 
 
 Anais had not come to bid her farewell, 
 but sent a message of such love and tender- 
 ness that Dorothy had even felt relieved 
 by her absence. Gilderoy she had never 
 looked on since that night when she had 
 fled from him and left him standing 
 dismayed and discomfited ; but early on 
 the morning of her departure a sergeant 
 had brought, without message or letter, 
 a nosegay of snowdrops, the first that had 
 pierced the hard frost-bound earth, and 
 Dorothy knew from whom they came, and 
 bowed her face, fair as the fragile blossoms, 
 over them until her lips rested on the 
 stainless petals. Thus bearing his token, 
 she drove away from Boston, back 
 
120 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 to the old manor-house where first she 
 had known him, and where first her girlish 
 heart awoke to womanhood beneath the 
 pressure of his lips upon her hand. 
 
 The days succeeded one another in a 
 peaceful monotony that soothed and 
 consoled her; day by day she regained 
 her old quietude and serenity, while, as 
 she dreamed over her tambour-frame, or 
 gazed at the quaint devices of saints and 
 angel heads in her livre d’heures, her 
 mind retraced each hour and moment 
 when first she had known him, and ere it 
 was treason to think of his love as possible 
 to her. 
 
 Friday the 1st of March came in as 
 like its typical lion as ’twas possible to 
 be. The snow still lay thick upon the 
 ground, stretching in long unbroken 
 ranges over the quiet country, little 
 resembling the discoloured dingy surface 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 121 
 
 that overlaid Marlborough and Newbury 
 Streets, upon which the sledges passed 
 all day long, their merry tinkling bells 
 cleaving the air with gay resonance. All 
 was gaiety and mirth in Boston ; Sir 
 William Howe, shutting his eyes to the 
 inevitable, joined with reckless abandon 
 each pleasure-party planned by his officers 
 for their distraction. 
 
 The snow covered the camp at Cam- 
 bridge also, and the patriots, who for nine 
 long months had watched and waited with 
 imperturbable patience, greeted it with 
 fervent prayers and thanksgivings. To 
 them it represented the means of con- 
 summating a plan, conceived by Wash- 
 ington and undertaken by one of his 
 bravest officers, whereby their winter of 
 deprivation and inaction would be atoned 
 for by the suddenness and brilliancy of 
 their manoeuvres. 
 
122 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 On tliat Saturday night when A ri als 
 and Gilderoy were both engaged in the 
 frivolities of a French charade, and all the 
 beau monde were applauding them to the 
 echo, on a sudden there broke across the 
 gay strains of the fiddles and dulcimers a 
 sullen angry roar, repeated and repeated 
 like thunder, distant at first, but gathering 
 force as it approached. They knew it 
 well, that brilliant throng of beautiful 
 women and brave men, their ears were too 
 well accustomed to the sound of that 
 hoarse voice not to recognize its first 
 utterance. It had ushered in the dawn of 
 St. Botolph’s Bay ere even the summer 
 morning had cast off her roseate hues of 
 sunrise ; it had rolled across the village 
 green of Lexington, and echoed in the 
 quiet streets of Concord. With a curious 
 stoical indifference they dropped their 
 roles of jester and actor, and took up 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 123 
 
 the stern practical necessities of the 
 
 hour. 
 
 Without excuse or apology, even with- 
 out a word of farewell, the officers quitted 
 the fair maids and damsels into whose 
 willing ears they had been whispering 
 jest or earnest with every air of sincerity, 
 and as though it was their life-work ; 
 while the maidens and matrons appeared 
 neither surprised nor aggrieved at such 
 treatment. Gfilderoy, standing at Anais’ 
 side, heard the roar of the enemy’s cannon, 
 and turned to her, even as he signed to 
 Lord Percy his prompt attendance. 
 
 “ ’Tis the rebels,” he whispered, “ they 
 have opened fire upon us. ’Tis what I 
 have looked for, and now ’tis come. 
 Anais, I must go.” Then, with a sudden 
 break in his voice, he continued, “ Have 
 you no word for me ? Must I go forth 
 from thee and never know thy heart ? 
 
124 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Oh, my Zara, think, ’tis Osman pleads. 
 Give me one look, one word less cold than 
 those -you bestow upon the world. May 
 I not hope ? Anais, lift thine eyes to mine, 
 and I will read therein my answer.” 
 
 But the proud beautiful face remained 
 unmoved, and with a smothered oath he 
 turned from her ; but ere he had gained 
 two paces, his name, breathed scarce 
 louder than a whisper, stayed him. 
 
 “ Gilderoy ! ” 
 
 And as he gazed down upon her she 
 lifted her eyes and looked at him. All 
 scorn was quenched in the tender efful- 
 gence they disclosed ; their golden lights 
 caught and held the half-born passion of 
 her heart, as though they fain would 
 express what her maiden speech might 
 not proclaim. ’Twas but for a brief 
 second, then they sank beneath his gaze, 
 and, while he held her hand in parting, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 125 
 
 she was conscious only of repeating after 
 him in a lowei’ed voice, 
 
 “ Yes, I promise.” 
 
 In another moment he was gone, the 
 circle of bereft damsels and chaperones 
 had closed about her, calling upon her to 
 join in their chorus of lamentation. 
 
 It was as Lord Truesdale had surmised ; 
 the patriots had opened a cannonade from 
 their works situated to the north of Boston, 
 and this firing they continued through- 
 out the two following days and nights. 
 This unexpected attack kept the British 
 troops too occupied to observe the far 
 more serioxis danger which threatened 
 them. For so many months they had 
 remained inactive, they had grown care- 
 less, and, thinking themselves secure in 
 their winter quarters, had become lax in 
 enforcing discipline and order among 
 their men ; therefore, when the patriots’ 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 cannon aroused them to sudden activity, 
 they had much lost time to recover. 
 
 Meanwhile General Thomas, acting 
 under Washington’s orders, had not been 
 idle. Early in the winter he left Cam- 
 bridge and crossed the mountains that 
 separated Massachusetts from the pretty 
 lake, surrounded by trees, in the heart of 
 New York state, whence the fortifications 
 of Ticonderoga took their name. There 
 were cannon and ammunition within 
 the fort, and these were sorely needed by 
 the army surrounding Cambridge ; but 
 many miles of frozen earth lay between 
 the lake and Boston, and it w r as almost a 
 hopeless task to contemplate dragging 
 the ponderous guns over hill and valley, 
 meadow and ploughed field, in the teeth 
 of constant storms of snow and hail. 
 
 With undaunted courage and a brave 
 heart General Thomas and his contingent 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 127 
 
 began their almost superhuman under- 
 taking ; hour by hour, mile by mile, they 
 guided the patient steps of the long train 
 of four hundred oxen as they drew the 
 cannon from one state to another, and 
 as they neared their desired haven the 
 snow fell softly and steadily, as though 
 to cover with its white mantle all trace 
 of their expedition. Thus they entered 
 Cambridge, and when the train of tired 
 beasts and wearied men drew up before 
 their Commander and Chief, had Sir 
 William but known it, all the peace and 
 comfort, the gaiety and enjoyment of his 
 winter was for ever at an end. 
 
 On Monday evening General Thomas 
 moved from Roxbury with his twelve 
 hundred men, and took quiet possession of 
 the highest promontory farthest from 
 Boston, from whence he commanded 
 Nooks Hill, without discovery by his 
 
128 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Majesty’s troops ; indeed, so little were 
 his movements anticipated that, though 
 he passed scarce a mile from Boston Neck, 
 where a British squadron was stationed, 
 he was undiscovered and unmolested ; 
 and on Tuesday morning earthworks 
 and defences greeted the amazed eyes 
 of the King’s officers in command at the 
 Neck. Meantime within Boston the 
 royalists were at last fairly aroused, even 
 Sir William whose dilatoriness had gained 
 him, among the soldiers, the sobriquet of 
 “ the Unready,” awoke to the necessity 
 of exertion. Their commissariat was but 
 ill provided ; many of the troops were 
 disabled by sickness, while others had 
 become demoralized and disaffected, the 
 natural outcome of the long winter given 
 up to gaiety on the part of the officers, and 
 to laxity of rule amongst the soldiers. 
 
 Hastily summoning his staff and officers, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 129 
 
 liis Excellency took hurried counsel as to 
 their prospects ; and now, indeed, they 
 missed Bourgoyne, whose impetuous but 
 clear-sighted mind often grasped with 
 power a situation of danger, and suggested 
 a brilliant if not substantial remedy, which 
 a more cautious nature would hesitate to 
 enforce. 
 
 Lord Percy, whose keen quick intelli- 
 gence had long foreseen the position into 
 which they were drifting, expressed but 
 small surprise at the determined attack of 
 the patriots ; and Gilderoy, to whom, as his 
 aide and friend, he imparted his surmises 
 and anxieties, spoke with authority when 
 he told Anais it was but what he antici- 
 pated. It was decided in council that 
 Lord Percy, with three hundred men, 
 should at once repair to the small island 
 a mile from Dorchester Neck, the most 
 distant point from the town, and man 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 R 
 
130 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Castle William, from whence, acting under 
 Sir William’s instructions, lie was to attack 
 the newly-erected forts, assailing the 
 eastern and southern outworks ; mean- 
 wdiile the troops stationed in Boston and at 
 Charlestown returned the cannonading of 
 the enemy, which still continued without 
 intermission. 
 
 Percy and Truesdale departed with their 
 small contingent, and were soon in readi- 
 ness to bombard the antagonistic forts, 
 which, like those of Bunker Hill, seemed 
 to have arisen by enchantment, and well 
 ivarranted Sir William’s official despatch to 
 Lord North, that the Avork must have been 
 Avrought by twelve thousand men at least. 
 But here nature interfered with the plan 
 so carefully conceived, and stood a friend 
 to the handicraft of Gridley and Putnam; 
 for so violent a storm arose in the night, 
 and continued with such fury, as to defeat 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 131 
 
 a ad break up the attack. Washington, 
 with his generals, Thomas, Putnam, Greene, 
 and Sullivan, had anticipated this move- 
 ment of the British, and prepared a bold 
 and daring plan of defence, but which, 
 owing to the elements, was never called 
 into requisition. The 5th of March, just 
 one year after Massacre Day when Warren 
 had delivered his famous oration from the 
 South Church pulpit, was the date arranged 
 for both attack and defence; but thepatriots 
 waited in vain, the enemy made no attempt 
 to fire upon the new fortifications, and, after 
 fruitless expectation of Lord Percy’s first 
 move, Washington determined to make on 
 the night of the 9th a bold push towards 
 Nooks Hill, which lay directly opposite 
 Boston, and where, protected by Thomas’s 
 contingent, he could more seriously bom- 
 bard Boston harbour and town. 
 
 But before he could put his men in mo- 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tion an unexpected movement on the part 
 of the royalists altered the entire situation, 
 and hastened forward the consummation 
 of the nine months’ siege. Sir William 
 Howe, on reviewing his position, per- 
 ceived his weakness to far outweigh his 
 strength. 
 
 Boston was a beleaguered city. The 
 siege established by the patriots after 
 Lexington had assumed, by slow degrees, 
 proportions that threatened serious conse- 
 quences to his Majesty’s party. Little by 
 little the colonists gained and held each 
 port of entrance, and while the royalists 
 were making merry within the town the 
 Americans were forcing their way, step by 
 step, to the citadel. 
 
