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CHAPTER XIX
October had come, with an unusual glory of late wild-flowers and reddened leaves.
The soldiers were still quartered upon the Neck, and owing to the many collisions between them and the townspeople, the Governor had seen fit to augment the force. Several times the citizens had almost determined to march to the Neck and exterminate the entire body of Britishers; but wiser counsels prevailed, and no attack was made.
Governor Gage had issued a proclamation forbidding the assembling of the legislature which had been called to meet at Salem upon the fifth of the month. But notwithstanding this interdiction it had convened upon the appointed day, and resolved itself into a Provincial Congress.
Azar Orne, Jeremiah Lee, and Elbridge Gerry were the delegates representing Marblehead, and they took a prominent part in the proceedings. A number of important matters were discussed and acted upon, and a committee was appointed for "Observation and Prevention," and with instructions to "co-operate with other towns in the Province for preventing any of the inhabitants, so disposed, from supplying the English troops with labor, lumber, bricks, spars, or any other material whatsoever, except such as humanity requires."
The loyalists in the town were still zealous in the King's cause, and would not be silenced. And they entreated their neighbors and friends to recede, before it became too late, from the position they had taken. But the only reply of the patriots was, "Death rather than submission!" And they went on making provision for the organization of an army of their own.
Companies of "Minute Men" were enlisted, and these were disciplined and equipped. A compensation of two shillings per day was to be allowed each private; and to sergeants, drummers, fifers, and clerks, three shillings each. First and second lieutenants were to receive four shillings sixpence, and captains, five shillings. Pay was to be allowed for but three days in each week, although a service of four hours a day was required.
The town house was now filled – as were also most of the warehouses and other buildings – with the stored goods of Boston merchants, who were suffering from the operation of the Port Bill, which had closed that harbor to their business. And owing to this, as also by reason of the greater advantage afforded for securing privacy, the townsmen now held their meetings at the old tavern on Front Street, which faced the water, thus giving a good opportunity for observing the movements of the enemy upon the Neck.
John Glover, one of the town's foremost men, and a stanch patriot, lived near here; and he was now at the head of the regiment in which were John Devereux and Hugh Knollys, – the former being second lieutenant in the company of which Nicholson Broughton was captain, and in whose ranks Hugh was serving as a private.
Soon after his return from Boston, Broughton had closed his own house, deeming it too much exposed to the enemy for the safety of his daughter, who was compelled during his many absences to remain there alone with the servants; and Mary had gone with them to the house of a married aunt – Mistress Horton – living in a more retired portion of the town, away from the water.
He had consented, in response to the urging of his prospective son-in-law, that the wedding should take place before the winter was over. And thus it was that Mary, being busy with preparations for the event, left Dorothy much to herself, – more, perhaps, than was well for her at this particular time.
Aunt Penine had departed upon the day her brother-in-law fixed; but under Aunt Lettice's mild guidance, coupled with Tyntie's efficient rule, the household went on fully as well as before, – better, indeed, in many respects, for there was no opposing will to make discord.
The tory Jameson still remained under an unburned roof, despite the mutterings against him; and he continued to entertain the redcoats with lavish hospitality.
Several times, during trips to and from the Knollys house, Dorothy, escorted by Hugh or her brother – sometimes by both – or by old Leet, had encountered the young officer. But nothing more than a bow and smile had passed between them since the morning he had turned so haughtily from her father's presence.
It was about the middle of the month, and the shutters of all the windows were opened wide to let in the flood of autumn sunshine as the family sat at breakfast; and the silver service in front of Aunt Lettice glinted like little winking eyes where it caught the golden flood.
Her delicate white hands had poured out the sweetened hot milk and water which she and 'Bitha drank in lieu of tea, while her brother-in-law, busy with looking over a copy of the "Salem Gazette" brought by his son the night before, was letting his coffee cool.
Jack himself, after a hastily despatched breakfast, had already gone into the town, where he had matters of importance to look after, not the least of them being to dine at the Hortons' with Mary and her father; and he would not return until late in the evening.
