For once it seemed that Master Simon was mistaken. It may have been that Samuel Skerry was really ignorant of what had occurred that early morning in the garden or it may have been that he had seen, and for some reason held his peace. Whichever was the truth, the matter remained long a mystery. Margeret was so certain that she had seen him spying upon them and so equally certain of his ill-will toward her father that she felt, for many slow-dragging, anxious weeks, that any day might bring his betrayal of their law-breaking. She waited a month, six months; then a year went by and another and another, but still the shoemaker did not speak. Had he forgotten? Had he never known?

All through the years that she was growing up, the thought was ever in her mind that he could bring ruin upon them at any moment he so desired. Once, as she stood at the edge of the village square, the town crier passed, bell in hand, announcing the trial and banishment of three Boston men for “giving succor and shelter to members of that dangerous and dissenting sect, the Baptists.” Samuel Skerry, going by at that moment, turned upon her a leer of such evil import that she felt sure he had read her thoughts. If such was the punishment for giving help to Baptists, had been her reflection, would it not be, to the prejudiced eyes of Puritans, a hundred times worse to have aided a Roman Catholic? But time passed and still they dwelt in safety, for the shoemaker, so it seemed, was biding his time.

“Sometimes,” said Roger Bardwell, who was a frequent visitor at their house now; “sometimes I think it may be regard for Master Simon that keeps him silent, sometimes I think that he was lost and bewildered in the storm that night as were the others, and so never saw the mass in the garden, sometimes I think that he is so wrapped up in money-getting that he has not a thought for other things. He is mad for gain these latter days, and he must have a fortune stored away in his hiding-hole behind the cupboard.”

On the Sabbath day that Margeret was eighteen, she was still thinking, as she sat in the meeting-house, of the peril that had hung over them so long. Master Hapgood, the minister, was bringing to its close a sermon grown no shorter than of old, although age had bowed his shoulders and weakened his mighty voice. The pale yellow of a winter sunset showed for a few minutes behind the windows, gilded the blank white walls and faded away again. A dank chill crept over the meeting-house, children drew their feet up under them and men and women wrapped themselves closer in their grey cloaks.

“And now, brethren,” Master Hapgood was saying, “there is time left for contribution, wherefore, as God has prospered you, so freely offer.”

One by one the little congregation went forward, each to deposit his gift; first the Assistants, then the Tything Men, then the humbler goodmen of the town. Some laid down money, more, such produce as they could spare, corn or fruit or fresh eggs. Samuel Skerry, shuffling down the aisle, brought as small a copper coin as the currency afforded and looked at it regretfully as he laid it down. Roger Bardwell, at the end of the line because he was the youngest of all the householders, brought a basket of dried corn of his own growing. He no longer dwelt with the shoemaker, but had built himself a little cottage and was coming to prosperity by tending fields of his own.

After the men had gone back to their seats there went forward those women who had no husbands or fathers or brothers there to carry the offering for them. Old Goody Parsons, limping and sighing, was still able to toil up the aisle with her contribution, a pair of stout knitted hose; behind her came Goodwife Page whose husband was away at sea. Last of all walked Margeret Radpath, slight, erect and fair, bringing her offering since there was no one to do it for her. How did she know, she who kept her eyes upon the ground as she went, that of the many glances that followed her, Roger Bardwell’s was the most earnest gaze of all, never leaving her face even after she came back to sit alone upon the bench beneath the window?

And where were Master Simon and Mistress Radpath? Margeret’s mother had died the year before, and slept now in the windswept grave-yard on the hillside, while Master Simon, upon whom old age had seemed to come overnight after his wife’s death, sat at home, too worn and feeble to leave his own fireside. His unbroken spirit, however, still shone warm and bright within him, and to his house still came all who were in need or trouble, to seek advice and help. Under his directions and by means of Margeret’s busy hands and Roger Bardwell’s, the garden still bloomed as fair as ever.

“’Tis the flowers have the best of us,” Master Simon would say when now and then on summer days he could limp forth to see the rows of blossoms and the tall-growing shrubs. “The old age of a garden is fairer and lustier than its youth, and it comes to its greatest glory when tended by the children’s children of the man who planted it.”

