The higher task and the larger adventure were nearer to Margeret Radpath than she had thought. Neither she, nor her mother nor Master Simon as they went about their work through all those busy summer months had even a vague dream of what the first days of autumn would bring forth. Hopewell, falling ever into more placid ways with each year of quiet and prosperity, had begun to forget the excitements of its earlier history and to cease talking even of the strange vanishing of Jeremiah Macrae. It seemed, as it always does in peaceful times, as though nothing could ever again stir the calm order of the passing days.

If there was any one who had an inkling of what disturbing matters were in store it was the silent, shabby Roger Bardwell who did Samuel Skerry’s errands, helped to mend Hopewell’s rows of broken shoes and who, in spite of his shyness and the evil reputation of his master, seemed to have won the good will of all who knew him. It began to be that people bringing boots to be mended asked that the apprentice do the work instead of the cobbler himself for, as Goodwife Allen said:

“That surly Skerry makes me feel that with every stitch he puts into the leather he has sewed in a poisoned thought of me and mine.”

At first the shoemaker took such requests as ill-naturedly as you would expect of so sour tempered a man; later he would merely shrug his shoulders and say:

“If the boy wishes to do twice as much work as his master, what have I to say? So be it you pay me the money I care not who bears the labour.” For it was well known that Skerry loved money almost as much as he hated his fellow men.

Throughout this summer it began to happen more and more often that villagers, coming to ask for Roger Bardwell, found only the scowling master-cobbler, and on their inquiring where the boy might be were told that “he was off in the forest somewhere, wasting the precious minutes that might otherwise be turned into good silver coin.”

“Ay, coin for you but not for him,” Goody Parsons retorted one day. “When you pay the boy no wages you have no just cause for complaint if now and then he steals a moment for himself.”

“A moment!” snarled Skerry. “Why, he is often gone for a whole day and a night and sometimes more. He used to waste his time sailing a boat down yonder on the bay, but now he has given up even that pastime for these endless expeditions into the wood.”

“Tell me, friend, what errand takes him there and for such long spaces of time,” inquired the Goody eagerly. “Tell me and I vow I will whisper it to no one.”

The shoemaker rocked back and forth upon his stool in silent, ill-natured glee.

“And this is the dame who had sworn to give over gossiping,” he exclaimed. “No, you would not whisper it, you would shout it louder than could the town crier himself. Therefore I will not tell you.”

“I think you do not know,” returned Goody Parsons with spirit, and she flounced out of his workshop with as much haughtiness as her still old joints would permit. She left Skerry muttering and frowning over her remark, which had evidently come nearer to the truth than he liked. It was not often that the shoemaker’s crafty curiosity failed to penetrate the most hidden mysteries, but in this matter of his helper’s absence he seemed to have met with distinct failure. Whatever it was that took Roger Bardwell so often to the forest, whatever it was that made his blue eyes more serious and his face more sober every day, no questioning or spying on his master’s part served to draw the secret from him.

Margeret Radpath saw him seldom, but even on those rare occasions she noticed how much graver and more troubled he seemed to be as time went by. Was Samuel Skerry so cruel to him, she wondered; was life within the same four walls with the shoemaker’s rasping tongue so hard to bear? She wished often that she might know the truth of the matter and whether she or her father could be of any help.

She was sent one day with Master Simon’s great snow boots that must be mended before the winter, and she tried, all the way across the field, to summon courage enough to offer Roger some word of sympathy and friendship. The shoemaker’s cottage, with its wide-spreading eaves and small deep windows looked somehow of a very lowering and forbidding aspect, as she made her way with failing spirit up the stone-flagged pathway to its door. It had been built almost the first of the cottages of Hopewell, not by Samuel Skerry, but by a stout-hearted weaver, one of the earliest settlers. He had gone now to dwell in Salem but throughout the first and most troubled years of the Colony’s history he had lived here all alone. There was a tale that once an Indian, whom the weaver had made an enemy, had come there in the night seeking to kill the white man who was so bold as to dwell by himself. The weaver, a man of mighty strength, had overpowered the Indian, had cut the web from his loom and had bound his struggling foe to the great armchair that stood by the fire. Then he had calmly mounted once more to his high bench, had set up his weaving and had toiled busily the whole night through, singing as he worked. Neighbours came in the morning and, at the weaver’s orders, released the Indian who slunk off into the forest inspired with a wholesome dread of these mad white men who feared nothing. Margeret thought, as she came up the path, that the cottage looked like just the place where stirring things might have happened in the past and might some day happen again.

