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There was something so manly in Georgeâs speech, that, but for its final fling and personality, every man in the room would have crowded round him to shake hands; but what man ever coolly heard his judgment impeached?
Sally swallowed a great round sob; but being, like all women, an actress in her way, bowed as calmly to Mr. George as if he only said adieu, after an ordinary call.
Aunt Poll snuffled, and followed George to the door; Uncle Zekle drew himself up straight, and looked after him, his clear blue eyes sparkling with two rays,âone of honest patriotic wrath, one of affection and regret for George; while Long, from the corner, eyed all with a serpentâs wisdom in his gaze, oracularly uttering, as the door shut,â
âWell, that âare feller is good grit!â
âAll the worse for us!â growled Eliashib Sparks, the biggest of the three, surprising Sally into a little hysterical laugh, and surprised himself still more at this unexpected sequence to his remark.
âPooty bad! George is a clever fellow!â ejaculated Zekle. âHe hanât got the rights onât, but I think heâll come round byân by.â
âI doânoâ,â said Long, meditatively; âheâs pooty stiff, that âare feller. Heâs sot on dooty, I see; anâ that means suthinâ, when a man that oughter be called a man sez it. Wimmin-folks, now, donât sail on that tack. When a gal sets to talkinâ about her dooty, itâs allers suthinâ she wants ter do and hanât got no grand excuse forât. Ye never see a womanât didnât get married for dooty yet; there aânât nary one on âem darst to say they wanted ter.â
âOh! Mister Long!â exclaimed Sally.
âWell, Sally, itâs nigh about so; you hanât lived a hunderd year. Some oâ these days youâll get to know yer dooty.â
Sally turned red, and the three young men sniggered. Forgive the word, gentle and fair readers! it means what I mean, and no other word expresses it; let us be graphic and die!
Just then the meeting-house bell rang for nine oâclock; and every man got up from his seat, like a son of Anak, bowed, scraped, cleared his throat to say âGoodnight,â did say something like it, and left.
âWell, Sally, I swear youâre good at signallinâ,â broke out Long, as soon as the youths were fairly out of sight and sound; âyou hev done it for George Tucker!â
Sally gave no answer, but a brand from the back-log fell, blazed up in a shaft of rosy flame, and showed a suspicious glitter on the girlâs round, wholesome cheek. Aunt Poll had gone to bed; Zekle was going the nightly rounds of his barns, to see to the stock; Long Snapps was aware of opportunity, the secret of success.
âSally,â said he, âis that feller sparkinâ you?â
Sally laughed a little, and something, perhaps the blaze, reddened her face.
âI donât know,â said the pretty hypocrite, demurely.
âHâm! well, I do,â answered Long; âand you aânât never goinâ to take up with a Tory? donât think itâs yer dooty, hey?â
âNo indeed!â flashed Sally. âDo you think Iâd marry a Britisher? Iâd run away and live with the Indians first.â
âPooty good! pooty good! youâre calkâlating to make George into a rebel, I âxpect?â
Long was looking into the fire when he said this; he did not see Sallyâs look of rage and amazement at his unpleasant penetration.
âIâm sure I donât care what George Tucker thinks,â said she, with a toss of her curly head.
âHâm!â uttered Long, meditatively, âlucky! I âxpect he carries too many guns to be steered by a woman; âtis a kinder pity you aânât a man, Sally; mebbe youâd argufy him round then; itâs plain as the Gulf you canât crook his vâyage; heâs too stiff for wimmin-folks, that is a fact!â
Oh, Long Snapps! Long Snapps! how many wives, in how many ports, went to the knowledge of feminine nature that dictated that speech? Sally set her lips. From that hour George Tucker was a doomed man; but she said nothing more audible than âGoodnight.â Long looked at her, as she lit the tallow dip by the fire, and chuckled when he heard her shut the milk-room door in the safe distance. He was satisfied.
The next afternoon, Sally was weeding onions in the garden;âheroines did, in those days;âthe currant-bushes had but just leafed out; so George Tucker, going by, saw her; and she, who had seen him coming before she began to weed, accidentally of course, looked up and gave him a very bright smile. That was the first spider-thread, and the fly stepped into it with such a thrill!
Of course he stopped, and said,â
âWhat a pleasant day!ââthe saving phrase of life. Then Sally said something he couldnât hear, and he leaped the low fence without being asked, rather than request her to raise her voice; he was so considerate! Next he remembered, just as he turned to go away, that there were some white violets down in the meadow, that Sally always liked. Couldnât she spend time to walk down there across lots and get some? Sally thought the onions could not be left. Truth to tell, her heart was in her mouth. She had been playing with edge-tools; but just then she smelt a whiff of smoke from Long Snappsâs pipe, and the resolve of last night came back; her face relented, and George, seeing it, used his utmost persuasiveness; so the result was, that Sally washed her hands at the well, and away they went, in the most serene silence, over fences, grass-lots, and ditches, through bits of woodland, and fields of winter-green, till they reached the edge of the great meadow, and sat down on a log to rest. It was rather a good place for that purpose. An old pine had fallen at the feet of a majestic cluster of its brethren, so close that the broad column of one made a natural back to part of the seat. The ground was warm, dry sand, strown with the fine dead leaves of past seasons, brown and aromatic. A light south wind woke the voices of every bough above, and the melancholy susurrus rose and fell in delicate cadences; while beyond the green meadow, Westbury River, a good-sized brook, babbled and danced as if there were no pine-tree laments in the world.
