Everybody in Hopewell was bidden to Margeret Radpath’s wedding, and everybody was bound to come, of that one could be quite certain. All the village housewives, as soon as the day was finally set, fell to rubbing shoe-buckles, polishing silver buttons, getting out their finest white kerchiefs and looking to their husbands’ best Sabbath clothes. Many of those stout grey coats had been worn to the marriages of a generation before, but were only the more respected for that reason. Every kitchen was fragrant with baking, for there was no person who did not wish to send an offering to the wedding feast of Master Simon’s daughter. There were other gifts, too, of every sort and shape, from the great, chased, silver cup sent by the Governor down to little Jonathan Allen’s laboriously whittled birch broom. When Margeret or Roger walked up the street of Hopewell, men and women would lean out through the open half doors of their cottages and cry, “Good wishes to you, Mistress Radpath,” or, “Good luck and long happiness, Master Bardwell,” so that the whole air seemed to be filled with the pleasant sunshine of friendly hopes and cheery blessings.

More than a year had passed since that winter evening in the schoolhouse lane, but Margeret and Roger had waited patiently until all could be set in order for their marriage. With his quick shrewdness, Roger had seized upon a fact that was, later, clear enough to every one, namely, as he told Master Simon, “that New England’s prosperity would come more from her ship-captains than her farmers.” So he had sailed away upon a trading venture in a ship of which he hoped some day to be the owner, while Margeret had sat by the fireside at home, spinning flax, weaving linen, and stitching away at the household gear that must belong to every properly dowered bride. Master Simon, sitting in his great chair opposite, would beguile her with stories of the foreign lands to which Roger had gone, tales brought back by his own father from voyages made nearly a hundred years ago. Then at last the ship had come to port again, the final stitch had been taken and the marriage day was at hand.

The time of the wedding was late June and the place, as all agreed to be most fitting, was Master Simon’s garden. For weeks Margeret’s father had been directing two busy helpers there, since his own stiff joints were not equal to their old tasks. With patience and skill that were almost uncanny he had brought the garden to its fairest flowering. Early blossoms he had coaxed into lingering, late ones to hasten their bloom, so that, as the day approached, the whole place was a miracle of abundant pink and white, banks of roses against cool dark hedges, smooth lawns fringed with fragrant pinks, sweetbrier, tall trim hollyhocks, masses of white syringa and early-flowering sweet-william.

“There is one thing that troubles me,” said Master Simon to his daughter and to the lad he already loved as well as a son, “one plant that mars the pink and white harmony of the garden. There is a clump of sweet-william that should have bloomed white, but instead, has opened its flowers a brilliant crimson. So eagerly has it answered my call to grow abundantly for your wedding day that I scarcely can bring myself to root it up, poor faithful thing. I fear that I am too soft-hearted to be a proper gardener!”

He leaned forward in his chair that had been set near the cottage door, and tried to point out the flower that had played him false. It could not be seen, however, from where he sat, so Margeret and Roger went down into the garden to look for themselves. Neither of them could summon courage to pull up the too-willing plant, so it was left to bloom unabashed, among the softer colours of the other flowers. The next day, just at sundown, the marriage was to take place, in the little square Queen’s Garden where the last level rays always fell in a farewell radiance. Later, the wedding supper would be spread indoors, and for this great preparations had been made, the larder filled with good things, and rows of bayberry candles set ready to light the scene.

One or two last errands remained to be done, and for these Margeret and Roger were setting forth together. It was a clear June night with thick-sprinkled stars, shining serenely as though to say, “Never fear, to-morrow will be as full of sunshine as the heart of a bride could wish.”

At the gate the two met a visitor, Goody Parsons, leaning on her cane and moving slowly, but still not too old and stiff to come with her good wishes and a wedding gift.

