When a witch is young: a historical novel

by Philip Verrill Mighels

However, there were two pairs of eyes less meek. They were Adam’s and Garde’s. It therefore came to pass that each discovered the other, before the church portals were reached. Garde’s heart began to beat as if it were knocking to call Adam’s attention. Adam’s hammered as if it were forging more fetters to bind him tighter in his love.

Garde, with her grandfather and Wainsworth, preceded Rust and Mrs. Phipps into the sanctuary. Adam followed eagerly, and yet as one about to enter a prison. He had seen Wainsworth, but Henry, in his ecstasy, had contented himself with looking devotedly at Garde’s little shoes.

Inside the church, Garde sat somewhat toward the back, while Adam, with the men, occupied a bench at the side of the building from which he could see Mistress Merrill’s profile perfectly, as often as he dared to look in her direction.

Garde, with much resolution, permitted herself not so much as one tiny flicker of a glance toward Adam, all during the time of service. She felt him looking at her, however, from time to time, and rejoiced that her little ruse to make him stirred up and mayhap jealous was succeeding. The flush of maidenhood’s beauty which had mounted to her cheek, the moment she found that Adam was near, remained throughout the morning.

Later to church than any other, a man, alone, and none too reverent, entered the door and took a seat on the side, from which he could scan many of the faces in the place. It was Randolph. He had come there for the sole purpose of looking about him, his reasons being various, but none of them Godly. He shut his mouth grimly at beholding Adam present, but when his gaze finally rested on Garde, all the more radiantly beautiful for the simplicity of her dress, it became fixed, first, then covetous, and finally passionate.

It was not until the meeting was finished that Garde ventured to take a sly glance at Adam. Her gaze met his. She saw and comprehended, then, such a fathomless sadness in his look, before he could drop his gaze, that she was instantly most penitent over what she had done.

It was the same look she had seen in his eyes that day when he had marched as a captive, at the end of King Philip’s war—a look she never had, and never could, forget.

As for Rust, he had confirmed to his satisfaction, all that Wainsworth had told him. If he had not been convinced before and ready to renounce his own hopes, he was quite persuaded and determined now. He thought how fortunate it was that Phipps had the brig all ready to sail on the morrow. It was very much better to end the matter with the smallest possible delay.

He spent the afternoon with Phipps and the beef-eaters on the ship. To his credit, he made himself an agreeable and cheerful companion. Indeed, what with the songs he had sung for Wainsworth and the others, and the spirit of his raillery, boasting and readiness to fight or to fiddle, he had succeeded in deceiving them all as to the nature under his waistcoat.

Yet when the night was come and the magnet which had been drawing and drawing him to that alley, sacred to the memory of Garde’s cat, once more exercised its influence, more powerfully than ever, he became a restless creature.