 And now arose within the city a more 
 terrible enemy than any number of armed 
 
 colonist patriots without. Famine, with 
 
 * 
 
 its grim attendant train, stared Sir Wil- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 133 
 
 liam and his troops in the face, and held 
 them with the iron grasp of necessity. Day 
 succeeded day and the report was always 
 the same. The provisions for the troops 
 were reduced to the lowest fraction. The 
 men grew dangerous, murmuring openly 
 and threatening revolt. Disease and want 
 had thinned their ranks alarmingly, while 
 those who were left bore the cruel impress 
 of hunger and privation upon their gaunt 
 faces. 
 
 And still the enemy without the city 
 kept closed and guarded each avenue 
 from whence relief might come. 
 
 Many and anxious were the consulta- 
 tions of Sir William Howe and the select 
 men of Boston. The evil grew day by 
 day until it assumed such grave propor- 
 tions and wore so hydra-headed a mien 
 that delay and inaction were no longer 
 possible. There seemed but one course 
 
134 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 open'; to the Governor, and that, with a 
 heavy heart and proud rebellious spirit, he 
 at last resolved to pursue. 
 
 Saturday morning, the 8th of March, 
 broke clear and cold ; the mists of early 
 dawn which enveloped the city, and lay in 
 a thick impenetrable curtain over the bay, 
 cleared as the sun gained power, and disap- 
 peared under his benignant influence, even 
 as the disturbed visions of the night pass 
 from our memories, when we wake at the 
 touch of a loved hand, to find the light of 
 day greeting our eyes. 
 
 In the patriots’ camp all was activity 
 and life ; the officers and men were early 
 astir, indeed many of them had neither 
 rested nor slept, so eager were they to be 
 up and doing; nine months of enforced 
 idleness had but increased their desire for 
 action, and their impatience made them 
 begrudge the further delay of four-and- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 135 
 
 twenty hours ere they could attack the 
 British forces on the Neck. 
 
 "Within the largest tent two or three 
 officers were engaged in earnest and grave 
 converse, while before an improvized table 
 knelt a young man busily writing ; his hand 
 travelled quickly, and every now and again 
 he raised his clear blue eyes reverently 
 towards the countenance of the one who 
 seemed, by right, dictator of those whom 
 he commanded. 
 
 And indeed it was a face and figure 
 well worth regarding ; above the ordinary 
 stature, upright, with finely developed 
 shoulders and limbs, the countenance that 
 crowned the form seemed but a fit com- 
 pletion of its strength and vigour ; largely 
 and somewhat heavily moulded, it bore the 
 impress of despotism blended with autho- 
 rity and reserve. The brow was singularly 
 broad and open, an effect greatly heightened 
 
136 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 by the light brown hair, brushed back, 
 lightly powdered and tied in a braided 
 peruke ; beneath the well-defined eye- 
 brows the pale-blue eyes looked forth 
 penetrating but inscrutable ; the chin was 
 square and obstinate ; the cheek-bones 
 high and pronounced ; the mouth large, 
 with full but unsmiling lips, which the 
 cold unresponsive eyes did not belie. He 
 was clean shaven and scrupulously attired 
 in the uniform of a major-general. His 
 whole bearing and demeanour was dignified 
 almost to hauteur, and bore the impress 
 of birth and lineage. At his side stood 
 Thomas and Putnam, to whom he was 
 listening with great respect, while a little 
 further off was his favourite aide, young 
 Alexander Hamilton, his ruddy face and 
 goodnatured smile beaming, in turn, on 
 every one. 
 
 After a short interval, the busy secretary 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 137 
 
 arose and approached his Chief with the 
 open despatches in his hand ; he stood for 
 some moments apparently unnoticed, when 
 suddenly Washington turned abruptly and 
 addressed him in a voice at once resonant 
 yet melodious. 
 
 “You would speak with me,Troubridge?” 
 
 “ Your Excellency desired to note these 
 copies ere they were despatched to the 
 Congress,” replied Philip, bowing low and 
 handing to him the freshly-written papers. 
 
 Washington cast his eyes rapidly over 
 them, and as he gave them back spoke a 
 kindly word of praise which brought the 
 colour to Phil Troubridge’s face. Not 
 often did the great chief bestow commen- 
 dation, therefore it was rarely treasured by 
 the happy recipient. 
 
 The morning hours passed, and it was 
 drawing on towards noon, when an unusual 
 noise and commotion in the camp inter- 
 
138 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 rupted the council within the tent ; with 
 an exclamation more forcible than polite, 
 accompanied by a glance of fire, Washington 
 commanded Troubridge to inquire the 
 cause of such unseemly disturbance. The 
 young man was absent some moments, and 
 when he returned he seemed much agi- 
 tated. 
 
 “ It is a flag of truce, your Excellency,” 
 he exclaimed, “ sent by Sir William Howe, 
 and accompanied by Captain Duncombe, 
 now Lord Truesdale, who is the bearer of 
 despatches from the British.” 
 
 At this announcement all the officers 
 sprang to their feet, and Washington, 
 whose colourless face had become slowly 
 suffused with crimson, accompanied by 
 them, issued from the tent. 
 
 Lord Truesdale and a small escort stood 
 without; while at a short distance were 
 gathered the patriot officers and soldiers. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 139 
 
 who looked upon the British envoy with 
 small favour or respect. 
 
 In a quiet voice, but with flashing eyes, 
 Gilderoy explained that he bore a despatch 
 from his Excellency Sir William Howe and 
 the select men of Boston, which he begged 
 to tender to “ Mister Washington.” But 
 the General, with a quiet scorn as intense 
 as his lordship’s, refused to open what 
 was not officially addressed to him, and 
 delegated the office to one of his staff. 
 
 The document, when read, proved to be 
 a declaration on the part of the royalists to 
 speedily evacuate Boston with Sir William 
 Howe and the army under him ; they would 
 destroy nothing if not molested, and they 
 therefore implored immunity from any 
 such calamity. 
 
 When the despatch was concluded, 
 Washington retired to his tent without 
 addressing himself further to Lord Trues- 
 
140 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 dale, but ere long Philip Troubridge was 
 despatched to convey the verbal message 
 that the patriots consented to Sir William’s 
 proposition, and he was at liberty to em- 
 bark as soon as should best pleasure him, 
 without fear of molestation. Gilderoy re- 
 ceived the response in silence, and was 
 about to withdraw from his hostile sur- 
 roundings when the young patriot stopped 
 him. 
 
 “Nay, my lord, though we are enemies 
 in arms, we are friends in aught else. It 
 ill brooks me not to clasp your hand, when 
 mayhap it has held within its pressure the 
 fingers of my Mistress Pen. Can you give 
 me news of her ? How fares it with them 
 all, Anais and the Marquis and little Dot ? ” 
 
 “ It fares but ill with any of us, Mister 
 Troubridge,” replied Truesdale gloomily, 
 “though as to Mistress Dudley and the 
 French demoiselles, they appear to have 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 141 
 
 fared over well in the matter of follies and 
 revels. Ay, faith, we have danced on the 
 mouth of a smoking crater for nine months, 
 and now we wonder ’cause the flames break 
 forth and envelope us. Mademoiselle de 
 Grasse is as ever, peerless among her com- 
 panions, and I am told her marriage with 
 the Marquis deVentadore takes place upon 
 the twentieth of this month ; Mistress 
 Dorothy is at Manor Farm and Mistress 
 Penelope lingers at the Buggies mansion. 
 But enough, I tarry over long ; I bid ye 
 good-day, sir, and trust ere great length 
 of time to meet yon in more open warfare,” 
 And with mutual salutes the young men 
 parted, Lord Truesdale and his red-coated 
 escort hurrying over the snow-covered 
 camp with hasty strides, impatient to leave 
 a scene distasteful alike to his pride and 
 his feelings. 
 
142 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A stranger sight had never been witnessed 
 by the three guardian hills which over- 
 looked Boston, and gave to the peninsula 
 its pretty old name of Trimonntain, than 
 that which took place on Sunday the 
 17th of March. 
 
 More than a hundred years had passed, 
 in tranquillity and peace, under the protec- 
 torate of England, since the first home- 
 constructed vessel, built at Mystic for his 
 Excellency Governor Winthrop, and chris- 
 tened the “ Blessing of the Bay,” had 
 entered the harbour, and been received with 
 every expression of rejoicing and festivity. 
 
 Little did the stately Governor think, as 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 143 
 
 lie watched his graceful little bark bound 
 lightly over the pellucid water, that the 
 day would come when his successor in office 
 would evacuate the royally chartered city, 
 and departing leave it in the hands and to 
 the fortunes of a party antagonistic to their 
 King, and who proclaimed with vehemence 
 their audacious wish and purpose to be 
 free and independent. 
 
 Early on that Sunday morning, General 
 Sir "William Howe, accompanied by his staff 
 and followed by the royal troops, consisting 
 of six officers and eight thousand men, and 
 supplemented by eleven hundred loyalists 
 from town and country, sought the war 
 frigates that lay in the harbour ; they em- 
 barked in silence and with ill-concealed 
 sorrow and regret. For more than a century 
 this fair colony had acknowledged ready 
 obedience and fealty to the British crown ; 
 now they were leaving it in the hands of the 
 
144 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 spoilers, and by their own action confessing 
 themselves unequal to combat against this 
 seditious outbreak, which threatened to 
 spread from “ Canada to Florida,” and 
 for ever destroy the dependence of the 
 Western Continent upon the fatherland of 
 England. 
 
 With a proud dignity of mien that 
 evoked sympathy and admiration in every 
 heart, the Governor and his officers quitted 
 the city where they had ruled and dictated 
 for so many months ; and indeed each 
 royalist, though many of them left birth- 
 place, home, and possessions, bore the same 
 quiet demeanour of haughty submission to 
 the inevitable. It was the unwilling sur- 
 render of a nation used only to victory and 
 conquest. 
 
 As the fleet sailed out of Boston harbour, 
 some making way direct to Halifax, others 
 lingering in the bay beyond the bar, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 145 
 
 "Washington and the patriots entered the 
 city in grand state. 
 
 On every side banners and flags greeted 
 them, while cheers, prayers, and blessings 
 rent the air, sent np from out the hearts 
 of the multitude, who crowded about the 
 worn weary men as they marched, their 
 stern faces wet with tears, through the 
 thoroughfares whose very names, redolent 
 with England’s history, had disappeared 
 under the busy hands of the populace — 
 Orange Street for Prince William, Newbury 
 for Charles the First, Marlborough for Blen- 
 heim’s Duke and Cornhill for London — had 
 given place and paid their tribute to the new 
 dynasty in the one title of — Washington.* 
 
 Anais, sitting within the silent parlour 
 of the Quincey mansion, gazed through 
 the window upon the royal fleet as it 
 weighed anchor and spread sail, the King’s 
 * A fact. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ensign floating in the keen March wind, 
 waving disdainfully towards the aban- 
 doned city. The sunshine glanced across 
 the waters of the bay, evoking a thousand 
 varying opaline tints beneath the crested 
 waves as they broke in white foam against 
 the prows ; it gleamed also athwart the 
 window-glass and pricked into sparkling 
 gems the letters Mister Quincey had en- 
 graved thereon seven months before, when 
 he watched the ship that carried Lady 
 Gage and her disappointed ambitions sail 
 from out the selfsame harbour. With a 
 hasty movement Anais covered the ob- 
 noxious words with her kerchief ; they were 
 distasteful to her ; for, indifferent though 
 she chose to proclaim herself as to the 
 issue of the war, in her heart she acknow- 
 ledged that her sympathy and her ambi- 
 tion were in the King’s cause. 
 
