“That’s my brave boy! He doesn’t forget mother, does he?” And Priscilla turned to look fondly at her second-born, a fine, manly little fellow, with a marvelous likeness to his uncle Joseph Molines, victim of the first winter’s pestilence, the brother whom Priscilla had so fondly loved, so deeply mourned.
“Well, poor man, if he’s to be carried away prisoner by so many warders, I’ll e’en toss him up a dainty dish for his last dinner with us,” continued she busily. “Jo, my man, run down and ask father if any of the Indians have brought in oysters to-day, and if not, to get some clams or a lobster; and be quick, my boy, for it’s hard on noon. And, Betty, see if there are some fresh eggs in the hen roost,—I’ll make an omelet with herbs; and there’s a fine salmon to serve with cream sauce and a sallet”—
“We might kill a chicken, mother,” suggested John, the grave first-born, so like his father in everything.
“Nay, not to-day, Johnny,” replied Priscilla, somewhat embarrassed, for her mind reverted to a little discovery of her own, and her eyes glanced toward the high mantel where lay a small brown-covered notebook much worn at the edges, and although apparently of trifling value, just then a greater weight upon the mind of the mistress than even her silver cup, or her six teaspoons.
It was but the day before that Betty had picked up this book just outside the house, and bringing it to her mother said she thought the gentleman had dropped it out of his pocket, for she had seen it in his room upon the table. Opening it at random, Priscilla read a few words only, but those so strange that, instead of at once restoring the book, she laid it aside until she should have time to consider her duty in the matter. On one side lay hospitality and honor, but on the other was the obligation to justice and to the common weal, which to those early settlers was a matter far more vital than to us, for it included not only their own interests, but perhaps the very lives of all belonging to them. If here indeed was “a snake in the tender grass,” had she a right to let him wind his beautiful deadly way out of reach of justice? But on the other hand, was the danger deadly enough to warrant her in betraying the man who had eaten her salt? This controversy of mind, sufficiently perplexing to a woman of Priscilla’s day and training, was suddenly resolved by the news brought home by John Alden that the Boston boat would return directly after noon-meat, and that Sir Christopher Gardiner would return with her.
“Then come you in here a moment, John,” said Priscilla, rising from her almost untasted dinner, and leading the way to her bedroom.
John ruefully rose, his eyes upon his plate, where lay a huge segment of suet pudding which he had just begun to absorb in his own slow and methodical fashion. Betty’s quick eyes saw the whole.
“I’ll turn a basin over it, father, and set it by the fire till you’re ready for it,” said she with a flashing smile; and her father, smiling also, replied,—
“Thou’rt ever a good little wench, Betty!”
“See here, John! See this little book!” exclaimed Priscilla, shutting the door so promptly as nearly to catch her husband’s last foot in the crack. “’Tis the man’s, and mayhap the governor ought to know he’s a Catholic for one thing. See, see! Isn’t that what this page meaneth?”