Calm and peaceful was the Sabbath morning in Rumford, where the stillness was broken only by lowing cattle and singing birds, but in Boston Robert heard the rattling of drums,—a prolonged roll, as if the drummers found special pleasure in disturbing the slumbers of the people. It was the reveille arousing the troops. Mr. Brandon said the officers of the king’s regiments seemed to take delight in having extra drills on Sunday for the purpose of annoying the people. A few of the officers, he said, were gentlemen, but others were vile, and not to be admitted into decent society.

The drums ceased and there was a period of quiet; then suddenly the air was melodious with the music of bells. Berinthia saw the wonder on Robert’s face.

“It is Christ Church chimes,” she said.

He heard “Old Hundred,” sweet and enchanting.

“If you would like, we will go to Christ Church this morning.”

Robert replied he would gladly go with her.

“The sexton is a Son of Liberty, Robert Newman; you saw him the other night at the Green Dragon; his brother plays the organ,” said Tom.

The sexton welcomed them and gave them seats. Robert gazed in wonder at the fluted columns, the high arched ceiling, the pillars supporting the galleries, the great windows, the recess behind the pulpit, the painting of the Last Supper. He read the words, “This is none other than the House of God; this is the Gate of Heaven.”

The bells ceased their pealing, but suddenly delightful music filled the church.

“That is John Newman at the organ,” Berinthia whispered.

It began soft and faint, as if far away—a flute, then a clarinet, a trumpet, growing louder, nearer, deeper, heavier, the loud notes rolling like far-off thunder, then dying into melody as sweet as the song of a bird. Never had Robert heard any music so delightful. Looking towards the loft, he saw the gilded pipes of the instrument. Upon the railing around it were figures of angels with trumpets.

“They were captured from a French ship in 1746 by Captain Grushea of the Queen of Hungary privateer,” Tom whispered. “They were designed for a Romish church in Canada, but the captain brought them to Boston and presented them to the wardens of this church.”

Berinthia said the Bible and prayer-book were given by King George II. at the request of Governor Belcher. She found the places in the prayer-book for him. He thought the prayers very beautiful, but could not quite see the need of getting up and sitting down so often. He never had taken part in meeting before, but when all the others read felt he too must let his voice be heard, otherwise the people would think he did not know how to read. He was startled at the sound of his own voice, but soon got over it, and rather liked the idea of the people taking some part in the service instead of having it all done by the minister. It was very delightful when the choir came in with the organ, in contrast to the singing in Rumford meetinghouse where the deacon lined the Psalms, two lines at a time, and set the tune with his pitch-pipe.

When the service was over and the people were going out, the organ began to play. The sexton took them upstairs to see his brother John handle it. Robert was surprised to see him using his feet as well as his hands, fingering two sets of keys, pushing in and pulling out what Tom said were “stops.” When through with the piece, the organist explained the mechanism of the instrument, playing softly and then making the windows rattle.

An hour at noon, and then the meetinghouse bells were tolling for the afternoon service.

“We will go to our own meeting; I want you to hear Reverend Doctor Cooper,”[30] said Berinthia. The meetinghouse was in Brattle Street, close by the barracks. The soldiers were lounging around the building staring at the people, laughing, smoking their pipes, and making rude remarks. When meeting was over the soldiers gathered around the door and leered at the girls. Robert clenched his fist and felt his blood grow hot. A lieutenant started to walk beside Berinthia.

“My cousin will not need your escort, sir,” said Robert touching his elbow.

The officer grew red in the face and disappeared in the barracks.

On Monday morning Robert bade his friends good-by. Peter Augustus had something for him at the Green Dragon: a basket filled with fruit—melocotoons, pears, and plums—and a neatly written note.

“Will Mr. Walden kindly take a basket of fruit to his sister, Miss Rachel, from Ruth Newville.”

That was all. What a surprise it would be to Rachel! Why was Miss Newville sending it? She never had met Rachel; knew nothing of her, except what little he had said, yet the gift!

The sun was going down the following evening when he reached the turn of the road bringing him in sight of home. He was yet half a mile away, but Rachel was standing in the doorway waving her apron. She could not wait for Jenny to trot home, but came down the road bareheaded, climbed into the wagon, put her arms around his neck, and gave him a hug and a kiss. There was a look of wonder on her face when he uncovered the basket of fruit and told her who had sent it,—a beautiful girl, one of Berinthia’s friends, whom he had rescued from the king’s soldiers. There were tears in Rachel’s eyes when he put the beads around her neck.

“Oh, Rob! how good you are!”

It was all she could say.

November came, and Berinthia Brandon was sitting in her chamber. From its eastern window she looked across the burial ground with its rows of headstones. The leafless trees were swaying in the breeze. She was thinking of what Samuel Adams had said to her, that life is worth living just in proportion to the service we can render to others. What had she ever done for anybody? Not much. A feeling of sadness came over her. The afternoon sun was lengthening the shadows of the headstones across the grass-grown mounds. The first snow of approaching winter was lying white and pure above the sleeping forms of those who had finished their earthly work. Beyond the burial ground she beheld the harbor. The tide had been at its flood, and was sweeping towards the sea. A ship was sailing down the roadstead to begin its adventurous voyage to a distant land.

“Why can I not do something for somebody instead of idling my time away?” she said to herself, recalling what Mr. Adams had said—that it was the duty of every woman to forego personal comfort and pleasure for the promotion of the public good; that everybody should leave off using tea to let the king, the ministry, and the people of England know that the men and women of the Colonies could stand resolutely and unflinchingly for a great principle. With her father, mother, and Tom she had quit drinking tea; why should she not persuade others to banish it from their tables? A thought came to her, and she opened her writing-desk, a gift from her father, beautifully inlaid with ivory, which he had obtained in a foreign country. She dipped her pen into the ink, reflected a moment, and then wrote her thought: “We, the daughters of patriots, who have stood and do now stand for the public interest, with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the drinking of foreign tea, in hope to frustrate a plan that tends to deprive the community of its rights.”[31]

In her enthusiasm she walked the floor, thinking of those whom she would ask to sign it. She would not subject herself to ridicule by calling upon those who sided with the king, but upon those who she knew were ready to make sacrifices for justice and right.