On peeping in through the open door she saw that the loom had never been taken down and that even the weaver’s great armchair still held its place before the fire. It seemed dark within, after the bright sunshine outside, but she could make out the figure of Roger Bardwell bending over the shoemaker’s bench in the further corner of the room. His work lay unfinished on his knee and his face was buried in his hands. Utter weariness and despair spoke in his whole attitude. He sprang up quickly, however, when he heard her footstep and greeted her with his shy smile.

“Why, Mistress Margeret,” he was beginning, when he was interrupted by the opening of the back door of the cottage and the abrupt entry of Samuel Skerry.

“So,” said the shoemaker to Margeret, “you have an errand here? Then state it quickly, for ours are busy days and time means good money.”

Dismayed at his harsh tone, Margeret quickly drew the heavy boots from under her arm.

“These are worn in the soles and are to be mended,” she said. “My father says that—”

Skerry broke out in sudden anger as though he could not bear even the mention of Master Simon.

“A pest on you and your father!” he cried. “Do I not hear enough in the village of Master Simon this and Master Simon that, without having to see his own daughter coming to my house to tell me what I should do? Begone from my door and come not here again with your chattering and your tempting my boy into idleness.”

Margeret made no delaying but turned at once to flee. Roger, however, followed her beyond the door and spoke hastily in an undertone.

“You must not mind the shoemaker’s sharp words, little Mistress,” he reassured her. “He seems indeed to bear ill will toward your father, but still I sometimes see him at our door, watching Master Simon in his garden with a look so gentle, almost wistful, that I know not what to think. The boots shall be mended safely, and when they are done I will bring them back. I fear that the scant welcome you have received will make you desire little to come hither again.”

“When he brings the boots,” Margeret reflected, as she walked back through the field, “my father must question him and perhaps can find a way to help him.”

It was just then the season for candle making, the task that Margeret loved above all others of the year. Beyond Master Simon’s garden was a stretch of waste land reaching down to the water’s edge, where grew in a thick tangle, the dark bayberry bushes that so many of the Puritans had thought best to root out of their fields. Master Simon, however, had kept his and had found that from their abundant fruit could be made the green, sweet-smelling tapers that were of such service through the long winter. Tallow was still scarce in the little Colony, and wax candles brought from England far too costly, so this was a brave discovery indeed. Every autumn when the first tang of frost was in the air, all the children of Hopewell gathered to pick Master Simon’s bayberries and a merry task they made of it. Then, for days after, would come the sorting of the fruit, the boiling and skimming and the dipping of the wicks. Slowly the candles would take shape until the moment that was to Margeret a breathlessly exciting one when the first pair were placed in the copper candlesticks on the mantel and were lighted to see if all had been properly done and the tapers burned clear, steady and fragrant as they should.

“I trust,” said Mistress Radpath, as they began the first evening to sort and select the berries, “that this season our task may be completed in peace. Last year, do you remember, I slipped and hurt my arm so that you had to do the work with no help but my directions. And well indeed you did it!”

“And the year before,” added Margeret, “neighbour Deborah Page was ill and you ran in and out between the boilings and skimmings trying to attend to her.”

“Ay, so it goes,” her mother said. “Some mishap each season all the way back to the year when your father was away among the Indians and we made the candles wondering whether he would ever come back to see them burn. But this year, surely all is peaceful and quiet and our task should be carried safely to its end.”

Mistress Radpath spoke too soon for, as it proved, never before was a candle making season so full of disturbing and long-remembered events. To begin with, the very next day when the first kettleful of berries had just been swung over the fire, a mounted man stopped at the gate and came in to tell them that a cousin in the next town was taken with a fever and begged for help. So, with scarce half-an-hour’s delay, Mistress Radpath went off, seated on the pillion behind the messenger and leaving Margeret to face the candle making alone.

She boiled and dipped and cooled with steady patience all of that day and the next until a great pile of straight smooth candles lay upon the kitchen table. Master Simon came in just as the first two were lighted and was loud in his praise of the tall, sweet-smelling flame.

