“Mark Antony, go up to the Green Dragon and get this gentleman’s trunk. Tell the landlord I sent you. Hold on a moment: it is after nine o’clock, and the watchman may overhaul you and want to know what you are doing. You must have an order.”
Mr. Brandon stepped to a writing-desk and wrote an order, receiving which Mark Antony bowed and took his departure.
Mr. Brandon was in the prime of life, hale, hearty, vigorous, a former ship captain, who had been to London many times, also through the Straits of Gibraltar, to Madeira, Jamaica, and round Cape of Good Hope to China. He had seen enough of ocean life and had become a builder of ships. He was accustomed to give orders, manage men, and was quick to act. He had accumulated wealth, and was living in a spacious mansion on the summit of the hill. On calm summer evenings he smoked his pipe upon the platform on the roof of his house, looking through a telescope at vessels making the harbor, reading the signals flying at the masthead, and saying to himself and friends that the approaching vessel was from London or the West Indias.
Robert admired the homelike residence, the paneled wainscoting, the fluted pilasters, elaborately carved mantel, glazed tiles, mahogany centre-table, armchairs, the beautifully carved writing-desk, the pictures on the walls of ships under full sail weathering rocky headlands.
Mrs. Brandon and her daughter Berinthia entered the room. Mrs. Brandon was very fair for a woman in middle life. Berinthia had light blue eyes, cherry ripe lips, and rosy cheeks.
“I have heard father speak of you often, and he is always holding up cousin Rachel as a model for me,” said Berinthia, shaking hands with him.
Tom told of what had happened at the town pump.
“The soldiers are a vile set,” said Mrs. Brandon.
“They are becoming very insolent, and I fear we shall have trouble with them,” said Mr. Brandon.
Mark Antony came with the trunk, and Tom lighted a candle to show Robert to his chamber. Berinthia walked with him to the foot of the stairs.