“Remember, dear one, the promise you once made me: if Elisha ever falls into your hands, you will do him no injury. Remember.”
And now evening has come, and a jovial party is assembled in the Old Stone Jug. Uncle Pete bestirred himself as never before to do his guests honor; he could scarce remain quiet a moment. The best his house afforded he gave without stint, and ’twas a free gift. Uncle Pete intended that his future son-in-law should long remember the hospitality of this autumn evening.
Martha was the only one who did not make merry. She sat close beside Harry Valentine, her eyes resting on his manly, sunburnt face; she seemed ready to devour him with her eyes, and spoke very little.
But ever and anon she would withdraw her hand from his and go peep out of the window. It was when she had done this for the third time, then come back and placed her hand within his again, that Harry observed in a tone of surprise:
“Why, my beloved, what is the matter? Your hand is grown suddenly cold as ice.”
“Is it?” said Martha nervously. There were other words quivering on her lips, but she held them back. In after-years she bitterly lamented her silence at this critical moment. It was late, yet not too late—the moon was still a quarter of an hour below the horizon—and when Harry noticed her agitation, if she had only been frank with him, how different might have been the whole current of her after-life—how very different!
And now the sky in the east is growing rapidly brighter, and Martha’s heart is throbbing faster and louder—so loud that Harry might almost have heard it. But ’twas not necessary for him to hear the beating of her heart in order to discover her growing distress. Martha was leaning back in the chair, her cheeks were become as cold as her hand, and her eyes strayed from his eyes to the window in a wild, fearful way; then, looking at him again, she seemed about to say something, but did not, and Harry was really becoming alarmed at the strange mood she was in, when the tavern door was suddenly flung wide open, and, as it swept round on its hinges, a small, black hand passed swiftly over the table. In an instant the candles were extinguished, and in the pitchy darkness which followed Martha found herself borne away in somebody’s arms.
“Now, Martha, you’re mine,” said Elisha Williams exultingly, as he bounded like a deer up the road to the spot where he had left his horse.
“Be true to me, Martha. Mount! and we’ll hie to the Jerseys together.”
What the girl’s feelings were just at this moment ’twere not easy to describe. In her ears came deafening uproar from the Old Stone Jug—quick commands; the neighing of steeds; a voice cried, “Fire!”