 Did she not love a royalist ? And was 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 147 
 
 not Gilderoy Duncombe’s oatb, pledged in 
 the green drawing-room at Manor Farm, 
 fulfilling itself ? Her proud heart was 
 indeed subdued, and beat quick and fast 
 for a King’s-man ! 
 
 She was all alone. Mister and Mistress 
 Quincey had gone forth to join in welcom- 
 ing the patriots. The Marquis de Venta- 
 dore, free now to proclaim his allegiance 
 in unmeasured terms, was riding in the 
 gay procession, side by side with Phil 
 Troubridge. General Ruggles and his 
 pretty wife, with niece and daughter, were 
 among those who embarked with his Ex- 
 cellency. Penelope and Aunt Priscilla had 
 escaped to Oldtown, and little Dot was at 
 Manor Farm. 
 
 Thus, in the gathering dusk of the short 
 March day, she sat solitary, without one 
 gallant to anticipate her caprices, or one 
 friend to counsel and comfort her. Her 
 
148 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 heart was sore distracted by conflicting 
 emotions, and her spirit disturbed by the 
 war of love and passion against honour 
 and constancy, that waged so fiercely 
 within her soul. 
 
 The twilight deepened, the shadows 
 gathered in the corners and about the 
 wide hearth, the hues of evening spread 
 over the sky and sea, the shouts of the 
 populace grew faint and far, the royal 
 frigates became phantom-like and unreal, 
 the old house seemed peopled with the 
 spirits of those departed long years ago ; 
 then a burning brand fell from the fire- 
 dogs, lighting up the dim room with sud- 
 den radiance and glory, and Anais, starting 
 forward, met the reflection of a face, pale 
 as her own, before whose fervent blue eyes 
 hers sank abashed. 
 
 It was the face of Gilderoy. 
 
 As in a dream she saw his beckoning 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 149 
 
 hand, and as in a dream she obeyed his 
 signal. Walking slowly across the polished 
 floor, and marking even in her abstraction 
 how the quick burst of firelight caught 
 and repeated her similitude in the round 
 mirrors that adorned the wainscoted 
 walls, she noted the pallor of her face, 
 the strange gleam in her eyes, the quick, 
 rapid pulsation of her bosom. 
 
 Slowly she opened the great house-door, 
 and passed into the enveloping darkness 
 of the night. As she neared the shade of 
 cypress-trees a hand caught hers, she felt 
 a hot breath upon her cheek, while a voice 
 grown dearer than all else in life, murmured 
 her name in accents of passionate appeal. 
 
 Meantime little Dot, miles away at 
 Manor Farm, counted her beads, and 
 thanked God each morning and night that 
 Anais’ marriage-day was fast approaching, 
 and that she need never know how closely 
 
150 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the breath of temptation and danger had 
 encompassed her. 
 
 The 20th of March was to be kept 
 with as much festivity at Manor Farm as 
 the grave and anxious times would permit. 
 When the wedding-day had been first de- 
 cided upon, Anais resolved that it should 
 be celebrated with all the pomp and cere- 
 mony she could command. A letter from 
 the Count de Grasse, joyfully sanctioning 
 her betrothal and marriage, while regret- 
 ting his inability to be present, had reached 
 her from the West Indies, accompanied by 
 a sum of money so lavish as to astonish 
 even those who knew the Count’s generous 
 nature. Besides this, her marriage-papers 
 had been duly executed and signed before 
 his Excellency, and whatever other evil 
 fortunes Madame la Marquise might have 
 to encounter, poverty could never be 
 reckoned as one among them. 
 
 o 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 151 
 
 All her gay companions, headed by 
 Mistress Haggles and her train of beaux 
 and gallants, had promised to attend her 
 at the nuptials, and to awaken the echoes 
 of the old manor with the music of jest 
 and laughter, and the tripping of high- 
 heeled shoes across the polished floors and 
 along the dusky corridors. 
 
 But the sudden surrender of Sir William 
 and the departure of the royalists changed 
 the entire aspect of affairs, and now those 
 who would gather to wish her well on her 
 wedding-morn would be the adherents to 
 a creed and cause antagonistic to all her 
 former associations, though more in unison 
 with the feelings of her uncle and future 
 husband. 
 
 Anais had elected to remain at the 
 Quincey mansion until the eve of her wed- 
 ding, when she would travel down with 
 her mails in the Quincey coach, under the 
 
152 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 care of her host and hostess. General 
 Washington, in whose estimation De Yen- 
 tadore had gained high favour, had also 
 promised to be present, with his aides Alex 
 Hamilton and Phil Troubridge, and these, 
 with the party from the Hall, would com- 
 plete the marriage-guests. One cloud, 
 however, o’erhung the festivities and 
 caused keen sorrow to Anais, Dorothy 
 could not be at her side to give her 
 strength and courage in the supreme hour 
 of her renunciation of love for honour. 
 
 Little Dot lay ill. Her slight frame had 
 grown thin and her sweet face pale ; 
 purple shadows gathered about the stead- 
 fast eyes that reflected somewhat the 
 divine patience of sacrifice, such as we 
 recognize in the countenances of those 
 who have died for the Crucified One, and 
 who bear the impress of His seal upon 
 them. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 153 
 
 With. March a slight cough and fever 
 had set in, and these refused to be over- 
 come, despite old Nanon’s choicest tisanes 
 and confections of sweet everlasting and 
 balm. Little by little she grew weaker 
 and more languid, until there came one 
 sunshiny morning when Nanon found her 
 little nursling unable to leave her bed, 
 though she cried out quite happily, with 
 one of her tenderest smiles, 
 
 “ See, Nanon, I am playing fine lady 
 and taking mine ease in my bed.” Then, 
 as the old nurse bent over her and she 
 saw tears in the faithful eyes, she added 
 gaily, “ ’Twill not be for long, Nanon, and 
 thou art foolish to fret thyself. Nay, be- 
 think thee, ’tis a necessity that I recover 
 for my Tais’ marriage- day ; she would 
 scarce like to miss her daisy-flower from 
 amongst the rarer blossoms on that 
 
 5 ) 
 
 morn. 
 
154 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 But all the same Dorothy had not grown 
 better, and now it lacked but two days 
 of the 20th, and at best she could only 
 sit in Nanon’s high-backed chair for a few 
 hours at a time ; her cheeks were flushed, 
 her eyes grew larger and more luminous, 
 her wonderful likeness to Anais became 
 more and more startling and apparent. 
 Her cough was such a little one, ’twould 
 soon be gone, she said ; with the bright 
 kindly spring that she loved so well, she 
 would grow strong once more : but Nanon 
 shook her head, and praying with a sense 
 of impotence against fate’s decree would 
 hear the short low cough, and check the 
 words of appeal, even as they arose to her 
 lips. 
 
 On the 19th she declared herself quite 
 well, and made Nanon dress her and 
 seat her by the window while yet it was 
 early day. She laughed and talked, her 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 155 
 
 cheeks crimson, her eyes glowing, as her 
 fragile hands fashioned the bridal favours 
 for the morrow. 
 
 It was a very happy day to little Dot ; 
 only a few short hours and Tais’ arms 
 would be about her, Tais’ kisses on her 
 brow and cheeks, and Tais’ tenderest tones 
 calling her by all the fond foolish names 
 of babyhood. Then at night they would 
 lie side by side in the great bed that had 
 so often held their slim girlish forms, and 
 they would plan a future, bright with 
 gracious promises, which she and Tais 
 would see ripen into fulfilment — a future 
 free from temptation and danger, free from 
 the Englishman’s love that had brought 
 such grief and shame into both their lives, 
 free from jealousy, suspicion, or deceit, and 
 pure as the heart that conjured up the 
 vision from out the unwritten pages of 
 futurity. 
 
156 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Dreaming thus, her eyes closed in the 
 languor of weakness, and she slept. Her 
 breath came softly, her fingers relaxed their 
 hold upon the white favour she had scarce 
 completed, while the dew of exhaustion 
 gathered on her temples and about her 
 mouth. 
 
 She heard nothing, neither the creak 
 of the garden-gate, nor the hurried step 
 of light feet across the path, nor the 
 hasty tread upon the oaken stairs and 
 along the corridor, nor the pause and 
 light rustle at her threshold, nor the 
 turning of the handle, the opening of 
 the door, nor the subdued eager excla- 
 mation uttered by a voice soft, musical, 
 entreating. 
 
 The evening shadows wrapped all the 
 room in soft obscurity, the logs upon the 
 hearth had sunk to gleaming embers, and 
 the colourless moon was rising above the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 157 
 
 bare tree-tops ere Dorothy, with a long- 
 drawn sigh, awoke. She moved her head 
 in weary unrest, her eyes unclosed reluc- 
 tantly, and there, kneeling beside her, with 
 bowed head, all her furs and satins trailing 
 over the polished floor, her hands clasped, 
 her bosom shaken with a storm of sighs, 
 was — Anais. 
 
 One little cry of exceeding joy cleft the 
 silence like a golden bell, and then the 
 beautiful head was resting on Dorothy’s 
 heart, the clasped hands were about her 
 neck, while low murmured words of en- 
 dearment fell from her lips. 
 
 “ Tres-ch5re, is’t thou ? Nay, do not 
 weep, ’tis such happiness to see thee. My 
 heart has so hungered for thee.” 
 
 Then, as Anais only sobbed and clung 
 more closely to her, she with quick un- 
 selfishness continued, 
 
 “ Behold, tres-chere, but I grow mon- 
 
158 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 strous strong. Nay, but I shall be at thy 
 wedding, never fear. I have been so busy, 
 Tais, all day, and I only slept because ’twas 
 so triste. Look, I have fashioned all these 
 with my own hands,” and she held out 
 eagerly the satin favours ; her fragile 
 fingers trembled with excitement, the 
 ribbon fluttered from their hold and fell 
 upon the floor beside Anais’ dark draperies. 
 With a sob Dorothy sank back upon her 
 pillows. Anais lifted her head, the rare 
 tears were standing in her eyes, which 
 even in the uncertain moonlight seemed to 
 have gathered a softer and sweeter radiance 
 than e’er before had visited them. She 
 took her sister’s hot quivering fingers in 
 her firm cool hands, and covered them 
 with reverent kisses ; her voice was very 
 broken, her words incoherent when she 
 spoke. 
 
 “My daisy-flower — my pure white rose 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 159 
 
 — to find thee ill, and to have to add one 
 sorrow more to thy dear heart — to have to 
 leave you ! Oh, I am selfish — vile — weak : 
 led only by my own desires, and overcome 
 by the terror of the eternal farewell and 
 separation. Ma Dot ! ma petite Dot ! ” 
 she cried wildly, “ forgive me, but I come 
 to you to save me — to you to succour me — 
 to you to bear once more — for the last 
 time — the burden my courage sinks and 
 quails before.” 
 
 Then, with blinding tears, she told her 
 story, and Dot, listening to the passion 
 and appeal of her words, and gather- 
 ing the need there was for prompt and 
 sure action, felt her heart grow joyful 
 and triumphant, and her strength return 
 with all its old vigour, at Anais’ call for 
 aid. 
 