Dorothy had little to say, seeming to be busy with her own thoughts; but she could not help smiling as little 'Bitha murmured softly, "Oh, grandame, I am all full of glory by now, for I caught a lot of sunshine on my spoon and swallowed it."
"And you'll be full of a mess, child, if you stir your porridge about in such reckless fashion," said Aunt Lettice, smiling as her eyes met Dorothy's.
"Dot," her father now asked suddenly, lifting his eyes from the paper, "when did you last see old Ruth Lecrow?"
Dorothy started, and her big eyes turned to him with a troubled look as she answered, "It is all of a month since I saw her."
The girl's conscience smote her, as never before had she neglected for so long a time to go and see the faithful carer of her own motherless infancy, or else send needful provision for her impoverished old age.
"A month!" her father repeated. "How is that, my child?" Then with a searching, anxious look into her downcast face, he said more gently: "You had best take Leet, and go to Ruth this very morning. The air and sun be fine enough to bring back the roses to your cheeks. I am thinking that you stop within doors too much o' late."
Before Dorothy could reply, Aunt Lettice reminded him that Leet was to meet Jack in the town that morning.
"Then I will walk, father," the girl said, "and take Pashar."
With this she arose from the table and was about to leave the room, when 'Bitha put in a petition that she might accompany her.
"No, 'Bitha," interposed her grandmother, "you made such a froach2 of your sampler yesterday that you have it all to do over again this morning, as you promised me." She spoke with gentle firmness, and the child hung her head in silence.
"Never mind, 'Bitha," Dorothy said soothingly, as she touched the small blonde head, – "mayhap we can have Leet take us to see Mistress Knollys this afternoon."
"I'd sooner go on the water, Dot," the child suggested timidly. Then turning to the head of the house, she asked: "Cannot we go out in one of the boats, Uncle Joseph? We've not been on the water for a long time." And the blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the old gentleman, who had just set down his emptied cup.
"Nay, my child," he answered, "that you must not; and for the same reason that none have been for so long a time. None o' ye must go nigh the boats until the redcoats be gone from the Neck."
"When will they go?" asked 'Bitha, pouting a little. "They have spoiled our good times for long past. We cannot go anywhere as we used."
"Nor can others older than you, my child," he said with an unmirthful smile, as he arose from the table. "The soldiers are a pest in the town, little one. But till the King sees fit to call them off, or we find a way to make them go, you must be content to stop nigh the house, and away from the boats." Then he added teasingly, as he put his hand upon her head, "The redcoats may carry you off, if you put yourself in their way."
'Bitha shook off his hand as she gave her small head a belligerent toss. "If they tried to do that, Uncle Joseph, I'd push them over the rocks, as Mary Broughton did that redcoat we met in the cave. And oh, Dot," – turning to her – "that 'minds me that the other day when I was with Leet and Trent, down in the ten-acre lot, that same redcoat was there, sitting in the door of the shed, with his horse standing nigh. And when he saw us coming, he hurried away. And Trent said 't was lucky no sheep were within the shed for him to steal."
"He is a gentleman, 'Bitha, and would no more steal my father's sheep than would you or I!"
Dorothy's voice was full of indignation, and the child's eyes opened wide at its unusual sharpness. But this, as well as her heightened color, her father and Aunt Lettice ascribed to embarrassment at being reminded of her exploit of the past summer.
All the outside world lay flooded in the warm golden sunshine that blunted the cold edge of the wind rushing from the north, where sullen cloud-banks were piling up in a way to threaten a change of weather before night. The sea lay a floor of molten silver and burnished steel, and the crows called incessantly from the woods.
Dorothy chose to take a short cut across the fields to old Ruth's abode; and while skirting the ten-acre lot, she cast a furtive glance toward the large shed, as if expecting to see a scarlet coat in the doorway.
But only the homespun-clad form of Trent was there, letting out a large flock of sheep, who came gambolling about him, and then dispersed over the dry brown grass, where a bright green patch showed here and there.
"'T was queer, Mist'ess Dor'thy, dat we nebber foun' de two cows dat strayed so long 'go, don't ye t'ink?" inquired Pashar, who followed close behind her with a big basket on his arm.