“Will not my mother be pleased?” cried Margeret joyfully. “I can scarcely wait to show her how well the work has gone. See, here are little ones for lanterns and big ones to read by and a few great splendid tapers to burn if perchance the Governor should visit us again. And to-night you shall sit and read by these first ones while I sit by you and sew.”

It had been a cool, clear October day, with vivid sunshine lying over the garden, but as Margeret went to the window to pull the curtains close she saw that the night promised to be stormy. It had grown dark early, big black clouds were rolling across such few stars as had sought to show themselves, and, even as she stood there, a patter of rain came against the glass.

“We will be so cosy here by the fire,” she was saying, as she went to the next window, then, with a sudden exclamation, “Oh, look, look, Father; what can those lights mean?”

Master Simon came quickly to look over her shoulder. At the edge of the town moving lanterns were passing to and fro, with here and there the red flare of a pine-knot torch. Even as they watched more and more lights gathered and were carried back and forth in excited confusion while on the rising wind came the far-off sound of the town crier’s bell.

“Oh, what can it be?” faltered Margeret. “Do you—do you think it could be the Quakers again?”

She could never forget the winter evening, now three years past, when two women of that forbidden faith had passed through the village and had sought to spend the night at Hopewell’s little inn. They had been driven from the town and she, standing at the corner of the lane, had seen them fleeing with bent heads and upraised arms before the shower of stones hurled after them by the mob of angry Puritans. Master Simon had tried to stem the tide of his comrades’ fury, but for once had not prevailed. She could still remember the look on his face as the crowd went surging by them and how he had turned upon his heel muttering, “How long, O Lord, how long?”

“How can they do it?” she had gasped, as she, too, turned from the terrifying sight. “There are good Neighbour Allen and Dame Page shouting curses and even the children are flinging stones!”

“They are afraid not to, my child,” Master Simon had answered. “They dread the wrath of God should they suffer these women to remain here, and they think by this cruelty to save their own souls. It is so men are taught by the Gospel of Fear.”

It seemed that it was again the Gospel of Fear that drove forth the men of Hopewell that night. The lights were moving in wide tossing circles, they were bobbing about in the fields like will-o’-the-wisps and were advancing closer and closer as they spread across the meadows.

“Father,” Margeret cried wildly, “they are coming here!”

“It may be,” said Master Simon at last, “that some child is lost or some one is hurt. We had better go out to make sure that it is no such mischance as that.”

The wind and rain blew hard in their faces as they went down the garden path so that Margeret had to cling to her father’s arm to keep from losing him in the dark. The horn lantern in his hand winked and flickered but managed somehow to remain feebly alight as they struggled on against the storm. They had not gone far beyond the boundaries of their own land before they came upon a little group of searchers led by Goodman Allen. Their lights had all blown out and they were standing close together, their backs to the wind, trying, in breathless haste, to kindle a new flame.

“Here is Master Simon Radpath with his lantern still burning,” exclaimed one in a tone of relief. “Now we can lose no time but lay hands upon that evil man at once. I am certain he is somewhere near.”

“I had hoped that we would meet you sooner, Neighbour,” said Goodman Allen. “It is not your wont to sit safe by the fire when Hopewell needs your help.”

“That depends somewhat upon your trouble,” answered Master Simon gravely. “Some matters I find are better managed without my aid. What is it now? Are some fleeing Quaker women threatening the safety of your souls again? Or is it a Baptist this time, one man against the whole of the village?”

“It is far worse than that,” burst out the one who had spoken first, “worse than anything you can believe!”

“I thought there was naught worse than a Quaker,” began Master Simon bitterly, but Allen interrupted him.

“The man whom we seek is a thousand times worse,” he cried. “He is a Catholic priest, a Jesuit, and he has dared to live in the forest near us for years. He wandered southward from the Canadian settlements and came to dwell, miles from here it is true, but within the legal bounds of the Colony of Hopewell. He established a mission among the Indians, even built a woodland chapel and said his forbidden masses here, actually here in New England, upon Puritan soil! And the Indians, close-mouthed rascals, never betrayed him.”

“And how have you found him out now?” inquired Master Simon. He seemed not so astonished as he should have been upon hearing this terrible tale. Perhaps his red-skinned friends had told more to him than to the other white men.