 Very long they talked ; the clock in the 
 old hall below struck the night hours one 
 
160 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 by one, and still Anais pleaded, and still 
 Dorothy combated her plans. With love, 
 with tenderness, with subtle witchery, Anais 
 sought to change her mood, she would reply 
 over and over, 
 
 “Aught else, tres-chere, ask me aught 
 else. How can I act a lie ? ” 
 
 At last, with a flush of anger upon her 
 face, Anais arose and stood before her 
 sister. She spoke coldly, lightly. 
 
 “ As thou wilt, petite, but methought 
 thy love would bear the test. Hay, do not 
 grieve, when I am gone thou wilt but think 
 that thy spirit was stern and cruel when 
 thy Tais called on it most for tenderness 
 and loyalty.” 
 
 “ Tais ! ” cried the girl springing to her 
 feet, shaken by despair and pain. “ Hay, 
 but it shall be as thou wilt. Forgive me 
 if in my timid heart I hesitated or drew 
 back one moment when thou didst ask. I 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 161 
 
 do but love thee, tres-chere, my life holds 
 nought else but that love ; my faith grows 
 dim afore it — I cannot see — I do not know 
 — oh, my God,” she exclaimed, falling on 
 her knees, “ keep me — direct me ! See, 
 ’tis my Tais asks this at my hands, I 
 may not refuse ! ’Tis my Tais pleads, 
 forgive me if I err in my great love for 
 her ! ” 
 
 Then Anais knew that she had con- 
 quered ; she stooped and gathered her little 
 sister into her arms as a mother enfolds a 
 child she has subdued, and wiped away 
 the tears, hushing the sobs against her 
 heart. 
 
 When they parted the morning light was 
 
 / 
 
 already dimly breaking in the east, the 
 hedge sparrows were whispering in their 
 nests, and the silver line of the horizon 
 was growing broader against the grey- 
 shadowed sea. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 The clock struck four. It was Anais’ 
 bridal morning and Dorothy stood 
 
 alone. 
 
 Down in the harbour a broad flat gun- 
 dula glided stealthily from beneath the 
 frowning custom-houses ; it made its way 
 noiselessly, with muffled oars, to where out 
 beyond the bar a royal frigate waited. In 
 the bows of the gundula sat a motionless 
 figure shrouded in a dark roccelo and hood ; 
 a man stooped down and with dextrous 
 care drew a furred robe more closely about 
 the bending form; as he raised his face 
 the growing dawn struck true and cold 
 upon it, and revealed the features of 
 Grilderoy, Lord Truesdale. 
 
 An hour later and over the high-road 
 from Boston to Oldtown thundered the 
 beat of horse’s hoofs ; a rider impetuous, 
 impatient, vehement, was awakening the 
 echoes of sleeping country by the hasty 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 163 
 
 ring of iron-shod feet upon the frozen 
 ground. 
 
 It was Louis de Yentadore, and this was 
 his marriage-day. 
 
164 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The fair promise of the dawn was richly 
 fulfilled in beauty as the hours gained 
 number and strength. The sun arose in 
 full majesty, blessing the earth beneath 
 his touch with the warmth and kindliness 
 of summer. A strange phantom-like day, 
 born out of due time, with the breath of 
 May in its winds, and the tenderness of 
 June in its effulgence ; but with the 
 memory of bleak February and bitter 
 March to stand as remorseless sentries of 
 its loveliness. 
 
 Manor Farm awoke early to life and 
 energy ; in the grey dawn old Nanon had 
 been startled from her slumbers by the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 165 
 
 touch of burning fingers, and ere she could 
 shake off the heavy somnolence of old age, 
 her little mistress’ voice fell upon her ear, 
 hurriedly but collectedly recounting a tale 
 so astonishing and so unprecedented as to 
 appear the ravings of a brain distraught; 
 but it bore the impress of truth, and the 
 faithful old Bretonne, as she listened to the 
 pleading, entreating, commanding tones, 
 realized only too well what was the service 
 demanded at her hands. 
 
 “ Bien, m’zelle,” she answered, her 
 voice sounding keen and cutting after 
 Dorothy’s soft, monotonous eloquence. 
 “ Mere de Dieu ! thou hast but to com- 
 mand, thy Nanon obeys ; but ne’er did I 
 think to five and see the old name 
 humiliated. A curse on the bold blue 
 eyes of yonder King’s-man ; he has wrought 
 misery and to spare in thy heart, ma 
 colombette ! ’ ’ 
 
166 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Dorothy did not reply; her pain, her 
 agony, her shame, counted as nothing to 
 her if she could but spare and shield Anais 
 on this her bridal day. 
 
 The old hall was flooded with sunshine, 
 and bright and gay with festoons of trail- 
 ing pigeon -vine and wood- anemones, and 
 fragrant with sweet violets and snowdrops 
 set in beds of green moss ; a fire of hickory 
 logs flashed on the wide hearth, lighting 
 into fitful radiance the dark paintings on 
 the mantel panels, adding a deeper tint to 
 the royal purple of Sisera’s robe, casting a 
 darker shadow over Jael’s dusky locks and 
 on her cruel hand upraised, holding the 
 nail by which she was to slay her sleeping 
 guest. 
 
 The Marquis de Yentadore had already 
 arrived, and with him a young priest from 
 Quebec who would perform the marriage 
 ceremony ; the wedding mass was to be 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 167 
 
 celebrated with all solemnity when the 
 Marquis and his bride reached Canada. 
 
 The hours had worn on to past ten, 
 when a sound of horses’ hoofs and the 
 heavy rumble of wheels broke the silence 
 of the morning. A bright and gay caval- 
 cade came down the narrow lane, and drew 
 up before the garden-gate, the postilions’ 
 white favours glancing and gleaming in 
 the sunlight. The Quincey coach with 
 canary liveries came first, within sat 
 Mister and Mistress Quincey, all smiles 
 and graciousness, while on the top were 
 piled Anais’ mails, ready strapped and 
 locked, preparatory for departure. De 
 Ventadore hastened to assist them, and his 
 countenance grew a shade paler when he 
 failed to find the proud, lovely face of his 
 betrothed greet him from out the depths 
 of the roomy cushions and heavy curtains. 
 Mistress Quincey made haste to relieve him. 
 
168 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur, look not so mazed and 
 ciagrined ; thy fair mistress desired to 
 pass her last night with her only sister, 
 and as ’twas scarce convenient for us to 
 arrive at such a time, we found her safe 
 escort in my Lord Truesdale and her 
 serving-woman, and have brought her 
 mails and packets to her. Doubtless, 
 however, this is no news to you,” she 
 added more seriously. 
 
 Before De Yentadore could reply, the 
 Dudley coach appeared, bearing Aunt 
 Priscilla, Penelope, and her father. Pen 
 made a pert speech after her usual fashion, 
 but her face looked less riante, and her 
 eyes wore an anxious eager expression, 
 as they rested on the Marquis. Then a 
 greater excitement without, and the rush 
 of many feet told that the hero of the hour 
 had arrived. De Yentadore went forth, 
 bare-headed, to receive him, in company 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 169 
 
 with Mister Quincey, while the ladies 
 swept low in curtseys as Washington, 
 accompanied by his two aides, entered the 
 
 hall. 
 
 And now the old clock, with its little 
 tossing ship on the heaving billows, struck 
 out the hour ; eleven slow deep notes ; a 
 sudden hush fell on the little group. From 
 the corridor above came the echo of an 
 opening door; the faint slight rustle of 
 silken garments ; the light tread of dainty 
 feet ; a moment more and they had reached 
 the staircase. With one impulse those 
 below turned and looked upwards. 
 
 On the topmost step stood the bride, 
 full in the dazzling sunlight that poured 
 through the landing window; for a mo- 
 ment the tall slight figure hesitated, 
 faltered, then with a firm even tread came 
 slowly down the shallow oaken stairs, all 
 her bridal finery of satin and rich lace 
 
170 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 clinging in undulating folds about tlie 
 lithe graceful form. The wanton sun- 
 beams caught eagerly at the sheen of 
 jewels, at the filmy meshes, at the soft 
 silken gleam of her garments, and en- 
 folded themselves lovingly about her, as 
 though to add their glory and their radiance 
 as just tribute to her loveliness. The pale 
 noble face, with its coronal of golden- 
 tinted hair, was half hidden by the bridal 
 veil that drooped low over her brow ; the 
 eyes were downcast, the mouth a little 
 tremulous. 
 
 An expression of involuntary admira- 
 tion sprang into life and echoed from lip 
 to lip, as this vision of youth and beauty 
 approached them, gliding down upon them 
 step by step, with so rare a charm and 
 grace in every movement. 
 
 “ Ma certes ! ” cried Aunt Pris in Pene- 
 lope’s ear, “ of a surety ne’er saw I Anais 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 171 
 
 look so wondrous beautiful. Methinks 
 her face wore no suck expression of 
 humility when in Boston town. Nay, ’tis 
 but seemly a woman should grow meek 
 when she takes a husband.” 
 
 But Penelope made no reply ; she gave 
 a quick searching glance first at De Ven- 
 tadore, then at the slowly descending 
 figure ; her cheeks were scarlet, her hands 
 trembling. Phil Troubridge, standing be- 
 side her, counted the uneven beating of 
 her heart, and noted the sharp catching of 
 her under lip beneath her teeth. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Grasse had reached the 
 last step, and there she paused. The Mar- 
 quis started forward, the long restrained 
 passion and patience of his love revealed 
 in the fire of his dark eves, in the dull 
 crimson glow that stained his sallow 
 cheeks : at last — at last — after so many 
 years of hopeless importunity, of devotion 
 
172 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 repaid by contempt, of constancy returned 
 by disdain, of fervent entreaties laughed to 
 scorn — he had won his reward ; and in 
 that one moment, as he stood and gazed on 
 her loveliness, enhanced, yet half hidden by 
 her wedding-veil, and realized that to him 
 belonged this radiant beautiful woman, to 
 him for evermore, to hold, to control, to 
 worship, and to shield, he forgot the 
 months of suffering and sorrow he had 
 endured for her sake, and remembered only 
 that at last the prize was his. 
 
 General Washington advanced as the 
 last stair was passed, and with his most 
 courteous bow and finest manner offered 
 his hand to the young bride to conduct 
 her towards the priest. 
 
 “ Mademoiselle,” he said, and his voice 
 rang sonorous and clear, “ permit me to 
 enact a father’s part on your behalf, since 
 he who stands in that relation to you is 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 173 
 
 prevented by his duty from so doing. In 
 the name of the Count de Grasse I give 
 your hand in marriage to Louis, Marquis 
 de Ventadore.” 
 
 There was a breathless hush. Wash- 
 ington stood with outstretched hand 
 awaiting that of the bride. De Ventadore, 
 trembling, eagerly sought to pierce the filmy 
 meshes of the veil that obstructed his too 
 ardent glances. Penelope grew pale and 
 rigid ; and still the tall slight figure 
 remained motionless, the jewels blazing at 
 her throat, the satins gleaming in the 
 sunlight. 
 
 A moment — a second — the clock chimed 
 the half-hour — a breath of uncontrollable 
 excitement swept over the company ; they 
 felt a premonition of something unex- 
 pected, unlooked for ; they felt themselves 
 face to face with a mystery — mayhap a 
 tragedy. 
 
174 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Then suddenly and without warning a 
 great and bitter cry broke across the 
 silence and the stillness — a cry of misery 
 and of despair ; of broken faith and tender 
 anguish. 
 
 “ Tais ! Tais !” cried a young voice in 
 such shrill and heart-rending accents that 
 every heart grew faint, every eye wet with 
 sudden tears. 
 
