“Be not too sure of that,” Stephen answered with a smile, but Clotilde refused to look at the matter hopefully.
By autumn the dwelling was ready for occupation and a splendid half-new, half-familiar place it seemed. Stephen had bought only such material as the ship-owners had to sell and had spent only such money, in the building, as would help his fellow townsmen. Therefore the house was only half finished, with carving and panelling in one apartment and bare rafters in another, with rough wooden shutters where windows should have been and walls of unsmoothed boards in many of the bedrooms. The big drawing-room was completed, however, with its white cupboards and panelling and long casement windows opening to the east. In the hall a great carved staircase with a white balustrade and mahogany handrail wound up to the second floor. The round window on the landing encircled, like a frame, a far view of rocky capes, scattered islands and broad, blue sea. Here Clotilde loved to kneel upon the cushioned seat and watch for hours the whirling gulls, the blue October sky and the sunlight on white, swiftly-moving sails.
When the word went forth that Master Sheffield’s house was at last completed, the doors of Hopewell opened and out came, in long and straggling procession, those household treasures that the friendly souls of the town had risked their lives in rescuing. There were framed pictures, from the huge, heavy portraits down to the little sampler over which Margeret Radpath had pricked her fingers on the very day that first she laid eyes upon Roger Bardwell. There were the old bits of pewter that had belonged to Mistress Radpath when she was a bride, there was the bowl that was Samuel Skerry’s unwilling marriage gift, there was the wonderful silver service given to Stephen when on his mission to England. There were rolls of homespun linen sheets, Stephen’s own armchair, and Clotilde’s little polished spinning-wheel. Much, of course, had perished in the flames, but so much had been saved that Stephen, Clotilde and Mother Jeanne could only wonder, rejoice and forget what was gone beyond recall. Last of all there stumped up to the door—where the silver knocker set by Paul Revere once more shone resplendent—that same old man who had told Stephen the tale of the burning. Fumbling in his pocket, he brought forth a velvet case which he put into Clotilde’s hand.
“Since I am so old and awkward, there was little I could save,” he said, “but I spied a cupboard standing open and this within, so I carried it home to be kept safe for you and Master Sheffield. This whole long winter, when there was little fire on my hearth and starvation waiting, seemingly, only just around the corner, I used to get out this treasure and warm myself at the glow of the jewels. And it is proud I am to have something to bring to you when all the others are carrying their offerings hither!”
Clotilde snapped open the cover and found within the diamond star that had been given by the King of France to Stephen and by him to her. She had often thought of it, but always as lost beyond hope of recovery, so she gave, now, a glad cry of surprise and ran to show Master Sheffield that her greatest treasure had come back to her. The man would accept no thanks, nor consider it any merit that, in the midst of such dire poverty, his honesty had never been tempted by the shining stones.
“There would have been a curse on me, and a well deserved one,” he said, “had I even thought of keeping for myself that which belongs to you who have been so good to me.”
A great feast took place in Stephen’s house, a housewarming where all of Hopewell was made welcome. The occasion, although it should have been one of rejoicing, for was not Master Sheffield safe and sound in his own house again, was tinged with gloom, since the British had taken possession of New York and General Washington’s army was in retreat through New Jersey. Louder and louder were growing the criticisms of Washington, while many wiseacres were saying openly that he had not the ability for a Commander-in-Chief, and that Benedict Arnold should have been the man. Others, too, there were who said just as loudly that the war was over and the victory with the English, the same prophets who, six months ago, had wished to disband the army, since America was safe.
At the end of the evening, when the feasting was over and the guests were ready to go, Stephen Sheffield, standing upon the stairway above the heads of all the people, made a speech that many of those who heard forgot not to their dying day. He spoke first of the thanks that he owed them all, and, though his words were few, they were so simple and earnest that every one who had done him a service felt more than worthily repaid.
“But with my thanks,” he said, “is coupled a request, for I must ask you for a service greater than any you have yet done me. I beg that you speak no further ill of that heavy-hearted man who leads our armies, who with troops deserting, money lacking, food and clothing scarce and with winter close upon him, never admits defeat, and will still lead his men to victory. Not because he is merely a friend of mine do I ask you to abstain from evil-speaking of him in my house, but because he is the friend of all of you, fighting for you—and you—and you,” here certain of the guests hung their heads for, with unerring finger Stephen had pointed to the worst offenders, “and will you, by your idle words make his task heavier?”
It was a sober company that said good night and filed out through the great doorway. A dozen, at least, of the men present had been in Washington’s army, but, having enlisted for only a few months, had come home at the end of that time, vowing that they would risk their lives no longer in a hopeless cause. Among this number was David Thurston, although he had better excuse than the others, since his feeble old mother, who dwelt in Hopewell, was in sore need of his support and aid.