Dorothy, intent upon her own affairs, did not reply, and the boy went on: "Trent say now dat he b'leebe de redcoats stole 'em, fo' sure."
"How could that be," she asked sharply, "when the cows were missing before any soldiers came down here?"
"I dunno, Mist'ess – on'y dat's what Trent say, an' what we all b'leebe."
Here Dorothy was startled by a wild, shrill yell from the boy, and turned quickly to see the cause of it. The sheep had discovered a broken place in the fence, and were trooping through it en masse; and if once out of the field, there was nothing to bar their way to Riverhead Beach.
Trent had already started in pursuit, but it was easy to see that many of the flock would be on the other side of the fence before he could stop them.
"Give me the basket," Dorothy said to the negro boy, "and go to help Trent. Then come to Ruth's after me."
She had scarcely spoken when he, giving her the basket, uttered another wild yell and was off, speeding after the wayward sheep. He was soon alongside Trent, who had stopped to put some bars across the opening, at which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses. But these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, charged through them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side with a speed that quickly carried him out of sight.
Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which she crossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in a narrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness was broken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear of the intruder.
The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led in different directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tall pine-trees standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothy pursued brought her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took a sharp turn, and then ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, about the door of which grew a honeysuckle vine.
In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden; everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in the unshuttered windows were spotlessly bright.
Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within the living-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, and low-ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls, bedimmed with age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was the open hearth, back of which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling in front of the logs was a girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair of bellows to blow it into a brisker flame.
She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, but started quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your granny this morning?"
"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing to her feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally old and worried face.
"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down the heavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhat disarranged the curls over which it was drawn.
"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, she says. An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. She was sayin' last evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."
Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her old nurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with an open Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.
"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunny face, that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devoured its every feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill, for sure. An' what a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be a fine day outside. Ah," with a deep sigh, "if I could only get about as I used to, my lamb!" The old woman's voice faltered, and the moisture was showing in her eyes.
"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set," Dorothy said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always make you feel poorly."
"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday I was runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an' but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An' here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor granddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her. An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."
Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she can for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had that moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for anything.
She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only she be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."
The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.
As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of things I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you another time."
"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old nurse."
"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that fashion, I'll go straight home again."
The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher was here yesterday to see me."
"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath; for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.
"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it afterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She did not want to tell me, either; but I made her."
"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what she said, Ruth."
The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her restless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She told me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one could change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with a scarlet color."
"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes looked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon the pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still more impressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside. But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said that naught could change it, – that his heart was set to ye as the flowers to the sunshine, – that ye held him to wind about your little finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow, would come to ye with it."
Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thought her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. For a moment – only a moment – she felt frightened and almost helpless, even turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outer room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.
Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and she laughed with joyous disbelief.
"Nonsense, Ruth, – nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."
"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping her wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time will bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some herbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night, an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to Lynn to 'bide."
"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you fret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and get well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and Mary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."
Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my lamb, if ye married the right man."
Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth, – did Moll tell you where he was?"
"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd best keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had to open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this, – keep all the redcoats away from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to the true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys – he be most fit for ye."
Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he is almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to any one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry Hugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."
"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and her lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make a jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.
"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and so don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly head threateningly.
CHAPTER XX
Pashar had not yet appeared, but Dorothy set forth upon her return with no thought of danger or delay.
It was now high noon, and the sun making itself felt disagreeably, she pushed back the hood of her red cloak as she entered the wood, the cool wind coming refreshingly about her bared head while she walked slowly along with downcast eyes, musing over this last prophecy of Moll Pitcher.
"Aha, Little Red Ridinghood, have you been, or are you going, to see your grandmother?"
Dorothy's heart throbbed tumultuously for an instant. Then she felt cold and half sick, as she looked up and saw coming from under the trees the gleam of a scarlet coat, topped by a shapely head and olive face, whose dark-blue eyes were bent laughingly upon her.
