Part 9 (2/2)

We looked back from the gateway, and saw that she had come to the end of the veranda to see us from the garden. We doffed our hats, and Phil threw her a kiss; which she returned, and then waved her hand after us, softly smiling. Philip lingered a moment, smiling back, to get this last view of her ere he closed the gate.

We had just pa.s.sed the common, at the Northern end of the town, when we heard a clatter of galloping hoofs in the Bowery lane before us.

Looking up the vista of road shaded by trees in fresh leaf.a.ge, we saw a rider coming toward us at a very severe pace. As he approached, the horse stumbled; and the man on its back, fearing it might sink from exhaustion, drew up and gave it a moment in which to recover itself.

He evidently wished to make a decent entrance into the town. He was in a great panting and perspiration, like his trembling steed, which was covered with foam; and his clothes were disturbed and soiled with travel. He took off his c.o.c.ked felt hat to fan himself.

”You ride fast, for Sunday, friend,” said Phil pleasantly. ”Any trouble?”

”Trouble for some folks, I guess,” was the reply, spoken with a Yankee drawl and tw.a.n.g. ”I'm bringing news from Ma.s.sachusetts.” He slapped the great pocket of his plain coat, calling attention to its well-filled condition as with square papers. ”Letters from the Committee of Safety.”

”Why, has anything happened at Boston?” asked Phil, quickly.

”Well, no, not just at Boston. But out Concord way, and at Lexington, and on the road back to Boston, I should reckon a few things _had_ happened.” And then, leaving off his exasperating drawl, he very speedily related the terrible occurrence of the nineteenth of April--terrible because 'twas warlike bloodshed in a peaceful land, between the king's soldiers and the king's subjects, between men of the same race and speech, men of the same mother country; and because of what was to follow in its train. I remember how easily and soon the tale was told; how clearly the man's calm voice, though scarce raised above a usual speaking tone, stood out against the Sunday morning stillness, with no sound else but the twittering of birds in the trees near by.

”Get up!” said the messenger, not waiting for our thanks or comments; and so galloped into the town, leaving us to stare after him and then at each other.

”'Faith, this will make the colonies stand together,” said Philip at last.

”Ay,” said I, ”against the rebellious party.”

”No,” quoth he, ”when I say the colonies, I mean what you call the rebellious party in them.”

”Why, 'tis not the majority, and therefore it can't be said to represent the colonies.”

”I beg your pardon--I think we shall find it is the majority, particularly outside of the large towns. This news will fly to every corner of the land as fast as horses can carry it, and put the country folk in readiness for whatever the Continental Congress may decide upon.”

”Why, then, 'twill put our people on their guard, too, for whatever the rebels may attempt.”

Philip's answer to this brought about some dispute as to whether the name rebels, in its ordinary sense, could properly be applied to those colonists who had what he termed grievances. We both showed heat, I the more, until he, rather than quarrel, fell into silence. We had turned back into the town; choosing a roundabout way for home, that we might observe the effect of the messenger's news upon the citizens. In a few streets the narrow footways were thronged with people in their churchgoing clothes, and many of these had already gathered into startled groups, where the rider who came in such un-Sabbath-like haste had stopped to justify himself, and satisfy the curiosity of observers, and ask the whereabouts of certain gentlemen of the provincial a.s.sembly, to whom he had letters. We heard details repeated, and opinions uttered guardedly, and grave concern everywhere expressed.

By the time we had reached home, Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield were already there, discussing the news with my mother, in the presence of the two daughters and Tom. We found them all in the parlour. Margaret stood in the library doorway, still holding her novel in her hand, her finger keeping the page. Her face showed but a languid interest in the tragedy which made all the others look so grave.

”You've heard the news, of course?” said Mr. Faringfield to us as we entered, curiously searching Philip's face while he spoke.

”Yes, sir; we were the first in the town to hear it, I think,” replied Phil.

”Tis a miracle if we do not have war,” said Mr. Faringfield.

”I pray not,” says my mother, who was a little less terrified than Mrs. Faringfield. ”And I won't believe we shall, till I see it at our doors.”

”Oh, don't speak of it!” cried Mrs. Faringfield, with a shudder.

”Why, ladies,” says Philip, ”'tis best to think of it as if 'twere surely coming, and so accustom the mind to endure its horrors. I shall teach my wife to do so.” And he looked playfully over at Margaret.

”Why, what is it to me?” said Margaret. ”Tis not like to come before we sail, and in England we shall be well out of it. Sure you don't think the rebels will cross the ocean and attack London?”

”Why, if war comes,” said Phil, quietly, ”we shall have to postpone our sailing.”

”Postpone it!” she cried, in alarm. ”Why? And how long?”

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