From Kingdom to Colony

CHAPTER XXII

All the outdoor world seemed encased in burnished silver, as the new moon of early December came up from the black bed of the ocean's far-out rim, and mounting high and higher in the pale flush yet lingering from the gorgeous sunset, brought out sparklings from the snow drifted over the fields and fences of the old town.

The roads were transformed into pavements of glittering mosaics and pellucid crystals; and all about the Devereux house the meadow lands stretched away like a shining sea whose waves had suddenly congealed, catching and holding jewels in their white depths.

Dorothy was looking out at the beauty of it all, her face close to the pane her warm breath dimmed now and then, compelling her to raise a small hand to make it clear again for her vision.

It was her brother's wedding night. And the girl was very fair and sweet to look upon, in her soft pink gown, with its dainty laces and ribbons, as she stood there awaiting the others; for they were all to drive into town, to the house of Mistress Horton, where the marriage was to be celebrated.

Nicholson Broughton was away from his home, enforced to tarry near Cambridge, where several of his townsmen were holding weighty conclaves which it was important for him to attend. But he had urged John Devereux to make no delay in the ceremony, feeling that his daughter, once wedded, and an established member of the family at the Devereux farm, would be happier, as well as safer, now that riots in the town were becoming more frequent and fierce.

Hugh Knollys also was absent, having undertaken an important mission in the neighborhood of Boston.

Only the young man himself knew how eagerly he had desired to be given this responsibility, as a reason for being away. For as the time drew near for his friend's wedding, he feared to trust his self-control should he find himself again in Dorothy's presence.

And then, besides, the hated redcoats were still on the Neck, and several of the officers, among them Cornet Southorn, having accepted more comfortable quarters at Jameson's house, Hugh thought it the wiser course to remove himself from the vicinity for a time.

It seemed as though these two young men were continually meeting one another on the roads and byways of the town and its neighborhood. And the sight of the stalwart form dashing along upon a spirited horse, – of the handsome face and reckless eyes, raised in Hugh a fierce desire to lay them in the dust through the medium of an enforced quarrel.

Dorothy had been by Hugh's side at several of these encounters; and it had made him heartsick to see the fluttered way in which her eyes would turn from the young Britisher after meeting his ardent gaze, and how for a time she would be uneasy and abstracted, resisting all attempts to gain her attention.

But he bravely held his own counsel, and since that memorable day in October had never mentioned the Englishman's name, nor made any allusion to him or his doings.

As for Dorothy, she had gone about all these days with a face grave almost to sadness; and it was well for her own peace that the others of the family ascribed her altered mien to jealousy, thinking that her exacting heart found it a hard matter to share her adored brother with another whom he reckoned more precious than her own spoiled self.

Her musings were now disturbed by Jack coming into the room.

He looked the brave soldier in his new regimentals, – a round jacket and breeches of blue cloth, with trimmings of leather buttons; and his dark handsome face was aglow with happiness.

His curling locks were gathered at the back of the neck, and tied with a black watered-silk ribbon; and in his hand was a broad-brimmed hat, caught up on one side, as was the fashion, and adorned with a cockade of blue ribbons belonging to his sweetheart.

"Ah, Dot, and so you are here! Leet is at the door, child, and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha are with father, in the drawing-room, all ready to start. Come, get your cloak, and let us be off."

He was close beside her as she turned from the window; and thinking he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes, he laid a detaining hand on her arm.

"You must be happy to-night, Dot," he said, "for my sake. I should like all the world to be so, and you, my little sister, more than all the rest."

She let him kiss her on the cheek, but stood silent, with lowered eyes.

"What is it, child, – don't you rejoice with me, when I am happier than ever before in my life?"

He gently took her chin in his hand and raised her downcast face. In an instant her arms were clasped about his neck and her head buried against his breast.

Just then they heard Aunt Lettice, in the hall, calling as if she supposed Dorothy to be above stairs.

"Come, Dot," urged her brother, – "they are waiting for us, and we must be off." And kissing her, he quietly unclasped her clinging arms.

At this she drew herself away from him, and fixing her eyes searchingly upon his face, said, "You are so happy, Jack, are n't you, because you and Mary love each other?"

"Why, surely," he replied, wondering at the words, and at her way of speaking them. But he smiled as he looked into her troubled face.

"Do you not think, Jack," she asked, still with that strange look in her eyes, "that when love comes in, it changes all of one's world?"

He now laughed outright. But she paid no attention to his gayety, going on in a way to have troubled him had he been less selfishly happy at the moment, "If you know this so well, Jack, you will never cease to love me, if ever love comes to change my own world, the same as it has yours? No matter what you may feel is wrong about it, you will not blame me?"