 “Tais! Tais!” 
 
 It rang through the great hall, and 
 was echoed from rafter and beam again 
 and again ; it cleaved the golden mellow 
 sunlight and swept upward through the 
 lambent air, until it seemed to call at 
 Heaven’s own door. 
 
 “ Tais ! Tais !” 
 
 All nature listened and trembled; the 
 trees repeated it ; the birds caught its 
 agony; the roses shivered as it stirred 
 their scarce formed buds ; the sea, beating 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 175 
 
 against the sands afar off, heard and 
 sobbed in sympathy ; for the cry was the 
 voice of little Dot ! 
 
 With an imperious movement she swept 
 back the veil from her face, its frail fabric 
 parted in her hands and fell to the floor. 
 She stood before them then, pale with the 
 pallor of death ; her eyes heavy with un- 
 shed tears, yet tender with the sacred light 
 of love and sacrifice; her breath laboured, 
 her frame shaken, yet beautiful exceed- 
 ingly. The light upon her face was not 
 of earth, even as the love within her soul 
 knew nought of human passion or desire. 
 
 Never in all the proud sovereignty of 
 her beauty had Anais looked as fair and 
 queenly as did Dorothy when with that 
 cry upon her lips she turned and held out 
 her hand to De Yentadore. 
 
 “ Monsieur,” she said, and her voice 
 was clear and firm, “ I have to ask for- 
 
176 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 giveness from you ; we have done you a 
 great wrong. Ma soeur — Anais — is not 
 liere — she has gone. Monsieur, she can 
 never be your wife. Already the sea 
 stretches many leagues between her and 
 us — she has gone — monsieur — gone to 
 England with her husband — with Gilderoy 
 Duncombe !” 
 
 Her voice faltered a little over the old 
 familiar name, then as she saw the evil 
 look that gathered upon De Yentadore’s 
 countenance, she cried out hurriedly, 
 
 “ Nay, monsieur, blame her not — ’twas 
 I — I forced her to it. I — Dorothy — her 
 sister. Oh, can you not see to what a 
 depth I must have fallen since to save my 
 sorrow she consented to break her plighted 
 word? Monsieur, you loved her — judge, 
 then, what was her love for me, when she 
 thus shielded my heart at her own great 
 cost.” 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 17 7 
 
 She stopped and looked eagerly into 
 each face for belief and confirmation. 
 
 “ Ah !” she cried out wildly, “ what 
 shall I say to make you believe me — to 
 make you understand that ’twas for me — 
 for me — her little Dot — she did you this 
 wrong ?” 
 
 She fell on her knees before him. 
 
 “ Monsieur, monsieur, you must, you 
 shall believe. Oh, for the love of Heaven, 
 say that you do not doubt her ! ” 
 
 But De Yentadore said nothing; his 
 face was very evil ; his heart was full of 
 bitterness and hate. He knew well how 
 false was the plea that Dorothy thus 
 urged in extenuation for her sister. She 
 would fain have him believe that she had 
 kept hidden and unsuspected a love for 
 him, which only sprang into tangible form 
 after Anais had plighted her troth and 
 named her marriage-day. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 Little Dot was capable of any sacrifice 
 for Anais, but even her love could not 
 paint with truth a lie so glaring and so 
 false. 
 
 He looked down upon her coldly ; his 
 heart was not stirred by one throb of pity 
 or compassion at sight of her fair face 
 bowed in an agony of shame before him. 
 It was only Anais’ beauty he saw upon it 
 — Anais, who had eluded him to the last, 
 and who had all his life long mocked 
 at his love and made merry with his 
 passion. 
 
 To him Dorothy, in her self-abasement, 
 confessing a love that knew no reality for 
 the sake of her sister who had robbed her 
 of the very passion she now pleaded, 
 touched neither his chivalry nor his heart ; 
 he saw nothing noble in it, and nothing 
 heroic. 
 
 It was Washington who raised her with 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 179 
 
 reverent tenderness, and in his grave voice 
 replied, 
 
 “Mademoiselle, I believe you; for I 
 cannot doubt a nature that evokes such 
 love and such sacrifice from so noble a 
 heart as yours.” 
 
 There was a sigh, a gasp, a murmured 
 word of blessing, then the bright head fell 
 forward, the slight form quivered, the 
 hands trembled, and the life-blood poured 
 in a tiny crimson stream from between the 
 half-closed lips, over the glistening satin, 
 and down the delicate laces, dyeing them 
 scarlet as it fell. 
 
 The cruel sunshine flickered across the 
 waxen face, shone on the golden-tinted 
 hair, and flashed athwart the red stains on 
 the bridal-robe that marked where little 
 Dot had paid her life-coin in the service of 
 Anais. 
 
 For the last time her sister had said, 
 
ISO 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and there she lay senseless, cold, spent ; 
 her love had not failed, though life broke 
 beneath the strain, and death stood close 
 at hand. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Penelope Dudley stood alone in the great 
 banquet chamber of the Hall. In past 
 days when Joseph Dudley was Governor 
 of the province and Queen Anne reigned 
 across the sea, many had been the scenes 
 of revelry within its walls ; the broad oak 
 rafters had resounded to many a cavalier’s 
 jest or soldier’s song, while the logs flared 
 far up the wide chimney, and the sea 
 dashed sullenly against the heavy timbers 
 that protected the governor’s private 
 landing. 
 
 All was changed now, the present Joseph 
 Dudley was a man of few pleasures, and 
 with a conscience sorely divided between 
 
182 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the King’s cause and that of the patriots. 
 The old house witnessed no hospitable 
 gatherings, and its gayest music was that 
 evoked by Pen’s high voice and clacking 
 wooden heels. 
 
 A month had passed since the sad tra- 
 gedy of little Dot’s death; already the 
 earth above her grave was sown with wild 
 daisy heads and violets, the work of 
 Kan oil’s loving hands. Manor Farm lay 
 deserted and desolate ; it was as if some 
 necromancer’s spell clung to the old spot, 
 since that morning when Dorothy’s pure 
 soul winged its upward flight on the 
 pinions of love and sacrifice. 
 
 Nanon crept about from chamber to 
 chamber, from hall to drawing-room, as 
 had been her wont, but her mind was 
 clouded, her strength gone. When they 
 bore her little mistress from her, and laid 
 the sweet young form beneath the earth, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 183 
 
 a great cry had issued from her lips ; after 
 that she was silent, but the old Bretonne’s 
 body and mind became weakened, and she 
 occupied her hours in constant ceaseless 
 searching for her loved nurseling. Day and 
 night the old woman continued her quest ; 
 up and down, in and out, from room to 
 room, always muttering and shaking her 
 grey head, and always halting before Dot’s 
 chamber door, where hung the picture of 
 St. Dorothy with her crown of martyr 
 roses, and with upraised finger, hushing 
 the echo of her own footsteps, lest they 
 should disturb her darling’s slumber. 
 
 But the sleep that lay so heavy on 
 little Dot’s sweet eyes, and that stilled 
 to rest all pain and sorrow in little 
 Dot’s young heart, was God-given, and 
 would know no awakening this side the 
 river of life. 
 
 For many long hours Penelope had been 
 
184 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 alone. Aunt Priscilla, glad of any excuse 
 for a gossip, had gone for a dish of tea 
 at Parson Barnard’s ; and Phil Troubridge 
 was riding beside his chief, on the march 
 to New York. The day was declining; it 
 had been dull and cheerless during the 
 morning hours, but now, as evening came 
 on apace, a gleam of golden light illumined 
 the horizon and cast strange grotesque 
 reflections over sea and sky. 
 
 With clasped hands and pallid cheeks, 
 Pen paced the long hall from end to end ; 
 her petticoat of crimson and gold flashing 
 ever and anon in the firelight. Her 
 usually mocking laughing face was sober 
 and colourless ; she walked heavily, and as 
 one over- weighted and tired ; her black 
 curls were pushed back impatiently, her 
 dark eyes burned lustreless and dull. And 
 indeed her heart was sore troubled and 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 135 
 
 disquieted ; when Dorothy’s bright head 
 fell back in the brilliant sunshine, and the 
 life-blood ebbed in vivid scarlet drops, Pen 
 felt her punishment begin. 
 
 Had not her hand set aflame the spark 
 that ended in so terrible a catastrophe P 
 Her jealous spirit had first taken umbrage 
 as she watched young Gilderoy, at Manor 
 Farm, and marked his growing tenderness 
 for little Dot. Dot, whom she considered 
 but a pale reflection of Anais ; who was 
 vowed to the Virgin ; and whom she, Pen, 
 patronized or plagued as best pleased 
 her humours. Dot, the little patriot 
 maiden, to win the love of a King’s 
 officer, and flout her conquest in the 
 eyes of all Oldtown. ’Twas not to be 
 thought on, and should be prevented at 
 all hazards. 
 
 Then had come Anais and Duncombe’s 
 
18 G 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 dawning fancy for her, a fancy helped on 
 by Pen with every dext’rous word, every 
 lightly pointed shaft, every malicious smile 
 or encouraging whisper ; at first through 
 wantonness, and then, after De Ventadore’s 
 cruel tale of treachery, with a feverish 
 thirsting desire to be avenged and drive 
 home to his heart the blow that had so 
 sorely wounded hers. 
 
 It was she who aroused in Anais the 
 dormant passions of hate and love : hate 
 for De Yentadore and love for Duncombe ; 
 and ’twas she who, by her ready lie con- 
 cerning little Dot, turned the scale of 
 Anais’ fluctuating purpose and drove her 
 into the hasty perpetration of a deed, that 
 was irrevocable. Small wonder, then, that 
 with the memory of Dorothy’s terrible 
 cry in her ears — “ Tais ! Tais!” — and 
 with the sight of Dorothy’s lifeless form, 
 clad in bridal garments, ever before her, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 187 
 
 she felt the full weight and hopelessness 
 of her sin. 
 
 She had gained nothing; she had lost 
 
 all. 
 
 Anais was far away and silent ; not one 
 word of regret, affection, inquiry, had 
 come from her since that morning in 
 March when little Dot saw her depart, as 
 the sun ascended the heavens and gleamed 
 brightly on the sails of a royal frigate far 
 away in the offing. 
 
 Her father was stern and harsh in his 
 manner towards her ; Aunt Priscilla 
 shunned her, though forming elaborate 
 apologies for so doing; Phil Troubridge 
 had quitted her, grave and sorrowful, and 
 as to De Yentadore, no one had looked 
 upon his face since, with a terrible oath, 
 he had turned from the inanimate form 
 of little Dot, and vanished from their 
 midst. 
 
188 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 To and fro, up and down, backwards 
 and forwards, Pen walked ; lier bead bent, 
 her face gloomy and hard. The sunbeams 
 doing battle with the cold March clouds 
 won a transient victory and broke forth 
 in glad jubilee, flooding the earth with 
 sudden warmth and glory. The dancing 
 rays fell across Pen’s bright-coloured 
 gown, and startled her from her reverie ; 
 she raised her head ; outside the ocean 
 laughed gladly in many rippling wavelets, 
 the sun shone, the trees waved their faintly 
 budding branches in joyful content, the 
 tall masts and spars of the merchantmen 
 glittered like fine threads of gold, their 
 pennants streaming in the wooing breeze. 
 Within it was dark, dreary, pregnant with 
 dreams that were fruitless, hopes that were 
 withered, promises unfulfilled. She turned 
 abruptly, and with mechanical fingers 
 fastened a heavy cloak and hood about 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 189 
 
 her. She would go forth, she would seek 
 Dot’s grave, and, kneeling there, tell out 
 her load of misery and wrong-doing, and 
 pray to that pure soul for forgiveness and 
 pardon. The wind tore at her thick mantle 
 and buffeted her slight figure ; shrieked in 
 her ears and made merry with her curls, 
 but she did not heed it, her mind was 
 firmly set on one purpose. 
 