“Let me not keep you,” she said as they stopped and would have turned back. “I will set that which I have brought within, and abide with Master Simon until you return. I have heard much of the glory of this garden made ready for your wedding, Mistress Margeret, and I can take my time at seeing the flowers while you are gone. Nay, I will not step inside the gate until you go forth; I have no wish to keep you from your errand.”

So Margeret and Roger continued on their way up the lane while Goody Parsons limped across the grass toward the house.

“She has come on another mission, too,” Margeret told Roger, “for she told me some days since, that my marriage would not be lucky if I neglected to tell the bees of my wedding day. She was a wonderful bee-mistress once, so people say, and she has told me many a charm and spell to bring honey to the hive. When I said that telling the bees was mere superstition she was greatly troubled, and she has, I think, toiled hither to do it for me and is glad that we should be away.”

Goody Parsons had indeed come upon just that errand, yet first she hobbled into the kitchen where she set down her wedding gift. A blue and white china teapot it was, that had voyaged across the sea from England and was a rare and precious thing in Hopewell, where nearly every one must still use wood or metal or rough earthenware for household utensils. It had long been the old woman’s most valued treasure.

“There is not a great time left for me to use it,” she said in answer to Master Simon’s remonstrances, “and who should I wish to have it after me rather than my dear Mistress Margeret?”

She freed it from its wrappings and set it upon the table with a smile of happy pride.

“Now,” she added, “I am going out-of-doors for a little. No, sit you here, good friend, what I wish most is to go alone.”

She stepped forth into the garden, a dim fragrant place full of black shadows, but beginning to be faintly lit by a rising moon. Slowly she moved up and down the paths, laying her gnarled old fingers lovingly upon the roses and syringas. She broke off a twig of the hawthorn and tucked it into the bosom of her threadbare gown.

“Eh, it is many a long year,” she said, “since I walked in the lanes of Hertfordshire before my marriage day and thought the world was abloom for me alone. Yet it might have been yesterday save for the memory of him who has been so long dead.”

She rested at last upon the bench under the linden tree, dreaming of the never-to-be-forgotten beauty of that still June evening in England, fifty years ago.

“But who can call it so far gone by,” she said to herself at last, “when the same rose that I plucked that night from the vine on the cottage wall, still blooms beside my doorstep here in the New World. It is a good God that gives us the flowers to hold our youth and old age together.”

She sat for some little time, her chin upon her hand, looking across the banks of white flowers and sniffing at the fragrance that filled the warm air, but finally rose with a determined mien.

“I sit dreaming here like a foolish old crone,” she muttered, “and forget my errand so that those two young things will be coming back to laugh at me and my old-fashioned ways. Ah, but I mind how my mother stood in the bright Spring sunshine and told the bees of my wedding day, while Jock Parsons and I sat laughing upon the doorstep and said it was no use. That is the way of youth!”

As she was walking across the grass toward the row of beehives under the apple trees, her attention was attracted by a little twinkling light that shone out from Samuel Skerry’s cottage. She stood a moment to watch it idly and then became aware that it was moving toward her, jerking and halting, it was true, but passing very slowly down the path toward the gap in the hedge.

“Now what can the rascal have on foot?” she questioned. “Nothing good, for that I will answer.”

The light came through the hedge and advanced slowly up through the garden. She could see Samuel Skerry now, leaning over as he shuffled along, carrying a candle in one hand and something heavy and awkward in the other. Presently he paused, set his burden down and turning, hurried back the way he had come. Consumed with curiosity, Goody Parsons hobbled forward as fast as she could to see what he had left.

“I would give my best new bonnet,” she told herself, “the one I bought seven years ago last Michaelmas, to know what the villain is about!”

What he had left proved to be a big iron pot, filled with hot liquid that still bubbled and steamed. Goody Parsons dipped in an inquisitive forefinger and tasted it.

“Salt,” she exclaimed, “hot salt water!”

She was still marvelling over this new mystery when she observed that Skerry was returning, and retreated hastily to the shelter of the apple tree. He was carrying a second pot, bigger and heavier than the first, which he set down with a grunt of relief.