Since Master Simon’s fields must be tilled by other hands now, and their living therefore had grown less abundant, Margeret had become mistress at the little school, built beyond the meeting-house at the end of a winding lane. It was hard often for her to sit so many hours within doors, listening to the children droning away at their lessons, when she was so used to being in the fresh air the live-long day. She made a good school-mistress, nevertheless, as was proved by the lessons so well learned under her careful eye, although the bundle of birch rods, the former master’s most familiar tool, lay upon its pegs above the door, so little used that a delicate spider web, spun between the tips of its twigs, had hung there the whole year through. The children came laughing and romping down the schoolhouse lane with many a tribute of flowers and red apples for the teacher they loved. One day, a pleasant, growing, Spring day, when she was most impatient to be outside, she had seen the little daughter of Goodwife Page, playing with a long, dusty sunbeam that fell from the high window across her spelling-book. When the child looked up anxiously, fearing reproof, Margeret had only smiled in return and the little girl had gone happily back to her work.

“After all,” Margeret thought, as she looked about her at the fresh, bright faces, “this is only another kind of a garden.”

And often, on summer days, when the air was quiet and the children’s voices filled the room with a busy humming like a hive of bees, she would think of the lives and characters that they were building up for themselves and remember Master Simon’s line:

“The singing masons building roofs of gold.”

There was some one else who came daily down the schoolhouse lane, and waited at the door for lessons to be over. Roger Bardwell, whether it rained or shone, was always there to walk home with the school-mistress and to stay for a few minutes, chatting with Master Simon, when they reached her door. For a year he had been doing so, although the first day of it and the first look of welcome in his blue eyes when he met her coming up the lane, told Margeret that he loved her. But of this he had never spoken, nor ever broken the silence of that mystery as to who he was or whence he had come. What with this silence, and with her other anxieties, the girl had begun to carry a heavy heart as she went about her labours of the day.

Upon this Sabbath afternoon, as the service ended and the grave-faced congregation came out into the winter twilight, Roger Bardwell walked at her side again, down the steep path where the snow creaked under their feet.

“Margeret,” said he, “I have news for you that, I fear, threatens trouble.”

“What is it?” she asked quickly, then voicing her first thought. “Does it concern my father?”

“Yes,” he answered, “it concerns him and you and me. I believe that Samuel Skerry has made up his mind to speak at last.”

“But after five years!” exclaimed Margeret. “Do you think that he could bring evil to my father now?”

“My thought is that he has given over the hope of harming Master Simon and wants only to strike at you and me. I have heard that he often says that the teaching of children is no work for women, that you should not be mistress of the school and that he could tell strange tales of you if he wished. He has brought up again the words of that mad Scotch minister who said that your father was a wicked man and that his garden would be laid waste for his sins. The shoemaker has much to say of me also, and with this last accusation seeks to ruin the two of us, at last.”

Margeret wrung her hands in helpless anxiety.

“Are you sure of this, Roger?” she asked.

“This much I know,” he told her. “On next Thursday, the market day, when all from the outlying houses will be in the village, he has urged the men to come up to the schoolhouse and see how their children are taught. Since you are the first woman to teach the school, he knows there are many who are still uncertain whether a maid can rule their sons and daughters. But I think that is not the whole of the mischief that he is planning. I wish I had no need to tell you of this, Margeret.”

The girl drew a long breath and then looked up at Roger with calm, grave eyes. People said that even more than in face and figure Margeret Radpath was beginning to resemble her father.

“We did no harm,” she said quietly, “and we will take what comes.”

She said nothing to Master Simon of the brewing trouble, and on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday went bravely up to the schoolhouse, trying not to think of what was to come. Thursday arrived, a day of lowering clouds, of sharp, bitter winds and flurries of snow. As the day passed, even the children seemed to feel a restlessness that grew greater and greater as the closing time came near. Even before the last hour was at an end, Roger Bardwell entered quietly and seated himself near the fireplace. A few minutes later there came a loud rap at the door. It opened to reveal Goodman Allen.

“I thought, Mistress Radpath,” he said, shuffling awkwardly upon the threshold, “that I would stop here a moment and hear how that lad of mine is faring with his lessons.”