 “ I will go to little Dot,” she murmured 
 ever and anon; “I will go and seek little 
 Dot.” 
 
 With quick firm steps she traversed the 
 broad street, passing with hasty recogni- 
 tion both friend and acquaintance, and not 
 slacking speed until she had passed Old- 
 town, and Manor Farm was close at hand. 
 She pushed open the wicket gate, it fell 
 back with a shrill creak ; the garden beds 
 that bordered the path to the porch were 
 overgrown with weeds and nettles ; here 
 
190 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 and there a golden or purple crocus lifted 
 its cheery head from out the surrounding 
 blight, seeming only to enhance the deso- 
 lation. One short year ago how fair and 
 winsome looked the maiden, who beneath 
 the shadow of the open door read Tais’ 
 letter from Boston, and mused over its 
 contents as she plied her busy needle 
 at her tambour-frame. The great door 
 was closed; the naked climbing rose 
 branches flung their shadows over the 
 wide step. 
 
 Penelope hurried on. She did not 
 want to meet Nanon, the old woman 
 had grown terrible to her, a Nemesis in 
 living form that seemed ever beckon- 
 ing, with raised finger, towards the 
 chamber where hung Dorothy’s crucifix, 
 and where they had laid Dorothy’s lifeless 
 body that awful day such a little time 
 agone. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 191 
 
 They had made her grave within a grove 
 of maple-trees, quite in the heart of the 
 little wood at the back of the Manor. 
 The young French priest had blessed it 
 and repeated over her, in the early, early 
 morning, a requiem ; then they had laid 
 her to rest, and the winds moaned, the 
 trees sighed, the ocean sobbed on its 
 yellow sands, only the birds sang with joy- 
 ful piercing notes, and little Dot slept in 
 eternity. 
 
 As Penelope neared the spot she halted 
 for an instant, then went forward more 
 swiftly ; it was dark and sombre under the 
 trees, the sunlight came only in fitful 
 gleams, the shadows were growing long, 
 the little night owl, from his home beneath 
 the oak branches, uttered a low mournful 
 note. And now she had reached the 
 mound that marked Dot’s grave ; the 
 flowers upon it gleamed ghost-like in the 
 
192 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 dim obscurity; the faint sunbeams scarce 
 fell upon the blossoms. But ob ! what 
 was this she saw before her ? What was 
 this dark indistinct something that barred 
 the way between her and little Dot ? It 
 lay so still, so awfully still, inert, motion- 
 less. She dared not fly, she dared not 
 stay, she must advance ; step by step, 
 shaking, trembling, fighting the terrible 
 surmise that leapt to her mind, she ad- 
 vanced little by little. 
 
 Now she was close upon it — now she 
 was beside it — bending down — putting out 
 her hand to touch it, while averting her 
 eyes. The sun gave forth one sudden 
 golden gleam that pierced even the gloom 
 of the wood, and Penelope, forcing her 
 terror-stricken eyes to obey her will, 
 stooped down, and in the dying daylight 
 looked upon the dark, ashen countenance 
 of Louis de Yentadore. His head had 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 193 
 
 fallen back, crushing the wild flowers upon 
 Dorothy’s grave. One lifeless hand held 
 the weapon that had brought rest to his 
 turbulent spirit ; by the other lay a packet, 
 fallen probably from out the pocket of 
 his riding-coat. The inquisitive sunbeams 
 flickered mockingly across his dead face, 
 the evening wind stirred gently the short 
 dark hair upon his brow, and fluttered the 
 lace on his long cravat. 
 
 A brown-eyed bird alighted fearlessly 
 beside him, and searched for the food 
 her little ones required. What should 
 it know of the eternal mystery of life 
 and death, of time or of eternity ? Its 
 little life was encompassed in a few 
 short months of summer, and then, either 
 it fell a victim to the fowler, or it 
 drooped in the first hard frost, and knew 
 nothing more of the sunshine or the 
 gentle winds. 
 
 VOL. in. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 OLD BOSTON* 
 
 Penelope gazed terror-stricken. She 
 knew now why she was impelled to seek 
 Dot’s grave and ask forgiveness. He was 
 there, and, by the side of the two she had 
 most injured, she fell on her knees in an 
 agony of remorse. 
 
 This, then, was vengeance, and this was 
 her reward. On Dot’s grave and at Dot’s 
 last resting-place he had taken the life 
 that only a few short years ago seemed so 
 bright with promise. 
 
 There would be mourning in the old 
 Provence chateau, where the Angelus bells 
 from the Rep ar at rice convent struck the 
 golden hours, and where the blue sea 
 washed up against the verdant cliffs ; there 
 would be mourning, true and sincere, for 
 the young chevalier, who, as he descended 
 the stone staircase that April morning, 
 years ago, bowed his knee and doffed his 
 hat to the sound of the chiming bells, ere 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 195 
 
 he entered the great salon where Anais 
 stood, and demanded as her right his fealty 
 and his sword. 
 
 “ Gorde et manu,” he had said in 
 response to her mother’s appeal, and now 
 he lay dead ; slain by his own hand, for 
 the sake of the woman whose baby eyes 
 had charmed him so long ago. 
 
 Slowly, slowly Pen bowed her head ; 
 the terrible tears of remorse were falling 
 thick and fast, upon the ghastly face, upon 
 the listless hands, upon the quiet, un- 
 responsive lips. Her heart was very bitter 
 with the bitterness of despair. For this 
 she had schemed, planned, intrigued, lied 
 — for this — and here lay her revenge ; 
 stark, cold, lifeless at her feet ! 
 
 The shadows darkened about her ; the 
 wind moaned and dashed the slender 
 tree-tops one against another ; the night 
 birds, owls, bats, and noisome flying crea- 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 tures, circled over her head, still she knelt, 
 unheeding time or place. The stars crept 
 forth, the tiny moths and insects settled 
 upon the heavy folds of her gown and 
 cloak, and still she knelt looking into 
 that lifeless face, made terrible by the 
 seal of eternity, learning therein how 
 poor and weak and ineffectual is human 
 vengeance when life and death lie so 
 close together that a man’s hand may 
 loose the silver cord and shatter the golden 
 bowl. 
 
 It was night when at last she arose, 
 and, gathering up the packet, replaced it 
 in the dead man’s keeping. She knew, 
 without assurance, that there were 
 Anais’ few short letters written to her 
 lover, during his absence in France, when 
 first he loved her, and when she was 
 heart-free and Gilderoy Duncombe was 
 as yet unknown. They were all he had 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 197 
 
 now, and, with his dead mother’s picture, 
 his only talisman when he flung off the 
 coil of life that bore too heavily upon 
 him. 
 
 Thus she left him ; creeping away 
 through the night with hasty, stealthy 
 footsteps, and drawing closer the heavy 
 folds of her dark roccelo. And all the long 
 hours he lay there unsought, untended ; 
 the dews settled thickly upon him, the 
 wind rustled the velvet of his mantle, 
 the moon shone coldly upon the gleaming 
 steel of his rapier ; but he slept too deeply 
 to be disturbed by any earthly sound or 
 touch. 
 
 Here at little Dot’s grave he had fallen 
 in his death-agony, and with what cry upon 
 his lips no mortal tongue could ever tell ; 
 but surely if her sweet spirit, so generous 
 to forgive, so ready to console, so steadfast 
 and so pure, could look down upon the 
 
198 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 dark cold face, lying against the flowers 
 on her grave, she would find nought 
 hut words of pity and compassion to 
 bestow. 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 199 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The tale lies finished before me, and I, 
 Ann Truesdale, have completed the work 
 conceived so many long years ago, when in 
 my childhood’s southern home my little 
 heart responded to the call of my dead 
 great-grandmother. 
 
 As I sit within her old domain, and raise 
 my eyes to the two beautiful faces above 
 me, which for over a hundred years have 
 graced the walls of the green withdra wing- 
 room, and note the amber-lighted eyes, the 
 golden-flecked hair, the roses, red and 
 white, held carelessly betwixt the slender 
 fingers, the whole century of love, passion, 
 regret, lies bare before me, and sweeps 
 
200 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 away all lesser emotions in the strange 
 glamour of the past. 
 
 I have traced with tender fingers this 
 tale of a century ago. With reverent eyes 
 I have scanned the time-stained documents, 
 and with loving heart have I recorded the 
 temptations, the struggles, the victories 
 revealed therein ; at my hand lies the tiny 
 miniature of Grilderoy Duncombe, with its 
 crest and motto derived from the old border 
 fief of True Castle ; the lover of these two 
 rare women, the conqueror of these two 
 proud hearts. Of him the details are few 
 and scant; the colouring dim and uncer- 
 tain ; we catch glimpses of his handsome 
 face, his winsome presence, only to lose 
 them again ; he is shadowy, uncertain, 
 furtive, yet he holds and dominates all 
 who come within his influence, and we feel 
 that since both Dorothy and Anais loved 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 201 
 
 him, with a love passing that of most 
 women, he could not be all unworthy. 
 
 And now there remain but a few broken 
 threads, from out the old tale, for me to 
 gather into my hand and knot together, 
 unskilfully at the best. 
 
 Many long years came and went after 
 that Apifil evening, when Penelope Dudley 
 crept away, and left beside little Dot’s 
 grave all that was mortal of Louis de 
 Ventadore. 
 
 The dawning struggle of a nation grew 
 into gigantic proportions, engulfing all 
 minor tragedies in its whirlpool of fiercer 
 passions, hopes, fears, victories. When a 
 whole country groaned and laboured in 
 distress and anguish, what time was there 
 to heed the private griefs, sorrows, joys, or 
 blessings of individuals ? And yet each 
 single life, bearing its own appointed 
 
202 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 burden, formed a factor in tlie great body 
 which, as one man, fought with such 
 desperation and despair. 
 
 Pen Dudley, sitting alone for months 
 and years in the old Hall, had time to 
 muse and reflect upon the days gone by ; 
 on the folly, the unwisdom, the reckless 
 blindness and careless ignorance in which 
 she had passed that twelvemonth, out of 
 which had grown events and consequences 
 of such terrible import to her country and 
 herself. As Duncombe had said bitterly, 
 they danced upon a smoking crater and 
 then wondered that the flames consumed 
 them ere they could escape. 
 
 Of Philip Troubridge she heard but 
 little ; he had gone from her with the 
 same loyal trust and belief in her that he 
 had always shown ; and now, when it was 
 too late, she valued his constancy and faith 
 with a deeper appreciation than had ever 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 203 
 
 before stirred her heart ; but her cries and 
 tears were all in vain, Philip was at his 
 Chief’s side, fighting, enduring, waiting, 
 with a stoicism and courage that rivalled 
 even that of Washington. He grew silent 
 and grave, old before the down of youth 
 had changed upon his lips to the darker 
 colouring of manhood, and with somewhat 
 of the sternness of his puritan ancestors 
 written on his face ; but his general knew 
 the untarnished honour, the loyal heart, 
 the strong upright justice, which dwelt 
 beneath that cold exterior ; and his men 
 served and obeyed him with an enthusiasm 
 that not all the defeats, hardships, and 
 discouragements of that perilous campaign 
 could alter or diminish. 
 