"Why, Dot, little girl, whatever are you dreaming about, – what should make you talk in this way?" And he looked at her with real anxiety.

But she only laughed, and passing her hand across her eyes, answered nervously, "I don't know, Jack, – I was but thinking on future possibilities."

"Rather upon the most remote impossibilities," he said laughingly. "But come, child, think no more of anything but this, – that 't is high time for you to put on your cloak and come to see your brother take unto himself a wife, who is to be your own dear sister."

"I am glad it is Mary Broughton," Dorothy said quietly, as she took her cloak from a chair.

"So am I," he laughed, as he wrapped the warm garment about her, shutting away all her pink sweetness with its heavy folds. Then, while he helped her to draw the hood over her curly head, "What if it were Polly Chine, now?"

"Then," she answered with an odd smile, "you would have to fight Hugh Knollys."

They were passing through the door, and he said with a keen glance at her, "I've good cause to know better than that, Dot."

But she gave no heed to this, and they joined the others outside.

The old family sleigh moved sedately along the hard, snow-packed road, the moon making a shadowy, grotesque mass of it along the high drifts, while Leet, enveloped in furs, sat soberly erect, full of the importance now attaching to him.

When they were well on their way, a body of mounted Britishers swept by, evidently bound for the town; and Joseph Devereux remarked to his son, as the two sat opposite one another, while Dorothy, riding backwards with her brother, seemed lost in the contemplation of the snowy fields they were passing, "I trust, Jack, those fellows will stir up no trouble this night."

"They are most likely to do so," was the low-spoken reply; "for you know the mere sight of their red coats acts upon our men much as the like color affects an angry bull."

"I wish they might be ordered from the Neck," observed Aunt Lettice, who sat alongside her brother-in-law, and had caught enough to guess at the rest of the talk.

"They must wish so themselves, by this time," Jack said with a laugh. "It must now be rarely cold quarters for them over there."

"Why did you not ask them to your wedding, Cousin Jack?"

The question came from small 'Bitha, who was sitting between Dorothy and her brother. "I wonder if the one Mary pushed over the rocks last summer would not like to see her married?"

"'Bitha!" Dorothy exclaimed sharply, seeming to awaken to what was being said. "Why will you always put it so? Mary did not push him over; he fell himself."

"Aye, – but, Cousin Dot, he fell over while he was stepping back from her," the child answered. "She looked so angry that I think he was sorely frightened."

Dorothy did not reply; but her brother said gayly, "Well, 'Bitha, I hope Mary will never look at me in a way to frighten me so much as that."

"She never would," 'Bitha asserted with confidence, "for you are not a Britisher."

"What a stanch little rebel it is," Joseph Devereux said laughingly; and Jack went on in a teasing way to 'Bitha, "I expect we shall all go to see 'Bitha married to a redcoat as soon as she is big enough."

"You will see no such thing, Cousin Jack," the child replied angrily. "I'd run away, so that no one could ever find me, before I'd do such a thing. Would not you, Cousin Dorothy?"

Dorothy did not answer, and 'Bitha repeated the question.

"Would I do what, 'Bitha?" Dorothy now asked, but indifferently, and as though with the object of quieting the child.

"Why, marry a redcoat?"

"Nonsense, 'Bitha, – don't let Jack tease you." And Dorothy turned away again to look off over the snow fields through which they were passing. But she wondered if the others noticed how oddly her voice sounded, and what a tremble there was in it.

The Horton house loomed up full of importance from amid its darker fellows, and warm lights twinkled out here and there where a parted curtain let them through to shine forth like welcoming smiles into the cold night.

Within there was much bustle and good-natured badinage, as the neighbors, bidden to the feast, assisted the people of the house, – playing the part of entertainer or caterer, hairdresser or maid, as the needs of the other guests demanded.

It was a simple, homely wedding, as was the custom of the day; and the festivities were enjoyed with all the more zest by reason of the relief they offered from the anxiety felt by all, on account of the disturbed condition of public affairs.

There were games – such as "Twirl the Trencher" and "Hunt the Slipper" – for those who liked them; and the elders endeavored to enter at least into the spirit of all that was going on, and not dampen the younger folks' pleasure by the exhibition of gloomy faces and constrained actions.

Later in the evening there was dancing. And it was a goodly sight to look at the handsome groom and his lovely bride go through the stately minuet, with his father and Aunt Lettice opposite them, – the slow, dignified step making the feat a no-wise difficult one for the old gentleman, who had in his day been accounted one of the most graceful of dancers.

