Jane was glad to obey. This interview with the old maid had not been so pleasant that she wished to prolong it; so she went and summoned Mary.
That gentle girl went into the garden a little anxious, for the excitement of the last night had found its reaction, and she was ready to tremble at the fall of a leaf.
The change that had come over Aunt Polly was a beautiful proof of the influence of a character like that of Mary Derwent. With Jane the old maid had been peremptory and dictatorial, feeling very little respect for the wayward girl—she expressed none; but for Mary her heart was filled with a world of tender reverence. She touched her daintily, as she would have plucked a snowdrop, and spoke to her in a low, earnest voice, such as she would have used in prayer, had she been much inclined to devotion.
“Mary,” she said, laying one hard hand lightly on the maiden’s shoulder, “a strange thing happened to me this morning. As Gineral Washington and I was on our way up stream, a woman came out from the beach-woods on the flats, and stopped right in the road, afore that knowing animal and me, as if she wanted to say something; but she didn’t speak, and the Gineral sort o’ shied at fust, for the red dress, all glittering with wampum, was enough to scare any hoss.”
“Had she a scarlet dress on, a crown of feathers around her head, and a glittering snake twisted in her hair?” inquired Mary, quickly.
“That’s her to a T. I shall never forget the sharp, red eyes of that sarpent; a live rattlesnake couldn’t have eyed the Gineral and I more fiercely. I waited a minute, to give the woman a chance, if she wanted to speak, but she was searching my face with her eyes, as if she wanted to look me through afore she opened her lips. I was a’most tempted to up whip and ride straight over her; but the Gineral seemed to have his own idee—not a huff would he lift. I shook the bridle like all-possessed, and chirruped him along, as if he’d been a nussing baby; but there he stood stock-still in the road, a-eyeing the strange woman jest as independent as she was eyeing him and me.”
“And did she say nothing?”
“By-an’-by she spoke, and though it was afore sunrise, it seemed as if a bust of light broke over her face, it lit up so.
“‘Can you tell me,’ she said, ‘where I can find a small island that lies in the river about here? I have passed one or two, but there are no houses on ’em, and the one I want has a cabin somewhere near the shore.’
“‘Maybe you want Monockonok,’ says I, ‘where old Miss Derwent lives?’