“Now,” she heard him mutter, “we will see what we can do for Master Simon and his precious garden.”

He had blown out the candle so that she could scarcely see what he was about, but a sudden swish and splash of hastily poured out water gave her a notion of his evil purpose.

“Samuel Skerry,” she shrieked, hobbling toward him and holding up a shaking hand; “Samuel Skerry, what are you doing?”

The startled shoemaker jerked himself backward and dropped what he was holding in his hand. The object rolled to the old woman’s feet and she bent stiffly to pick it up. It was a big pewter bowl, wrought with raised figures and flowers, as she could feel in the dark. Evidently he had brought it as the most convenient receptacle for dipping out the brine. Utterly bewildered she turned it round and round in her hands and asked again in a trembling voice:

“What are you doing?”

“I am watering Master Simon’s garden,” the shoemaker answered with a mocking chuckle. “I am giving to those plants he pets and cherishes a drink of scalding salt water, so that to-morrow, when the bride comes forth, she will find a desert for her marriage place and every flower perished never to grow again. Give back my bowl ere I take it from you.”

“I did not know,” she gasped, “that living man could be so evil!”

“You know it now, then,” he snarled, “and you know how I hate Master Simon and his goodness and his garden. You can say farewell to the flowers, for this night will see their ruin.”

“It shall not,” she cried. “No one shall dare lay hand upon leaf or flower that belongs to him. The good that has been wrought here comes not so easily to an end.”

In spite of her determined words, however, she was shaking with terror and retreating before him as he advanced threateningly. In stepping back she brushed smartly against the edge of the nearest beehive and heard a faint murmur from the bees within. The shoemaker had come quite close.

“How will you stop me?” he jeered. “Will you call Master Simon, who cannot leave his chair? Or will you restrain me yourself, you, an old woman who can only limp and groan as she walks along? No, Master Simon’s garden has come to the end of its glory. Do you remember what the Scotch minister said?”

“And you,” cried the old woman scornfully, “you are the instrument of Providence, I suppose, chosen to carry out the preacher’s words! People said when he vanished that he had gone back to the Devil, his master; perhaps you are his servant left behind to continue his work. Hark you, Samuel Skerry, if you dare to destroy good Master Simon’s garden, you will have to reckon with the people of Hopewell. I verily believe that they would burn down your house, should you do such a deed.”

“Cease your old woman’s chatter,” he ordered sharply. “I fear the people of Hopewell just as little as I do you. There is no power on earth can stop me now.”

“And is there not?” cried out Goody, shrilly. She struck her hand against the hive and a loud buzzing arose from the angered bees. “Do you hear those voices from within, cobbler Skerry? Do you understand that even a feeble old woman may have helpers near by? Should I raise the lid of the hive, out they will come, a thousand assistants ready to my hand. They will not harm a bee-mistress who has worked with them until they know her, but will they be as kind to you, Samuel Skerry? Can you call even so small a creature as a bee your friend?”

The shoemaker drew back, somewhat daunted for a moment. Then possessed by a gust of fury, he sprang to his great kettle and began pouring the hot brine over the nearest flowers.

“I have warned you,” cried the old woman, and she flung open the top of the hive.

A dark, whirring mass of bees came swarming out on the instant. Goody Parsons drew back, but there was no need, the line of their flight was straight toward the stooping shoemaker. He hesitated, turned, then clapped one hand to the back of his neck and the other against a smarting knee. Then, with a howl of rage, he made off through the garden, the buzzing cloud of enemies pursuing him even to his cottage door. Goody Parsons chuckled as she saw him go, but it was with shaking hands that she closed the hive.

“May Heaven grant that Master Simon’s garden be never in such danger again!” was her quiet prayer.