 The fortunes and the tide of war had 
 passed away from Boston. All was very 
 quiet there now and bore no resemblance 
 to the gay bustling city of one short year 
 
204 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 ago ; the patriots were fighting and losing, 
 and fighting again, along the Hudson and 
 in the Jerseys, pushing towards Hew York, 
 which as yet remained staunch to the King. 
 
 Thus Penelope had long, long hours in 
 which to recount her mistakes and failures, 
 and in which to wonder oyer the fate of 
 Anais and her gallant lover. No word 
 came to her from over the sea to render 
 less intolerable her weight of miserable 
 remorse when she thought of little Dot and 
 Louis de Ventadore, both dead through 
 her rash, impetuous spirit, and her mad, 
 uncalculating desire for revenge. Did she 
 but know Anais was happy her punish- 
 ment would be lessened ; for if one out of 
 the little company so blithe and debonnaire 
 was born to happiness and success, surely 
 that one was Anais — but Anais never 
 wrote. 
 
 Once only, in a London journal, she 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 205 
 
 read of the beautiful Lady Truesdale, who 
 led the revels at Carlton House, and 
 rivalled all other favourites in the Prince’s 
 attentions. Pen smiled as she read, a 
 hard cold smile ; ’twas so like Tais to 
 dance and sing and be gay and powerful, 
 no matter whose heart ached and bled — 
 ay, no matter if her own throbbed and cried 
 piteously beneath the stomacher of costly 
 laces and jewels. 
 
 Manor Farm was closed, old Nanon had 
 disappeared, and the house stood desolate 
 and unoccupied. The white noisette roses 
 knocked their heads vainly against Dot’s 
 window-sill. Ho slender girlish hand 
 opened the casement to cull their drooping 
 blossoms ; the corridors and hall were 
 empty, and the sunlight, casting its shift- 
 ing beams across the polished floor and 
 wainscot, touched now the tall old clock, 
 whose little restless ship was stilled at 
 
206 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 last, and now the panels above the swing- 
 ing cradle, where the purple of Sisera’s 
 robe and the crimson of Jael’s mantle 
 flashed back in fitful splendour the bright- 
 ness of its rays. In the green drawing- 
 room stood Dorothy’s tambour-frame, the 
 busy little needle suspended by a faded 
 thread of silk, its shining point broken 
 and rusty ; the paintings on the window- 
 shutters, that Anais’ hands had fashioned, 
 were dusty and dull ; the harpsichord un- 
 used and silent ; the wild tangle of flowers 
 and weeds beneath the long windows 
 desolate and untended ; only the portraits 
 of the two sisters shone forth more lovely 
 and entrancing from amidst the ruin and 
 desolation that surrounded them. 
 
 Each held her rose — mute but eloquent 
 emblem of the lives they typified. Far far 
 away, over the sea, the flushing crimson 
 beauty decked the bosom and hair of 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 207 
 
 Anais; imperious, domineering, wielding 
 her power oyer prince and noble as lightly 
 as she had swayed it over De Ventadore and 
 Duncombe; statesmen sought her smile, and 
 courtiers bowed before her ; she counted 
 her conquests by the score, her power was 
 unlimited ; and yet, whose was the life 
 most nobly won — hers so full of colour, of 
 movement, of success, of homage — or little 
 Dot’s, who, with the spotless white rose of 
 innocence, had lost her life through love 
 that knew no stain of selfishness, no stint 
 of glad generosity ? 
 
 Under the maple-trees she [slept, with 
 the daisies covering her ; under the very 
 trees from whence had come Gilderoy, 
 falling at her feet and suing for protec- 
 tion, murmuring even in his delirium as he 
 first looked upon her face, “ An angel ! ” 
 Gilderoy, who had won her love, wantonly, 
 lightly ; who had broken the calm, happy 
 
208 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 monotony of her girl-life by his kisses, his 
 whispers, his half -formed promises; and 
 then had as lightly and carelessly thrown 
 aside the paler, purer bud, for the more 
 enchanting glow and colour of the riper 
 blossom. 
 
 Some such thoughts were passing 
 through my heart as I wrote the last page 
 recording De Yentadore’s tragic ending. 
 Before me lay the parure of diamonds, in 
 the worn leather case, with its crest and 
 twisted cipher. Were these the gems that 
 had flashed upon Anais’ fair throat and 
 before whose splendour the De Yentadore 
 rubies sank into insignificance ? Were 
 these the jewels Pen’s tongue described so 
 glibly that night when she urged on Anais 
 to treachery and deceit ? 
 
 The stones gleamed with a thousand 
 varying lights ; they grew alive, illumined 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 209 
 
 by an inward fire and vitality ; they 
 mocked me by tbeir pale gleams of cold 
 radiance, tbeir changing hues and rays. 
 “ When first they clasped Anais’ throat 
 her punishment began.” Had not old 
 Lady Troubridge said it ? And now they 
 were mine. But why should I be left 
 such a heritage of woe ? Why was my 
 life so strangely connected with the destiny 
 of my beautiful great-grandmother ? Why 
 should I, with an intensity I could neither 
 explain nor fathom, recognize as an 
 imperative duty the delineation of this life 
 so long ago completed, so long ago passed 
 beyond all human judgment ? 
 
 A shadow fell athwart me. I looked up. 
 Squire Troubridge stood beside me ; his 
 gentle calm face a little flushed. I rose 
 silently and gave him my hand ; he held it 
 for a moment longer than usual, and re- 
 
 vol. in. 
 
 r 
 
210 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 linquished it with a quick half-pressure. 
 He looked at me a little nervously, as he 
 said in his melancholy monotone, 
 
 “ You scarce looked for me, Miss Ann, 
 to-day ? But I returned earlier. I found 
 I could not remain away from — I decided 
 to curtail my absence. You are so amiable, 
 Miss Ann, I venture to come to you on my 
 arrival.” 
 
 Of course, I assured him of my pleasure 
 at seeing him, and after a little more 
 desultory conversation he asked abruptly, 
 
 “ And our work, Miss Ann, our life- 
 work, over which we spend our labours in 
 a specially appointed manner?” 
 
 For answer I placed my completed pages 
 before him. He scanned them eagerly and 
 carefully. When he had finished he looked 
 up and said suddenly, 
 
 “ I will complete the tale, Miss Ann, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 211 
 
 and render plain to you the mysteries that 
 still surround it. Miss Ann, have you 
 ever thought for whom you were named ? 
 Have you ever seen the register of your 
 christening ? ’ ’ 
 
 Without allowing me time to answer, he 
 unfolded and laid before me a sheet of 
 parchment, evidently a copy of an original 
 document. It was the certificate of the 
 birth and baptism of Anais Truesdale, 
 daughter of Grilderoy Truesdale and 
 Clarissa his wife. Beneath was an entry 
 of the deaths of both Grilderoy and 
 Clarissa within a few months of one 
 another, and within the year that had seen 
 the birth of the little child. 
 
 As I read, a tremor of apprehension 
 shook me, like one in a dream. I recalled 
 many circumstances and events long ago 
 forgotten ; my grandmother Truesdale 
 
212 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 seemed to rise before me, ber calm 
 passionless face, ber unbending inflexible 
 manner; her chilling words, ber repulse 
 of all my efforts at tenderness or affection, 
 with a gesture or a look so cold that I 
 shrank back frozen and dismayed. "Was I 
 that little Anais, and was it true, as both my 
 grandmother and Lady Troubridge had inti- 
 mated, that the legacy of my great-grand- 
 mother’s fatal beauty had descended to me 
 in the colour and expression of my eyes ? 
 
 The Squire broke across my reflections 
 with his clear incisive voice, 
 
 “ You are astonished, Miss Ann ? Yet 
 that is indeed your name — her name — and 
 you, who are the first to wear it, since she so 
 graced it, become it rarely well, and with 
 a gentleness that far outstrips hers. This 
 is the tale, repeated to me by my mother, 
 with whom, after many long years of 
 silence, Anais communicated, and to whom 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 213 
 
 slie appealed for help. The Lady Trues- 
 dale found but sorrow and disappointment 
 fall to her lot, though to all the world 
 ’twas crowned with glory and success. 
 But a few months passed ere she came to 
 a terrible awakening. Gilderoy, for whom 
 she risked all — honour, truth, name — 
 grew weary of her, and she learned, in all 
 its bitterness, the humiliation of love 
 scorned and rejected, cast lightly off as 
 too exacting and excessive ; she saw her 
 husband grow indifferent and languid ; he 
 who was once so ardent, so passionate, so 
 entreating, seek fresher faces, though one 
 more beautiful he could never find ; leave 
 her neglected, alone, uncared for, and all 
 the time the love in her heart burned fiercer 
 and stronger. Hers was not a nature to 
 love easily, but when once aroused it 
 knew no rest and suffered no diminution. 
 
 “ He carried her off to London, for he 
 
214 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 was proud of her wondrous beauty, and 
 it was in London she heard of little Dot’s 
 death. There was a grand ball at True 
 House, the young Prince of Wales and all 
 his train of admirers were to grace her 
 supper-table ; she was to outshine them 
 all, such was her lord’s pleasure, and for 
 the first time wear the old Truesdale 
 diamonds. She was regal, magnificent, in 
 her dress of white velvet and train of 
 silver cloth ; not more brilliant were the 
 gems, on their velvet cushions, than her 
 eyes ; not more soft and white the texture 
 of her robe than that of her neck and 
 arms. Her tire- woman held the circlet, 
 ready to clasp it about her throat, while 
 the wax-lights flickered and flashed across 
 it. There was a sudden noise in the corri- 
 dor, a sound of angry protest, calmed in 
 an instant by the sharp keen tones of a 
 shrill voice that cried out, 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 215 
 
 “ ‘ Taisez-vous ! sots, canailles ! ’Tis mi- 
 lady I seek, show ye the way.’ 
 
 “And in a second the door was flung 
 back, and Anais, starting forward, met the 
 flashing scornful eyes of old Nanon. She 
 put up her hands to ward off the woman’s 
 glances ; she trembled from head to foot ; 
 the white misery of her face touched 
 even her serving-women, but Nanon was 
 pitiless. 
 
 “ ‘ Tiens, madame,’ she cried out, ‘ I be- 
 hold that I come at an unwelcome season, 
 but, like death, I know no time nor hour, 
 all are the same to me. I come from Dot, 
 milady — from Dot, whose white soul you 
 slew with your cruel hands on your wed- 
 ding morning. I come from Dot — from 
 Dot, who lies dead, cold, slain, in that vile 
 country, from whence you fled, taking her 
 life with you.’ 
 
 “ Anais, pale as death, went up to her ; 
 
216 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 she caught the feeble hands in her strong 
 ones, and drew her into an inner chamber 
 and shut to the door. "What passed there 
 we shall never know ; when Anais came 
 forth she was very pale and still ; she let 
 her women clasp the diamonds upon her 
 bosom ; and as she stood arrayed in price- 
 less robes and jewels, in all the magnifi- 
 cence of her proud beauty, her lord came 
 in, flirting his laced kerchief, as he 
 sprinkled his ruffles with essence of 
 roses. 
 
