Public-domain ebook
by Various
Language: en263 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Short Stories·Children & Young Adult Reading·Adventure
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #48506.
The opening · free to read
AT STANHAM MILLS.
It was the first day of June. The air was balmy with sweet odors, the sky was clear and blue, and everything that could sing or make a noise was endeavoring to rejoice. And this was his Britannic Majesty's colony of New Jersey in the year of grace 1772.
Out of a little valley that separated two lines of thickly wooded hills, whose sides still gleamed with the fast departing blossoms, ran a leaping brook. It swirled about the smooth brown stones at the head of a waterfall, and rushed down into the deep clear pools at the bottom. Then it did the same thing over and over again, until it slid into the meadow and beneath a great rough bridge, where it spread out into a goodly sized pond, on whose farther shore rose the timbers of a well-built dam. A water-gate and a sluiceway were at one end, and above the trees, a short distance off to the left, across the meadow, in which some sheep were feeding, rose a big stone chimney. Out of this chimney the smoke was pouring and drifting slowly upwards in the still, sunny air.
Now and then a grinding, rumbling noise echoed through the hills to the southward, which, sad to relate, unlike those to the north, were swept almost bare of trees, and were dotted with the huts of charcoal-burners. But the underbrush was doing its best to cover these bare spots with young green leaves, and the charcoal ovens were still and cold.
Up the brook, just at the verge of the meadow, was the last one of the deep clear pools, and mingling with the waterfall was the sound of children's voices. They seemed to be talking all at once, for they could be heard plainly from the old gray bridge. The bank of the last pool shelved gently on one side, and on the other ran down into a little cliff, at the bottom of which the brook scarcely moved, so deep was the water above the pebbly bottom.
Half-way up the shelving right-hand bank sat a little girl of eleven. She was making long garlands of oak leaves, pinning them carefully together with the stems. Her dress was white and trimmed with tattered lace. She looked as though she had run away from some birthday party, for no mother (or aunt, for that matter) would allow any little girl to go out into the woods in such thin slippers. One of her stockings had fallen down, and was tucked in the ribbons that crossed her ankles, and held the small slippers from coming off entirely. She had no hat on her curly head, and her bare arms were sunburned and brown.
Seated at her feet was a boy of thirteen years or there-abouts. He was hugging his knees and digging his heels at the same time into the soft earth. He also looked as if he had escaped from a party, like the little girl, for his short breeches were of sky-blue silk, with great knee-buckles, and his hair was done up like a little wig and tied with a big black ribbon. There was a rip in the sleeve of his blue velvet coat, and the lace about his neck had become twisted and was hanging over one shoulder.
"I wonder what Uncle Daniel will look like? I trust he will bring us something fine from England," said the boy. "I'd like to go back there with him, if he'd take us all."
"Yes, if he'd take us all, and we might get in to the army--eh?" came a voice from the top of the steep bank opposite.
It was quite startling, the reply was exactly like an echo; but that was not the strangest part. Flat on the ground lay another boy of thirteen. If the first had been copied by a maker of wax-works, line for line and color for color, the two could not have been more alike. In fact, the only difference was that the second had on pink silk breeches, which were very much muddied at the knees. He held in his extended hand a roughly trimmed fishing-pole.
"I feel another nibble," said the boy who had last spoken, leaning further over the water.
"Yes, there, there!" exclaimed the other on the lower bank. "Now we've got him!"
There was a swish, and a trout came plashing and twisting into the sunlight. He had not been very firmly hooked, however, for, after a short flight through the air, he tumbled almost into the lap of the little girl.
She gave a laugh, and, dropping her garland, managed to secure the gasping little fish, together with a handful of grass and leaves.
"Do put him back, William," she said, leaning forward. "He's much too small. I pray you put him back."
The boy took the trout, and, crawling to the water's edge, set him free, and laughed as he darted off and hid, wriggling himself under a sunken log.
At this minute the bushes were parted just behind where the two had been seated, and a strange figure came into sight.
It was an old colored man. He had on a three-cornered hat, much too large for his woolly head, and under his arm he carried a bundle of freshly cut switches. He wore also an old flowered waistcoat that reached almost to his knees, and hung loosely about his thin figure. The waistcoat was still quite gaudy, and showed patches here and there of worn gold lace.
"Mars Willem, I's jes done de bes' I could," said the old darky, with a bow.