“He tried to slip down past the town and escape from our shores by sea. Somewhere in this darkness and storm a ship is cruising up and down waiting to carry him away. It seems that he desired to go back to France but was too old and broken to undertake the overland journey to Canada.”

“Come, friend,” put in another of the little party, nudging Allen as he spoke, in a vain attempt to check the story that he was pouring out. “We are delaying here and time is precious. Let Master Simon give us a light from his lantern.”

“A moment first,” said Margeret’s father. “I must know who it was that found out all this.”

“Who but the wisest and craftiest man in Hopewell,” answered Allen. “Who but that clever shoemaker, Samuel Skerry? The priest became bewildered in the dark and by some chance wandered to the cobbler’s door. Roger Bardwell was from home and the shoemaker there alone, but it did not take him long to make the simple old Frenchman believe that he was a friend and so to draw the whole story from him. Then Skerry came in haste to rouse the town, but before we could return with him the priest had taken alarm and was off and away again. Now we are searching everywhere for him and when we find him—” He chanced to catch Margeret’s horrified eyes fixed upon him in the lantern light and so concluded lamely, “It is no matter to be talked of before little maids.”

“It is no work for honest men,” rejoined Master Simon hotly, “to hunt a lost, frightened, old man up and down through the storm as though he were a wild thing. Have you no pity, Neighbour Allen, and no kindness of heart?”

“I have both,” answered the other, “but I have also a soul, a soul that will be lost for all eternity should I suffer this priest to go unpunished.”

Margeret started and was scarcely able to repress a cry. Something had brushed by her in the dark close to the hedge, something small and quick and panting.

“It is he, it is he!” cried the man nearest her. “I hear something rustling by the hedge. Your light, Master Simon, for the love of Heaven.”

“Yes,” said Master Simon.

The thin, flickering ray from his lantern swung across the wet wind-swept bushes nearer—and nearer, and then suddenly went out, leaving them all groping in the blind darkness.

“Scatter quickly and feel your way along the hedge,” cried Allen. “A plague on this tempest and the treachery of lanterns!”

Margeret felt her father’s hand grasp hers firmly and draw her along the path that led back to their garden. Under cover of the dark they moved away from the searchers and walked silently up to the house. Once inside, Master Simon laid off his wet cloak and hung the offending lantern on its nail.

“You should have put in one of your new candles, Margeret,” was all he said; “the old one was so nearly burnt out that it was not to be trusted in such a wind.”

But he smiled a little as he spoke and she, for relief and joy at the priest’s escape, laughed out loud. She went to the window to watch the winking lights again as they danced about in the meadow more confusedly than before. Finally, some new information seemed to have reached the searchers, for the bobbing lanterns moved closer together, turned in another direction, and passed so quickly that in a few moments the whole chase had gone over the hill to the northward.

“They have gone quite away,” she exclaimed joyfully, but Master Simon made no reply. He was sitting in his big chair by the fire and gazing intently into the red flames. She went to stand by his side and stare at them too.

“Suppose he had found our door instead of Samuel Skerry’s,” she said at last, “would you have let him in?”

Her father came out of his brown study to answer her.

“The Puritan law inflicts heavy fines and imprisonment or worse,” he said, “upon any one who harbours a Roman Catholic priest.”

“But would you have let him in?” she persisted.

“I would have asked your consent first,” he replied gravely, “for in the eyes of the law such a crime would be shared by all who were in the house that admitted him. And would you have dared to bring him in?”

“Yes, most surely,” she answered. “I would have warmed and fed him, would have given him all I had to aid and comfort him and to send him safe upon his way. And so would you, as I well know.”

“I think—” began Master Simon, and then stopped suddenly to listen.

Quick footsteps sounded on the grass behind the house, the back door was thrown open swiftly and without the ceremony of a knock. Upon the threshold stood Roger Bardwell, wet, panting and eager, his blue eyes no longer sad or troubled, but shining with excited purpose.

“Master Simon,” he cried, although hardly above his breath, “and you, Mistress Margeret, do you dare to give aid to a man who needs your help so sorely that without it he must perish?”

“Yes,” said Master Simon. “Is it the French priest?”

“Ay, it is the priest,” Roger answered. “He is hiding in your garden.”