Part 13 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: Christ Church.]

”That is John Newman at the organ,” Berinthia whispered.

It began soft and faint, as if far away--a flute, then a clarinet, a trumpet, growing louder, nearer, deeper, heavier, the loud notes rolling like far-off thunder, then dying into melody as sweet as the song of a bird. Never had Robert heard any music so delightful.

Looking towards the loft, he saw the gilded pipes of the instrument.

Upon the railing around it were figures of angels with trumpets.

”They were captured from a French s.h.i.+p in 1746 by Captain Grushea of the Queen of Hungary privateer,” Tom whispered. ”They were designed for a Romish church in Canada, but the captain brought them to Boston and presented them to the wardens of this church.”

Berinthia said the Bible and prayer-book were given by King George II.

at the request of Governor Belcher. She found the places in the prayer-book for him. He thought the prayers very beautiful, but could not quite see the need of getting up and sitting down so often. He never had taken part in meeting before, but when all the others read felt he too must let his voice be heard, otherwise the people would think he did not know how to read. He was startled at the sound of his own voice, but soon got over it, and rather liked the idea of the people taking some part in the service instead of having it all done by the minister. It was very delightful when the choir came in with the organ, in contrast to the singing in Rumford meetinghouse where the deacon lined the Psalms, two lines at a time, and set the tune with his pitch-pipe.

When the service was over and the people were going out, the organ began to play. The s.e.xton took them upstairs to see his brother John handle it. Robert was surprised to see him using his feet as well as his hands, fingering two sets of keys, pus.h.i.+ng in and pulling out what Tom said were ”stops.” When through with the piece, the organist explained the mechanism of the instrument, playing softly and then making the windows rattle.

An hour at noon, and then the meetinghouse bells were tolling for the afternoon service.

”We will go to our own meeting; I want you to hear Reverend Doctor Cooper,”[30] said Berinthia. The meetinghouse was in Brattle Street, close by the barracks. The soldiers were lounging around the building staring at the people, laughing, smoking their pipes, and making rude remarks. When meeting was over the soldiers gathered around the door and leered at the girls. Robert clenched his fist and felt his blood grow hot. A lieutenant started to walk beside Berinthia.

[Footnote 30: The meetinghouse in Brattle Street at the time of the opening of this story was a large unpainted wooden structure which was torn down in 1772 and replaced by an elegant edifice of brick with quoins of freestone. John Hanc.o.c.k gave one thousand pounds and a bell.

The pastor, Reverend Samuel Cooper, was an earnest advocate for the rights of the Colonies, and without doubt his influence, combined with that of Samuel Adams, had much to do in attaching Hanc.o.c.k to the patriots' side.]

”My cousin will not need your escort, sir,” said Robert touching his elbow.

The officer grew red in the face and disappeared in the barracks.

On Monday morning Robert bade his friends good-by. Peter Augustus had something for him at the Green Dragon: a basket filled with fruit--melocotoons, pears, and plums--and a neatly written note.

”Will Mr. Walden kindly take a basket of fruit to his sister, Miss Rachel, from Ruth Newville.”

That was all. What a surprise it would be to Rachel! Why was Miss Newville sending it? She never had met Rachel; knew nothing of her, except what little he had said, yet the gift!

The sun was going down the following evening when he reached the turn of the road bringing him in sight of home. He was yet half a mile away, but Rachel was standing in the doorway waving her ap.r.o.n. She could not wait for Jenny to trot home, but came down the road bareheaded, climbed into the wagon, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a hug and a kiss. There was a look of wonder on her face when he uncovered the basket of fruit and told her who had sent it,--a beautiful girl, one of Berinthia's friends, whom he had rescued from the king's soldiers. There were tears in Rachel's eyes when he put the beads around her neck.

”Oh, Rob! how good you are!”

It was all she could say.

November came, and Berinthia Brandon was sitting in her chamber. From its eastern window she looked across the burial ground with its rows of headstones. The leafless trees were swaying in the breeze. She was thinking of what Samuel Adams had said to her, that life is worth living just in proportion to the service we can render to others. What had she ever done for anybody? Not much. A feeling of sadness came over her. The afternoon sun was lengthening the shadows of the headstones across the gra.s.s-grown mounds. The first snow of approaching winter was lying white and pure above the sleeping forms of those who had finished their earthly work. Beyond the burial ground she beheld the harbor. The tide had been at its flood, and was sweeping towards the sea. A s.h.i.+p was sailing down the roadstead to begin its adventurous voyage to a distant land.

”Why can I not do something for somebody instead of idling my time away?” she said to herself, recalling what Mr. Adams had said--that it was the duty of every woman to forego personal comfort and pleasure for the promotion of the public good; that everybody should leave off using tea to let the king, the ministry, and the people of England know that the men and women of the Colonies could stand resolutely and unflinchingly for a great principle. With her father, mother, and Tom she had quit drinking tea; why should she not persuade others to banish it from their tables? A thought came to her, and she opened her writing-desk, a gift from her father, beautifully inlaid with ivory, which he had obtained in a foreign country. She dipped her pen into the ink, reflected a moment, and then wrote her thought: ”_We, the daughters of patriots, who have stood and do now stand for the public interest, with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea, in hope to frustrate a plan that tends to deprive the community of its rights._”[31]

[Footnote 31: The agreement signed by the mothers and daughters may be found in the _Boston News-Letter_, February 15, 1770.]

In her enthusiasm she walked the floor, thinking of those whom she would ask to sign it. She would not subject herself to ridicule by calling upon those who sided with the king, but upon those who she knew were ready to make sacrifices for justice and right.

”I am glad you have written it, daughter,” Mr. Brandon said when she informed him of what she had done and was intending to do; ”I see no reason, wife, why you should not do what you can in the same way among the women, to let people on the other side of the sea understand the Colonies are in earnest. Already there has been a great falling off in trade between the Colonies and England, and if we can stop this tea trade it will not be long before the merchants will be swarming around Parliament demanding something to be done. We must arouse public sentiment on this question, and you, daughter, are just the girl to begin it.”

Mr. Brandon reached out his hand and took Berinthia's and gave it a squeeze to let her know he had faith in her.