“Yes, come in,” said Margeret, “warm yourself by the fire and you shall hear your boy presently.”

Before he could be seated, another man had followed him, naming the same errand, then another and another, until the room was crowded. Through the window, Margeret could see, with sinking heart, more and more dark figures hurrying through the snow and down the schoolhouse lane. A tall, stolid-faced Indian, wrapped in his blanket, slipped in among the rest, but was noticed little, since curiosity often brought these warriors from the forest whenever they saw a crowd gather. Margeret, glancing at him hastily, had a vague feeling that his face was one she knew, but of that she could not be certain. Last of all the company, Samuel Skerry came in and stood, scowling, by the fireplace.

The winter darkness fell so early that the candles had to be lighted before the lessons were over. The children looked about, bewildered, at the rows of sober faces, but they stood nobly by their teacher, their dear Mistress Margeret, and spoke their learning manfully. Finally the hour struck, the bell rang, and school was over.

“And now,” said Margeret, her spirit, after the long strain, flaring suddenly high in the face of that silent, waiting assemblage, “have you aught to say, my Masters?”

There was an embarrassed silence for a moment, broken at last by Skerry’s harsh voice.

“I say,” he began, “that a woman has no place as mistress of a school. Look yonder at the birch rods, brothers, how they gather dust and cobwebs. She never uses them, nor has she strength to do so if she would.”

“Nay, sir,” Goodman Allen interrupted mildly. “I have seen that when the birch is wielded too oft at school, it must also be used many times at home and, for myself, the task is one that I like not.”

There was a murmur of laughter and assent.

“In my belief,” added another, “a woman can lead our lads and lasses better than a man and there is much other work for men to do.”

“Then know this,” cried Skerry, striding out into the center of the room while the children watched him in round-eyed wonder; “know that this woman has broken our laws and betrayed our faith, that she has given help and comfort to the Papist priest who for years lived hid in the forest, within the very bounds of our Colony. I myself saw him read his mass in the garden and saw his altar decked with the candles made by her hands. Shall our children be taught by one who is a friend of Popery?”

The crowd of men drew together and a buzz of wondering whispers began. Did the shoemaker really know? Could such a terrible accusation be true? Roger Bardwell stepped forth from among them and stood beside Margeret.

“Listen not to him, good people,” he said. “Such wrong as Mistress Margeret may have done in the eyes of the law was accomplished innocently and when she was but a child. Whatever aid and comfort were given to the French father, that night he slipped through Hopewell and escaped to France, came through my fault. Lay the blame upon me.”

“He can bear a good share of it,” clamoured Skerry, his voice rising, along with his anger, “but the whole of it cannot be his. I saw them there together, worshipping with the Indians and the Jesuit priest, I saw them later talking to that outcast Papist in the garden, three of them, this maid, that boy, Roger Bardwell, and another—that precious Master Simon whom you all revere so much.”

“What?” “No! Not Master Radpath!” Cries of amazement and horror arose from the crowd. Surely not their idol, Master Simon!

“Ask them both if it be not true,” cried the shoemaker, pressing his advantage home, “and ask this fellow further who he is and whence he came. Ask him if his father was not the most notorious enemy to religion in New England, who sat in the stocks in Plymouth and was imprisoned to await more serious punishment in Boston, whence he escaped, no man ever knew whither. Ask him, good sirs, and see him grow pale and hesitate.”

That Roger grew pale was quite true but that he hesitated was not.

“It is as the shoemaker says,” he declared bravely. “My father held views other than yours concerning certain matters of the church and he was bold enough not to hold his tongue. Although it chanced that I myself followed my dead mother’s faith, which was the same as yours, good neighbours, I also fell under suspicion and was imprisoned with my father, but we both escaped. There was a ship just sailing from Boston whose captain was my father’s friend and a kindly man. His was a little vessel but we managed to find a place of concealment in her hold, so that she put to sea with my father on board. When he was found they did not turn back but carried him safe to Holland.”

“And why did you not go with him?” demanded Goodman Allen, bluntly.

For the first time Roger’s voice faltered.

“There—there proved to be hiding place for but one,” he said.