She stopped, startled and hesitating, not knowing what to do, while Cornet Southorn came toward her along the path, his hat swinging from one hand, the other holding a spray of purple asters.
This he now raised to his forehead, saluting her in military fashion, as he said with a touch of good-humored mockery, "Your servant, fair mistress, – and will you accept my poor escort, to guard you from the wolf who is waiting to eat Little Red Ridinghood?"
A smile now began to dawn about the corners of the girl's mouth; but she made an effort to keep it back, while she replied with an attempt at severity, "There are no wolves about here, sir, to guard against, save only such as wear coats of the color you have on."
"If my coat makes me anything so fearsome in your eyes, I will discard it forever." He had dropped his tone of playfulness, and now came a step closer, looking down into her face in a way to make her feel uneasy, and yet not entirely displeased.
"I have no liking," she said, in the same bantering manner he had assumed at first, "for those who so readily change the color of the coat they are in honor bound to wear."
"It was not an easy thing to contemplate until I met you," he replied bluntly, and looking at her as if hoping for some approval of his confession.
This he failed to obtain, for Dorothy only smiled incredulously as she asked, "Is it kind, think you, to credit me with so pernicious an influence over His Majesty's officers?"
"I credit you only with all that is sweetest and best in a woman," he said with quick impulsiveness. And coming still nearer to her, he dropped the flowers and seized one of her hands, while the basket fell to the ground between them.
"'T is small matter what you may or may not credit me with," she answered, with a petulant toss of her head. "Leave go my hand this minute, sir! See, you have made me drop my basket; let me pick it up, and go my way."
A sudden, curious glance now flashed from his eyes, and looking sharply into her face, he said, "I thought that perhaps you would like me to go with you, so that you might shut me up again in your father's sheep-house."
Dorothy ceased her efforts to withdraw her hands – for he now held both of them – from his clasp, and stared up at him in affright.
"Who told you I did?" she gasped. "Who said so?"
The young man threw back his head and laughed exultingly.
"Aha, – and so it was really you, you sweet little rebel! I was almost certain of it, the morning I spoke to your father of the matter, and saw the look that came into your eyes."
"You are hateful!" she cried, her fear now giving place to anger. "Let me go, I say, – let go my hands at once!" Her eyes were filled with hot tears, and her cheeks were burning.
"Never, while you ask me in such fashion." And he tightened his clasp still more. "Listen to me!" he exclaimed passionately. "I have been eating my heart out for dreary weeks because I could see no chance to have speech with you. I felt that I could kill the men I've seen riding with you about the country. And now that I have this opportunity, I mean to make the most of it, for who can say when another will come to me?"
His words were drying her tears, as might a scorching wind; and she stood mute, with drooping head.
"Don't be angry with me for what I have said," he entreated, "nor because I found it was you who played that trick upon me. That prank of yours is the happiest thing I have to remember. You might lock me up there every day, and I would only bless you for being close enough to me to do it."
He stopped and looked at her beseechingly. But she would not raise her eyes, and stood pushing at the spray of asters with the tip of her little buckled shoe, while she asked, "Think you I only find pleasure in going about the country to lock folk up?"
She spoke with perfect seriousness; and yet there was that in her look and manner to make his heart give a great bound.
"I think of nothing, care for nothing," he replied, almost impatiently, "save that you are the sweetest little girl I ever met."
Something in his voice made Dorothy glance up at his face, and she saw his eyes bent upon her lips with a look that startled her into a fear of what he might have in his mind to do. So, drawing herself up, she said with all the dignity she could muster, "Such speech may perchance be an English custom, sir; but 't is not such as gentlemen in our country think proper to address to a girl they may chance upon, as you have me."
"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," and he seemed to dwell lovingly upon her name, "I crave your pardon. I meant no lightness nor disrespect. And if I have lost my head, and with it my manners, you have but to look into your mirror, and you'll surely see why."
Dorothy knew not how to reply to this bold speech, and the look that came with it. They made her angry, and yet she knew that the flush upon her cheeks did not come from anger alone, but that a certain undefinable pleasure had much to do with it. Then came the consciousness that she had no right to be where she was, and the fear of danger coming from it. And this was sufficient to make her say with some impatience: "'T is idle to stand here prating in such fashion. Please release my hands, and let me go. I should be well on my way home by now."
