Master Simon's Garden: A Story

by Cornelia Meigs

“These should last until morning,” he said when he had examined the candles, “and by that time we will be far away and people from the next house will surely come to find you. Will they not?” he repeated when she failed to answer.

His face was so full of unhappy anxiety that, angry and frightened as she was, Clotilde could not refuse to give him a little comfort.

“Yes, I think they will,” she said stiffly and relapsed once more into silence.

He piled high the logs and faggots on the hearth so that the fire blazed up into abundant light and warmth. She could not help noticing what a really fine face he had as it showed so clearly in the red glow when he stooped to blow the bellows. He looked about to see if there was aught else that he could do for her comfort and seemed disappointed to find there was nothing. For Clotilde, suddenly remembering the Puritan weaver who had bound his enemy to the armchair and then sat singing at the loom the whole night through, had decided that his example was a worthy one and had climbed up to the bench again and sat throwing her shuttle and singing her song as though the young officer were a hundred miles away. She seemed not to see him as he tried the back door, examined the barred windows and finally, taking up his cloak, turned to go. She did not even look round, although she knew that he hesitated, and then that he paused with his hand on the latch to speak again.

“I am so sorry, little Mademoiselle,” he said simply.

She made no answer, nor even ceased her singing, but flung the shuttle swiftly as he opened the door and went out into the rising storm. Quick as she was, the sound of her swinging heddle did not come in time to drown the grating noise of the key as it turned in the lock.

For some moments after he was gone she tried to work steadily, then suddenly dropped her shuttle in a tangle of threads, leaned her head against the heavy frame of the loom and burst into bitter tears. She heard as she sat there, the sound of feet tramping past on the creaking snow, a dozen, a score, fifty, a hundred perhaps or many more. The sound came back to her on the gusts of the rising wind. On this wild night the expedition had a good chance of skirting Hopewell unnoticed and accomplishing its errand undisturbed.

She sat there sobbing for some time, first weeping wildly then wearily and in despair. Presently she slipped down from the bench, tried both the doors and the windows and at last, carrying one of the candles, climbed the stairs to see if escape were possible through one of the upper windows. It was as she had feared however, the heavy wooden shutters had been nailed in place when the sleeping rooms had been abandoned, and no effort of hers could force them open. She went down again, opened one of the windows that looked toward the great house and tried to call for help. The roaring wind swept the words from her lips so quickly that she scarce could hear the cry herself. She could not even see the other house, for every light in it had long since been put out. There was no hope that any one there would miss her before morning, for only Jason knew of her not being at home and he, she was well aware, would sleep until midday unless forcibly awakened. She turned back to begin her weaving again, but found herself suddenly too worn out for further labour; instead she crept into the big chair by the fire and sat there, limp and weary, her hands lying idle in her lap.

She watched long the dancing firelight as it flickered back and forth on the low heavy-beamed ceiling. One of the candles sputtered and went out, but the other burned steady in its copper candlestick although its light seemed suddenly to have become very feeble and tiny in the midst of all those moving shadows. The ever rising wind roared down the chimney and made the faggots flare up, break apart and fall quickly into glowing coals. The white birch log, however, burned faithfully and cast a pleasant warmth over her as she sat in the big chair.

She was thinking of the soldiers marching away into the storm; she wondered if they would accomplish their errand safely; she hoped they would—she hoped they would not. She thought of the young Captain, of his bravery when he had escaped alone after all his comrades had surrendered, of his kindness to Miles, of the gentleness of his voice when he said, “I am so sorry, little Mademoiselle.” Her heart burned with anger when she thought of his leaving her in such a plight, it melted again at the remembrance of how like he was to Stephen and Master Simon. One moment she wished he might be attacked and taken by the American troops, the next she pictured him lying somewhere on the snowy road, wounded and helpless, and she shivered at the thought.