 “ She went up to him swiftly and caught 
 his hand ; she shone upon him like some 
 marvel of fairy lore ; she looked at him 
 longingly, her eyes gleaming yellow in the 
 lights. 
 
 “ £ Gilderoy !’ she cried, the misery of 
 her heart repeated in her voice. ‘Gilderoy 
 — Truesdale — be kind to me ; for — oh, 
 my God ! — little Dot is dead ! * 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 217 
 
 “ He looked at her for a moment, his 
 careless open face growing as pale as her 
 own ; then he laughed, and with a light 
 cruel smile made answer, 
 
 “ ‘ Little Dot is dead. Ay, by my faith, 
 she was a fair blossom, and she loved me, 
 Tais, rarely well ! ’ 
 
 “ With one low cry she let fall his hand. 
 What mattered anything now, her daisy 
 flower was withered, her little rose of 
 Paradise passed from her for ever; her 
 sister was dead, and she had robbed her 
 of her only love. Gilderoy was cold and 
 altered, but Dot’s heart would never have 
 known shadow or change, and now she 
 was dead. Anais dropped her head upon 
 her hands ; the jems upon her bosom 
 burned beneath her gaze ; the flashing 
 changing jewels mocked her woe ; for this 
 she had sacrificed her all — for this — and 
 little Dot was dead, lying in her lonely 
 
218 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 grave under the maple-trees at Manor 
 Farm. 
 
 “ Of a truth, Miss Ann, on that evening 
 with the jewels at her throat, a jest, a 
 smile upon her lips, she felt the iron enter 
 her soul and the bitterness of death en- 
 compass her. The years passed, but left 
 no sign upon her. She bore two sons, the 
 eldest, upon whom she set her poor broken 
 heart, fell in a duel ; the youngest, named 
 Gilderoy after his father, and now become 
 heir to the title and estates, disappeared, 
 after an altercation with my lord, and was 
 never again seen nor heard from. 
 
 “ Thus lonely, loveless, weary, Anais 
 lived on in the whirl of the maddest court 
 of the day, and headed each revel, each 
 festivity ; no wit was so poignant, no laugh 
 so musical, no face so fair ; but beneath it 
 all her heart ached and throbbed, with an 
 ever-increasing bitterness, for little Dot 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 210 
 
 who had spent her life so gladly in Tais’ 
 behalf. 
 
 “ Twenty-five years went by thus, and 
 then my mother heard from her. She 
 wrote a letter, but it came after the hand 
 that had penned it was cold and lifeless ; 
 the merciful angel had called her at last, 
 and she hastened away gladly, with one 
 name only upon her lips — not that of hus- 
 band or of child — but of Dot — of her little 
 sister.” 
 
 The Squire ceased speaking ; he was 
 greatly agitated, he walked from me 
 towards the window. It was winter, and 
 the snow covered the garden borders and 
 lay in soft white touches upon tree and 
 shrub. His lips trembled, the tears 
 sprang to his eyes ; he walked quickly 
 towards the portraits ; raising his hand, he 
 called out sharply, 
 
 “ Said I not truly ? Was she not more 
 
220 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 sinned against than sinning ? Aniiis ! 
 Anais ! the hour has come and your 
 memory shall be vindicated ! ” 
 
 He came back to me presently and re- 
 sumed his wonted composure. 
 
 “ The letter to my mother, Miss Ann, 
 was accompanied by a portrait of Lady 
 Truesdale, executed by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds ; you know it well, it hangs in 
 the hall and reveals her to us in the zenith 
 of her beauty; beside this was a small 
 box wrapped in many coverings; when 
 opened a worn green leather jewel-case 
 appeared, stamped with a coronet and the 
 motto £ True.’ This case lies before you, 
 its contents are the same to-day as then — 
 the Truesdale diamonds, which descend in 
 the female line, from mother to daughter. 
 
 “ Her letter was a sad one ; it set forth 
 her life, her remorse, the grief that would 
 not be consoled ; the ever-increasing dis- 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 221 
 
 appointment as year by year passed on, 
 and slie gained no information of her son, 
 and was vouchsafed no other child to fill 
 the vacant weariness of her heart. She 
 unfolded to my mother her secret suspicion 
 that her son Gilderoy had sought a refuge 
 in the southern counties of these colonies, 
 where she still believed him to be living. 
 She wrote with the fear of death upon her, 
 and she charged my mother, by all the 
 sacredness of friendship, to guard the 
 jewels which she sent, until some maiden 
 heriter of her name and lineage should 
 arise to claim them. 
 
 “ ‘ To my exceeding misery,’ she wrote, 
 ‘ and to my exceeding punishment, it has 
 pleased God to deny me the solace of a 
 daughter’s love and care. No woman- 
 child, born of me, can ever bear my name, 
 and it is just, for that name must tsurely 
 bring a curse upon the luckless babe who 
 
222 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 wore it. But, Penelope, metliinks one day, 
 my poor son, named after his father, 
 Gilderoy, may come across your path, since 
 I have certain knowledge that he sought 
 the Americas when he fled from my lord, 
 or if not he, then some one who boasts his 
 blood within their veins ; and should it 
 prove a child’s child, and should that child 
 be a woman, I charge ye, give her the 
 diamonds and bid her, for the love I bore 
 my little Dot, make clear the history of 
 our lives.’ 
 
 “ Miss Ann, you are the direct descen- 
 dant of that young Gilderoy Truesdale, 
 who fled from home and country and never 
 returned. He came direct to Virginia, 
 and there he made his home and won for 
 his wife one of the Governor Carroll’s 
 daughters. She bore him one son, another 
 Gilderoy, your father. He was wild and 
 wilful; he wedded against his parents’ 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 223 
 
 desires, and lie died in liis first year of 
 marriage, followed, ere three months 
 passed, by his young wife, who left to the 
 care of his mother a baby girl — the little 
 Anais — whose name is written in this 
 register. You were that little baby, Miss 
 Ann, and your grandmother Truesdale 
 was the wife of that young Gilderoy, son 
 of Anais de Grasse. 
 
 “ Your grandmother bore a bitter en- 
 mity towards her husband’s mother. She 
 entreated him often, but always vainly, to 
 take up the old title and lay claim to the 
 estates of True Castle, which since his 
 father’s death had lapsed to the Crown ; 
 but your grandfather had become a 
 staunch patriot, and he scorned the empty 
 honours of his ancestors. 
 
 However, as he was the last to inherit 
 the title, he adopted the Truesdale name 
 and transmitted it to his son. This was 
 
224 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 the only concession he would make to his 
 wife’s importunities. The memories of 
 his father and his life in England held 
 little save bitterness for him. Of his 
 mother he never spoke ; though his wife did 
 not scruple to sneer openly at her, and 
 held her in reproach and scorn. 
 
 “ Your name of Anais she would never 
 tolerate. 
 
 “ ‘ ’Twas the name of a woman who was 
 false,’ she said ; and so when first you 
 came she called you Ann ; it has a sound 
 of the other in it, all the same, and we 
 who have come to know and love you, love 
 the name for its wearer’s sake.” 
 
 I was silent, I could not reply, so much 
 of the past was opened before me. Now, 
 indeed, I comprehended and understood 
 the strange domination of my great-grand- 
 mother’s spirit over mine. She had sinned 
 deeply, she had suffered bitterly ; the 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 225 
 
 judgment of her own kin had been given 
 against her ; her very name had been 
 shunned and scorned as though tainted 
 and contaminated, and upon me she had 
 laid the burden of her expiation and 
 atonement. I turned to the Squire and 
 held out my band. 
 
 “ You are generous and noble,” I said, 
 “ for you only had faith and trust in the 
 integrity of her heart.” 
 
 He bowed his head until his lips touched 
 my hand. 
 
 “ Miss Ann, it has been my privilege to 
 love her for fifty long years ; it is my 
 triumph to-day to see you, who bear her 
 name and beauty, exonerate her memory 
 and her honour. Miss Ann, I offer to you 
 the remainder of my life. Do with it as 
 you will.” 
 
 It was evening ere Squire Troubridge 
 left me, and I stood alone in the quick- 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 gathering gloom. I walked to the window 
 followed by Laddie, who watched me in- 
 tently, his tawny-coloured eyes full of mute 
 affection. Without it was cold and cheer- 
 less; the long, pale shadows of winter 
 wrapped all the landscape ; the sea beat 
 up sullenly in low, angry pulsations ; the 
 fields and meadows were clad in sad dull 
 raiment, not a leaf was in bud, not a bird 
 foretold the oncoming spring. 
 
 The house was very silent, the wood 
 embers on the hearth sank lower and 
 lower ; the harpsichord grew shadowy and 
 indistinct; the waving yew-trees, tall, 
 grim, gaunt, flung wide their boughs and 
 sighed monotonously as the wind swept 
 through them. 
 
 I was alone. Before me lay the dia- 
 monds and the tiny miniature of Gilderoy 
 Buncombe ; beyond me lay the maple- 
 wood where slept little Dot, her grave all 
 
OLD BOSTON. 
 
 227 
 
 over-sown and unrecognizable with the 
 wild daisies of the soil ; and here stood I, 
 the one last representative of a name and 
 a race whose annals counted all that was 
 brave and chivalrous. 
 
 Plain Ann Truesdale, even the more 
 graceful appellation had been denied me ; 
 a woman predestined to fulfil and complete 
 the history of one who, by her matchless 
 beauty, her inscrutable charm, enthralled 
 all who approached her, and enslaved all 
 who fell beneath her influence. 
 
 I, Ann Truesdale, who had borne her 
 name and knew it not ; whose childish 
 years had been stirred to vague unrest 
 beneath her magic sway ; whose maiden 
 dreams of love and happiness had crum- 
 bled at a touch; whose womanhood had 
 borne no fruit save that of patience and 
 endurance ; separated from her by a cen- 
 tury of years, yet united by a bond so 
 q 2 
 
228 
 
 OLD BOSTON. 
 
 subtle that neither death nor time could 
 sever it. 
 
 I turned away, my eyes rested on the 
 beautiful portraits. There they hung ; the 
 two noble faces, smiling — silent — ambi- 
 guous — holding each their rose and guard- 
 ing with quiet inviolability their history 
 and their fate. 
 
 I closed the diamonds within the case. 
 The story was told ; the drama ended. 
 Love, pride, sacrifice, each had played 
 their part ; and now the music was 
 hushed ; the colours dimmed ; Anais and 
 Dorothy slept in the gentle arms of death, 
 and I held within my jealous keeping the 
 story of their lives, even as I held the old 
 house where all the tragedy of their fate 
 occurred. 
 
 I have accomplished my work ; for me 
 life holds no further tale of love or pas- 
 sion ; with a future hedged in the quiet 
 
OLD HOSTON. 
 
 229 
 
 lines, and set in the neutral tints of retro- 
 spection, I await the end ; and while sub- 
 missive to my lot, rejoice that to Anais, 
 however tardily, it has been permitted me 
 to ascribe justice and right. 
 
 Anais and Dorothy hang side by side 
 in the green withdrawing-room ; the sun- 
 light of summer rests lovingly upon them; 
 the firelight of winter caresses them ten- 
 derly ; and I, as I move about my heritage 
 bestowed by them, thank God, humbly and 
 sincerely, that life has come to me in so 
 fair a guise, and that when I pass away to 
 join my dead lover, I shall leave completed 
 my allotted task — the vindication of her 
 who was known as Anais de Grasse. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON 
 
 PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED, 
 
 st. John’s square. 
 

 
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