When Margeret and Roger returned an hour later, the old woman was sitting quietly by the kitchen fireplace, rubbing the pewter bowl until it shone in the candle light. Margeret, seeing the blue and white teapot on the table, was full of joyful but protesting gratitude over receiving such a gift. But Goody would listen to none of her remonstrances.

“My children are all married and dwell in England,” she said, “and the old teapot will never cross the seas again, so it is you that must have it, and with an old woman’s blessing, too, my dearie.”

The girl flung her arms about her old friend’s neck and kissed her with such energy that the pewter bowl rolled from her lap.

“Why, what is this?” exclaimed Roger, stooping to catch it as it trundled across the floor.

“Oh, that,” said Goody Parsons, “is a wedding gift that was left here for you an hour since. Samuel Skerry brought it, but he is a modest man and would not wait to receive your thanks.”

If ever bright skies and sunny weather combined to make a perfect wedding day, they did so on the afternoon that Margeret Radpath was married. And if ever happy hearts and loving good wishes made the day so bright that sun and flowers were not needed, they did so at the wedding in Master Simon’s garden. Tall, fair and fragrant the flowers stood in their unbroken rows, only the crimson sweet-william had perished under the shoemaker’s hands. Margeret’s father had heard the tale of Samuel Skerry’s misdoing, but had begged Goody Parsons to say nothing of it as he feared that the wrath of the people would be great. But the old woman’s tongue, given by nature to gossiping, could not quite keep silence now.

The marriage feast was over, the bride had kissed her father good-bye and had set forth with Roger Bardwell to his little cottage, three fields away. They were followed by the wedding guests in gay procession, carrying flowers and wreaths as was the simple, friendly custom in Hopewell. For a month the two were to live out their honeymoon in the little house a stone’s throw from Master Simon’s door, and after that Margeret was to hide with her father or he with her, while Roger went to sea again. On the threshold they turned to listen to the last good wishes and blessings of their friends.

“Look well to her happiness, young master,” cried a voice from the crowd, “for she is our Master Simon’s daughter.”

“I will,” returned Roger, “as well as any man can, save only Master Simon himself.”

It was not until the people were back in their own houses, taking off their best cloaks and hanging up their Sabbath coats, that the rumour began to run up one street and down another that Samuel Skerry had sought to destroy Master Simon’s garden. Many could not conceive that Master Radpath had such an enemy in the world, but more were willing to believe in any iniquity of the little evil-eyed shoemaker’s. Early the next morning a crowd of men with stern determined faces, came tramping down the lane and across the field to Skerry’s cottage. What they had in mind, perhaps even they themselves did not know, but more than one had reached down his old blunderbuss from above the fireplace where it had hung undisturbed ever since the Indian peace began, and all the faces were dark with anger. But their plans, whatever they were, could never be carried out, for the door of the shoemaker’s cottage stood open, the rooms lay empty and the ashes, cold on the hearth, and Samuel Skerry was gone.

There was only one living person who had seen his departure. Margeret Bardwell—Margeret Radpath she was no longer—had been up and stirring at dawn of this first day of her married life. Through her kitchen window, she had seen the little shoemaker’s bent figure go up the path, his shoulders bowed by the burden upon his back. Something in his quick, stealthy movements made her realise that it was not a simple errand that had brought him forth so early, but that this was flight from Hopewell—perhaps forever. Was he really going, and the shadow of his ill-will to be taken from her life for all time?

She felt a great lightening of the heart and then, a moment after, a sudden haunting, disturbing memory. It was only because his bent, black figure reminded her of another that, so long ago, she had watched go up the same path and vanish over the hill. For a fleeting second, as she watched Samuel Skerry go, there came back a clutching remembrance of Jeremiah Macrae and there rang in her ears that ominous prophecy concerning Master Simon’s garden:

“Fire and sword shall waste this place, blood shall be spilled upon its soil, and those who come after you shall walk, mourning, among its desolate paths.”

But the memory passed as quickly as it came, and, with a long sigh of relief, she saw the crooked little figure disappear at the turn of the lane.