Although he spoke so low, there was not one of that breathlessly attentive audience who did not hear. A low mutter of approval went around the room, for every stout-hearted Puritan there loved courage and high undaunted spirit.

“Speak on, boy,” said Allen, “tell us how you came hither.”

“I let my father think that I could find another place,” Roger went on, “so that he did not discover, until too late, that I was left behind. I wandered from town to town, dwelt in the forest with the priest and the Indians for a space and at last came here and took service with the shoemaker. He cared not for differences of faith if he could have a helper whom he need not pay. I think he found and read a letter from my father and so learned who I was. That, men of Hopewell, is the whole of my tale.”

For a fleeting minute it seemed that Roger’s simply-told story had won forgiveness for both of the accused. But after a moment the tide of feeling turned. Free thinking, irregularity of doctrine, Popery—there were no other things that the Pilgrims feared so much. Famine and pestilence might be checked, but the fire of heresy, once lit among them, might burn until the peace of the whole Colony was destroyed. The men consulted, laid their heads together, whispered and then spoke louder and louder as their terror and excitement grew. Presently a clamour arose, led by Skerry’s shrill voice:

“Destroy this evil! Drive them forth! Let no such danger lurk within our midst!”

It was fear, rather than anger that sounded in their voices, the deadly terror of that unconquerable enemy, free-thinking, so often beaten down but always raising its head again. Men looked at each other with dread and suspicion in their eyes. What could be done in such a desperate pass, with the peril striking at their very midst? Naught, they seemed to think helplessly, save to raise a louder and more threatening tumult. Margeret, thinking of the Quaker women, shrank back as the clamouring throng moved a step forward. Roger threw his arm around her and turned defiantly to face them all.

Almost unnoticed the door had opened and some one had come pushing through the crowd. But a dead silence fell when Master Simon strode out into the room, his tall figure and white head bent, his grey cloak powdered with snow. Upon the breathless hush that followed the uproar, his quiet voice fell with a thrilling emphasis:

“Walk not in fear, ye men of God.”

There was no word given in reply. The men stood motionless in their places as Master Simon went on:

“Why must you be so stricken with blind terror,” he said, “when one amongst us takes a further step along that path to freedom that we ourselves have followed, that dares to think other than the rest of us? Is it reasonable that each one of us should say: ‘I will believe as I choose and all men must think as I do’? Search your hearts truly and ask yourselves if there be not some point of doctrine, some order of worship that you have not questioned either once or many times. If there be one amongst you who has not so thought, let him stand forth that we may do him honour.”

He paused, but no one stirred. With furtive sidelong glances, his listeners looked at each other, but not a man stepped forward. Master Simon’s glowing eyes searched the faces of one after another.

“If then it be a wrong not to weave all our thoughts to the self-same pattern, are we not all sinners together? But thoughts are like running water, they go where they will and only our Father follows them and knows that they all flow down to the same sea. Trust Him who loves us much, and let Him guard our faith and us. And let it be that after our time people will say of us, not merely that we wore grey coats and never smiled, not that we walked a narrow way and persecuted our brethren, but let them say, ‘They braved much, those Pilgrim fathers, they laboured valiantly, they trusted God, they planted a new spirit of freedom in this good New World, and they did well.’”

He ceased speaking and there was a pause, broken at last by Goodman Allen’s long sigh of relief. The men moved, relaxed, smiled at each other and came forward to grasp Master Simon’s hand. The danger was at an end.

“Margeret, child,” said Master Simon, turning to his daughter, “do not look so anxious that I am here. Did you think to keep all this from your poor old father, who should stop at home now that age has bowed him down? No, I felt that I must speak to my comrades once more, and that this was a fitting time. I doubt if I have strength ever to step beyond my own doorstone again.”

Amid the general hum of voices that followed now, Samuel Skerry’s was lifted once more. The little shoemaker, apparently unmoved by Master Simon’s words, seemed determined still to attain his end.

“I ask again,” he shouted in tones so loud that all were forced to listen; “I ask why that youth, Roger Bardwell, did not later follow his father beyond the seas, as he could well have done these three years past? Why does he still lurk here if it be not for some evil purpose of heresy?”