I believe the air, and the odor, and the crying wind drove the violets quite out of both the two heads that drooped silently over that pine log. If Sally had been nervous or poetical, she would have been glad to recollect them; but no such morbidness invaded her healthy soul. She sat quite still till George said, in a suppressed and rather broken tone,â
âI was sorry to vex you last night, Sally! I could not be sorry for any thing else.â
âYou did grieve me very much, Mister George,â said Sally, affecting a little distance in her address, but sufficiently tender in manner.
âWell, I suppose you donât see it the way I do,â returned George; âand I am very sorry, for I had rather please you than any body else.â
This was especially tender, and he possessed himself of Sallyâs little red hand, unaware or careless that it smelt of onions; but it was withdrawn very decidedly.
âI think yon take a strange way of showing your liking!â sniffed the damsel.
George sat astounded. Another tiny spider-thread stopped the fly; a subtle ray of blue sped sideways out of Sallyâs eye, that meant,ââI donât object to be liked.â
âI wish with all my heart I knew any good way to please you,â he fervently ejaculated.
âI should think any way to please people was a good way,â retorted Sally, saying more with her eyes than with her voice,âso much more, that in fact this fly was fast. A little puff of wind blew off Sallyâs bonnet; she looked shy, flushed, lovely. George stood up on his feet, and took his hat off.
âSally!â said he, in the deepest notes of his full, manly voice, âI love you very much indeed; will you be my wife?â
Sally was confounded. I rejoice to say she was quite confounded; but she was made of revolutionary stuff, and what just now interfered with her plans and schemes was the sudden discovery how very much indeed she loved George Tucker; a fact she had not left enough margin for in her plot.
But, as I said, she was made of good metal, and she answered very low,â
âI do like you, George; but I never will marry a Britisher and a Tory.â
A spasm of real anguish distorted the handsome face, bent forward to listen.
âDo you mean that, Sally? Canât you love me because we donât think alike?â
Sally choked a little; her tones fell to a whisper. George had to sit down close to her to hear.
âI didnât say I didnât love you, George!ââA blissful pause of a second; then in a clear, cold voice,ââBut my mindâs set. I canât marry a Britisher and a Tory, if I died sayinâ so.â
George gasped.
âAnd I cannot turn traitor and rebel, Sally. I can not. I love you better than any thing in the world; but I canât do a wicked thing; no, not even for you.â
He was pale as death. Sallyâs secret heart felt proud of him, and never had she been so near repenting of her work in the good cause before; but she was resolute.
âVery well!â replied she, coolly, âif you prefer the king to me, itâs not my fault; when your side beats, you can take your revenge!â
The thorough injustice of this speech roused her loverâs generous indignation.
âIf you can think that way of me, Sally, it is better for us both to have me go! Good night!â And away strode the loyal fellow, never looking back to see his sweetheart have a good cry on the pine-log, and then an equally comfortable fit of laughter; for she knew very well how restless Mister George would be, all alone by himself, and how much it meant that they both loved each other, and both knew it.
Sallyâs heart was stout. A sort of Yankee Evangeline, she would not have gone after Gabriel; she would have staid at home and waited for him to the end of time; doing chores and mending meanwhile, but unmarried, in the fixed intention of being her loverâs sixth wife possibly, but his wife at last.
So she went home and got supper, strained and skimmed milk, set a sponge for bread, and slept all night like a dormouse, George Tucker never went to bed.
âHooraw!â roared Long Snapps, trundling in to dinner, the next day; âtheyâre wakinâ up down to Bostin! Good many on âemâs quit the town. Them âare Britishers is a-gettinâ up sech a breeze; anâ they doo say the regâlars is cominâ out full sail, to cairâ off all the amminition in these parts, fear oâ mutiny âmongst the milishy!â
âCome along!â shouted Zekle, âlet âem come! like to see âem takinâ our powder anâ shot âthout askinâ! Guess theyâll hear thunder, ef they stick their heads inter a hornetâs nest.â
âDredful suz!â exclaimed Aunt Poll, pulling turnips out of the pot with reckless haste, and so scalding her brown fingers emphatically; âbe they a-cominâ here? will they fetch along the batterinâ rams?â
âThunder anâ dry trees,â ejaculated Zekle, âwhat does the womanââ; but at that instant Long made for the door, and flung it open, thereby preventing explanations.
âGoinâ to Concord, George?â shouted he to George Tucker, who in a one-horse wagon and his Sunday-best clothes was driving
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