He bent his head suddenly, and without a word kissed her hands. And the burning touch of his lips made her pulses thrill and her heart beat with what she knew to be delight, – exultation.
Then, like a rushing flood, reason assailed her conscience, that she should permit a hated redcoat – one whom she ought to detest – to kiss her hands, and not feel enraged at his boldness. And so, filled with indignation, she pulled one hand away, and raising it quickly, gave his face a ringing slap.
He started back and placed a hand to his cheek, now showing a more flaming color than her own, and for a moment his eyes were alight with an angry glitter. But he said nothing, and bowing low before her, stood away from the path.
Dorothy picked up her basket, and without glancing toward him passed along on her way. But her eyes were brimming with tears, which were soon trickling down her burning cheeks.
What had she done, and what could she do, in this new, strange matter, of which she might not speak to her father? How was she to act toward him from whom she had never yet withheld her confidence?
And still how could she speak to any one – even him – of what was giving birth to thoughts and feelings such as she had never dreamed of before?
With all this – and in spite of it – came the question as to what the redcoat would think of her now, – a maiden who went about at night masquerading in masculine garb, and who slapped His Majesty's officers in the face?
There came to her a woful sense of shame, – yes, of degradation, such as her young life had never imagined could exist, and seeming to overwhelm her with its possible results.
She was startled by a sudden footfall close behind her, and without looking back, she quickened her pace into a run. But now a strong arm was thrown about her waist, holding her fast; and she caught a fiery gleam of the scarlet coat against which her head was pressed by the hand that, although it trembled a little, prisoned her cheek with gentle firmness.
Then a mouth was bent close to her ear, so close that its quick breath fanned the tiny curling locks about her temples, and a voice whispered: "Sweetheart, forgive me – for God's love, forgive me! I cannot let you go in this way; for see, you are weeping. Surely this pretence of anger is unjust, – unjust to you and to me!"
Before she could speak, the voice went on, "Little rebel, sweet little rebel, will you not surrender to – a vanquished victor?" And with this, a kiss was pressed upon her lips.
At first Dorothy had been too startled to speak, – too frightened and dumb from the tumult his caressing voice had aroused within her. But the touch of his lips awakened her like a blow.
"How dare you?" she cried, struggling from his arms. "Oh, how I wish I had never seen you!"
"You can scarce expect me to feel likewise," he said calmly, smiling into her stormy little face, "for I – "
"Never speak to me again!" she interrupted, still more hotly. And then, as the tears of anger choked her voice, she turned from him and fled away down the path.
For a time she heard him in pursuit; and this made her run all the swifter, until at last, reaching the Salem road, she glanced back as she mounted the low stone wall, and saw that he had stopped where the timber ended, and stood watching her. Then without turning to look again, she went quickly across the sunlit meadow-land.
Her breath came sobbingly; and mingled with her terror was a feeling she could not define, but which told her that life would never be the same for her again. She still felt the clasp of his arms about her, the burning of his lips upon her hands, – their pressure upon her mouth. His voice still came caressingly to her ears, and the wind seemed to be his breath over her hair.
It was not long before she saw Pashar coming to meet her; and drawing the hood about her face, she bade him go for the basket she had left in the wood. Then, without waiting for him to return with it, she hastened directly to her father's house.
She reached her own room without having encountered any of the household, and throwing off her cloak went to the glass. There, resting her elbows on the low, broad shelf, and dropping her soft round chin into her small palms, she seemed to be studying what the mirror showed to her, – studying it with as much interest as though she now saw the reflection of her features for the first time.
"You are a wicked, treacherous girl," she said aloud, addressing the charming face staring back at her with great solemn eyes, "a perfect little traitor." Then – but now to herself – "Moll said his heart turned toward me as the flowers to the sun. And if this be true, why is it not also truth that sorrow is to come with it?" She shivered, and pressed her hands over her eyes.