The boy looked over the bundle of rods and picked out two of them.
"Cato," he said in an authoritative manner that showed no ill-humor, "you are a lazy rascal, sir; go back and get me one just as long as this and just as thin as this one, and straight, too, mark ye."
The old man bowed again, turned around to hide a grin, and went back into the deep shadows of the trees. When he had gone a little way he stopped.
"Said dat jes like his father, Mars David, would hev spoke. 'Cato, you're a lazy rascal, sir.'" Here the old darky laughed. "I jes wondered if he'd take one of dem crooked ones; I jes did so. Dem boys is Frothin'hams plum fro'--hyar me talkin'."
He drew out of his pocket a huge clasp-knife, and, looking carefully to right and left, went deeper into the wood.
But before going on further with the story, or taking up the immediate history of the twin Frothinghams, it is best, perhaps, to go back and tell a little about their family connections, and explain also something about Stanham Mills, where our story opens on this bright June day.
During the reign of George II. some members of the London Company and a certain wealthy Lord Stanham had purchased a large tract of land in New Jersey, just south of the New York boundary-line. It was supposed that a fortune lay hidden there in the unworked iron-mines.
Looking about for an agent or some persons to represent their interests, and to take charge of the property, the company's choice had fallen upon two members of an influential family in England that had colonial connections--David and Nathaniel Frothingham.
There were three Frothingham brothers in the firm of that name, a firm that had long been interested in many financial ventures in the Colonies, and the two younger partners had had some experience in mining and the handling of large bodies of men.
Upon receiving their appointment to the position of Company managers, Nathaniel and David had left for America, leaving Daniel, the eldest, to look after their family interests at the counting-house in London.
This was some fourteen or fifteen years before our story opened.
Both of the younger brothers were married, and brought their wives with them to share their fortunes in the far-off country. Immediately upon their arrival they had opened the large Manor-house, that had been erected for them in a manner regardless of expense upon the Stanham property, even before a shaft had been sunk in the surrounding hills.
Unfortunately the two ladies of the Manor did not agree at all, and David and his wife lived in one wing and Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel in the other.
When the twins came upon the scene, which happened not long after the arrival in America, there had been great rejoicing; and Mrs. Nathaniel Frothingham's heart had softened somewhat toward her husband's brother's wife. She had no children of her own; and she unbent a little from the position of proud superiority she had assumed, for the aristocratic Clarissa was the grand-niece of an English earl, and had held her heart high accordingly. Mrs. David, the young mother, was but the daughter of a Liverpool merchant. The Frothinghams spent the money that came to them from England with a lavish but an honest hand. However, up to the time this story begins there had been no large returns to encourage future expenditures.
Bounding Stanham Mills to the east and south lay another estate, owned by four or five wealthy dwellers in the Colonies; it was known as the Hewes property. Here also had been opened mines, and a foundry even larger than the Frothingham's was in process of completion.
The eastern boundary-line, as first surveyed by the King's surveyors, ran close to the entrance of the shaft on Tumble Ridge, the big hill to the north; so close indeed in some places that the sound of the picks of the Hewes men could be often heard at work, for the entrance to the rival shaft was just out of sight across the hill crest, and the underground works were nearing every day.
It was claimed by the Hewes people that the Frothinghams had already crossed the boundary-line. Disputes had arisen time and again, and a feeling of intense dislike had grown up between the neighbors.
One eventful morning, when the twins were but two years old and their sister Grace a baby, their father had gone down with some workmen in the rough bucket to the bottom of the largest mine, when a mass of heavy stone near the top became detached and fell, carrying death and sorrow into the family at the big white house. Mrs. David had not long survived her husband, and so the twins and their little sister were suddenly left orphans.
The children were too young to remember much of their father or their mother, and under the care of their Aunt Clarissa and Uncle Nathan they had been allowed to grow up like young wild flowers--much as they pleased.
There were no children near them with whom they were allowed to associate, for the coldness that had existed between the Hewes family and the Frothinghams had, on the latter's part, grown to the verge of hatred, and the two mansions were seven miles apart.
Insensibly the boys had imbibed some of the mannerisms of their stern, hot-tempered uncle, and had been influenced by the airs and affectations of the proud and haughty Mrs. Frothingham. But their devotion and love for one another it was almost pathetic to have seen.
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