Goodman Allen looked at Roger and Margeret standing there together and laughed aloud.

“No eye but one so blinded with malice as is yours, Samuel Skerry,” he said, “could fail to see why the lad has lingered here!”

Margeret blushed vividly, but Roger smiled upon them all. Now that the cloud over his past had been dispelled and his secret had been discovered and forgiven, he had no more need to hide his love. But the shoemaker was not yet silenced.

“Let him not deceive you,” he insisted, “he—”

“Wait,” cried Roger, holding up his hand, “before you denounce me, Samuel Skerry, think well. Remember that for one who harbours such a transgressor of the law as I was, there is a fine of forty shillings for each hour spent by the sinner in that man’s house. Think, my good master, how long I dwelt with you, how many hours of toil I spent tending your field, drawing your water, mending your rows of broken shoes. Count up what your fine would be and whether there is enough to pay it in that strong-box of yours behind the—”

“Cease,” screamed Skerry in sudden panic. His terror was so plain that Roger relented and the listeners roared with laughter. The shoemaker began to look about him uneasily and to sidle toward the door. This meeting that he had called together for the ruin of his enemies had become suddenly no happy place for him. One or two of the younger men began to crowd him into a corner whence he could not escape, the anger in their eyes boding ill for the mischief-making cobbler. But Master Simon interfered.

“No, no, lads,” he said. “Wherefore humiliate him further? The matter is at an end so here let it rest.”

It was an odd look, half gratitude and half baffled fury, that Samuel Skerry bent upon them as he slipped away. As Master Simon stood looking after him, some one brushed against his arm. It was the Indian whose entrance Margeret had noticed earlier in the afternoon. She recognised him suddenly now as the one who had led the band of his comrades when they came to say good-bye to the priest. With silent dignity he stepped forth, wrapped in his blanket, his black eyes shining in the candlelight.

“There is one more word to be said in this affair of Monsieur Simon,” he began, “and that word is mine.”

His English was good, but had, beside his own guttural accent, a foreign flavour as though he had been taught by one whose native tongue was French.

“Speak on, friend,” said Goodman Allen, as the men drew back to give him space.

“I, too, was a friend of that French father who dwelt in the wood,” he pursued. “He led me to the Christian faith and taught me to walk in upright ways. I and my comrades, we loved him dearly, we loved Monsieur Simon too for the help that he gave. And we love also that garden of his, the spot where we worshipped together and said our last farewell. Our little father is dead now, dead in his own happy France and we know that he sleeps the quieter for knowing of that last mass we said together.”

A slight noise of the door’s opening and closing caused no interruption. Samuel Skerry had stolen out into the dark, but he went unheeded, so intent were the men upon what the Indian had to say.

“Of late,” the tale continued, “a secret word has come from the settlements in Canada, a message that has been passed on from tribe to tribe. The French love not the English and have been stirring up the Indians to strike at the New England settlers, to destroy their towns where they can, and to cut off the outlying farms. You have heard of such deeds all about you: you knew that they were ordered by the French but do you know why you have been spared? It was because we who loved Monsieur Simon would not listen to evil counsel, because that garden of his has become, for us, a sacred spot, because when danger threatened, we ringed you round and held you safe. The English Puritans are great and powerful, but it is well for them, nevertheless, to have the wandering Jesuits and the humble red men for their friends.”

In awed silence the men of Hopewell had heard him to the end. Then arose suddenly a tumult of voices, not the outcry of fear and anger such as had been heard half an hour before, but a thunder of joyful admiration and cries of:

“God bless our Master Simon and his garden!”

A lane opened in the crowd through which Master Simon passed, leaning upon the Indian’s arm. In little groups, by twos and threes, the village men and their children followed, talking excitedly as they went. Margeret lingered to cover the fire and snuff the candles, while Roger Bardwell, to no one’s surprise, waited also. Goodman Allen, leading his little boy by the hand, was the last to go. He turned at the door.

“You two have weighty matters of which to talk,” he said with his honest, kindly smile. “So trouble not, Mistress Margeret, I will see that your father comes safe to his home. You, and this youth who has so much to say to you, need not to hasten as you walk through the lane!”