“I am glad you have written it, daughter,” Mr. Brandon said when she informed him of what she had done and was intending to do; “I see no reason, wife, why you should not do what you can in the same way among the women, to let people on the other side of the sea understand the Colonies are in earnest. Already there has been a great falling off in trade between the Colonies and England, and if we can stop this tea trade it will not be long before the merchants will be swarming around Parliament demanding something to be done. We must arouse public sentiment on this question, and you, daughter, are just the girl to begin it.”

Mr. Brandon reached out his hand and took Berinthia’s and gave it a squeeze to let her know he had faith in her.

“I will do what I can to persuade others,” she said, returning the pressure.

Through the night Berinthia was thinking over what she had started to accomplish, and what arguments she should use to influence those whom she would ask to sign the agreement. The great idea, with a moral principle behind it, took possession of her mind and drove sleep from her eyes and aroused the energies of the soul. Why undertake the arduous task alone? Why not ask Doctor Cooper to preach about it? If she could but get the ministers enlisted, they could awaken public sentiment.

“Ah! I have it. Week after next is Thanksgiving, and I will get them to preach sermons that will stir up the people,” she said to herself.

Thanksgiving Day came. Very eloquent were the words spoken for Justice, Right, and Liberty by Reverend Doctor Cooper, Reverend Doctor Eliot, Reverend Doctor Checkley, and nearly all the other ministers, excepting Reverend Mr. Coner, rector of King’s Chapel, and Reverend Mather Byles of Christ Church, whose sympathies were with the king.[32]

In every household fathers and mothers, sons and daughters and grandchildren, gathered in the old home, and had a great deal to say, while partaking of the roast turkey and plum-pudding, of the sermons they had heard in the different meetinghouses. All the ministers preached about the proposal of Parliament to levy a tax upon tea, and that if it could not be defeated in any other way it was the patriotic duty of the people to quit using the herb. They must deny themselves the luxury, that they might maintain their freedom. Little did they know that a blue-eyed girl had called upon Doctor Cooper and read to him what she had written, an agreement to drink no more tea; how his soul had been set on fire and he had gone with her to the houses of other ministers, that they might look into her eyes and see the flashing of a resolute spirit in behalf of justice, righteousness, and liberty.

Although the snow was deep in the streets, the drifts did not deter Berinthia from calling upon her friends. Many of the good ladies were ready to sign an agreement to drink no more tea; others hesitated. She was warmly welcomed by Mrs. Abigail Adams, who at once saw how great would be the influence of the women upon their husbands.

“But what shall we drink instead of tea?” asked Dorothy Quincy.

“When summer comes, we will go out into the fields and gather strawberry leaves, and call them Hyperion, or some other elegant name. I think it quite as pretty a name as Old Hyson, and I am not sure that they will not be more healthful,” Berinthia replied.

Miss Dorothy laughed heartily. “Yes, and we can, upon a pinch, drink cold water from the town pump and flavor it with peppermint,” she said, as she wrote her name.

After leaving Miss Quincy, Berinthia lifted the knocker of the Newville mansion, not to ask Ruth to sign the agreement; she could not do that, for Mr. Newville was a Tory, and the signers were daughters of patriots.

“How good it is to see you once more. It is a very long time since I have looked upon your face,” Ruth exclaimed, embracing her.

“The snow has been so deep and I have had so much to do, I have not found time to call till now, and I don’t know as I should be here to-day only I am spinning street-yarn for a particular purpose.”

Ruth was at a loss to understand her.

“I am calling on my acquaintances, and I was not quite sure whether I ought to skip you or not.”

“Skip me! What have I done that you should think of dropping me from your acquaintance?”

Berinthia saw a wondering and injured look in the loving eyes.

“Oh, you haven’t done anything; it is what the king, Lord North, and Parliament are doing. They intend to make us pay taxes against our will, and we girls are signing an agreement not to drink any more tea, and I am calling on my friends for that purpose.”

The look of wonder and grief disappeared, and Ruth’s face brightened once more. She read the agreement and the list of names.

“I didn’t call, dear Ruth, to ask you to sign it. I have no right to do so. It is an agreement to be signed by the daughters of those who are opposed to being taxed in this way. Your father, doubtless, may be willing to pay the tax; my father is not. You may not think as we do, but that shall not disturb our friendship. I shall love you just as I have ever since we were children.”

“How good you are! I appreciate your kindness. My father and mother stand for the king, but I have my own opinion. Under the terms of the agreement, I cannot sign it, but I am with you in spirit. I can see the course taken by the king is not right or just, and it will fail. Nothing can succeed in the end that is not right.”

“Oh, Ruth, how you shame me. Here I have been fidgeting over the cutting things some of the girls and their mothers have been saying. One asked if I expected to bankrupt the East India Company. Another wanted to know if I was going to wear trousers and vote in town meeting.”

“So mother’s afternoon tea-party stands a chance of being the last, for the present, at least. By the way, do you ever hear from your cousin, Mr. Walden?”

“No, I have not heard a word since he left us. I should not be surprised, however, if he were to drop in upon us any day, for I have written him that the ship is to be launched soon. Father intends to make it a grand occasion when the Berinthia Brandon glides into the water. I shall have all my friends present, Ruth Newville chief among them.”

“Count upon me to do whatever I can to make it a happy day,” said Ruth.