Dorothy acted for a time as though she were made of quicksilver. She was leader in all the games and frolics, and seemed the very impersonation of happy, laughter-loving girlhood. Then, and without any apparent reason, another and different mood took possession of her, and she suddenly became very quiet, taking but little part in what was going on.

Her father's fond eyes were quick to notice this; but when he hastened to draw her to one side and ask for the cause, she made light of his anxiety, and gave him a smiling assurance of her perfect well-being.

As a matter of fact, something had occurred to disturb the girl very seriously.

During one of the games she had been alone for a few minutes in a room facing upon the side yard, – a small orchard; and chancing to glance toward the window, she saw, as if pressed against the glass, the face of Cornet Southorn.

While she stood, silent and rigid, staring at it, the face disappeared; and some of the other guests now entering the room, she slipped away to recover her composure.

What, she asked herself, did he seek, and why was he here? She dismissed at once the thought of his meaning any harm, for surely he would not bring about any disturbance upon this, her brother's wedding night. And even should he seek to intrude himself upon them, there could be no just cause to warrant such an act, for although the King might expect to enforce the Acts of his Parliament, he had not as yet sought to control the marrying or giving in marriage of his American subjects.

But even so, she was startled, almost alarmed; and the matter filled her thoughts for the remainder of the evening.

It had been arranged that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were to remain with the Hortons for a time, while Joseph Devereux was to accept the invitation of his friend, Colonel Lee, to pass a few days at the latter's house, not far away.

This would make the bride and groom the only ones who would return with Leet to the farm, as Dorothy was going to the home of a girl friend, feeling that it would be a relief to be among new faces and in a strange house.

"Dorothy, are you going to let me be a good sister to you, – one of the sort you will come to with all your joys and troubles?"

The two girls were standing close to each other in one of the upper rooms, where Mary was donning a dark gray slip pelisse and hood, with warm fur linings peeping about the edges, while Mistress Horton was bustling about out of earshot, getting some last stray articles bundled for their conveyance to the sleigh waiting below.

The earnest blue eyes were bent searchingly upon Dorothy's face, as if the speaker had more than a passing notion of the impulses stirring the heart lying beneath the laces of the dainty pink gown.

But Dorothy laughed, albeit a little constrainedly, and replied, "I thought you knew all about that long ago, Mary."

"Do you know, Dot," – and Mary's white brows contracted into a puzzled frown – "somehow you are changed. What is it, dear?"

"Your imaginings, I should say," was the careless reply. "My hair is not turning gray, is it?" And she touched her dark curls.

"Well, never mind now," said Mary, diplomatically, and not caring to press the matter, "but you will tell me when we are together again, won't you, Dot?"

Dorothy only smiled, and said nothing.

Jack had spoken to Mary more than once of some change that had come over his sister. But his words were not needed, as she herself, not having seen much of the girl these last few months, would have observed it had he not spoken.

Dorothy was as impulsive and affectionate as of old, but to Mary's keen eyes there now seemed a new-born womanliness about her. She was sensible of the absence of that childish frankness and ingenuousness which had been so much a part of the girl's nature. She was now more like a woman, and one whose mind held a secret she herself tried to evade, as well as have others blind to its existence.

It was as if a new self had been born, dominating the old self, and sending her thoughts far from where her body might be.

"She must be in love with some one, and 't is sure to be Hugh Knollys," said Mary to herself, with a glow of happiness, as the two went downstairs, Mistress Horton and a servant following them, both laden with packages to be stowed away in the Devereux equipage, whereon Leet sat rigidly upright, the darkness hiding his black face and its unusual grin.

"Take good care of her, Strings," Joseph Devereux cautioned, as he took his place within the vehicle, and pointing to the open doorway, where a pink gown and dark curly head showed foremost amongst the guests crowded there to see the bride and groom on their way. The pedler – an humble onlooker at the wedding – had urged his protection for Dorothy's safer piloting through the town to her friend's house; and this her father and brother had been glad to accept.

"That I will, sir, – never fear," was the hearty response; and as Jack Devereux sprang into the sleigh, Leet turned the horses' heads to the street and drove off, followed by a shower of old shoes and peals of merry laughter from the doorway.

CHAPTER XXIII

The town was as silent as a city of the dead when the four started on their way, Master Storms – a fussy, irritable old gentleman – in advance, with his pretty daughter Patience hanging on his arm, and followed closely by the small erect figure of Dorothy, wrapped in her dark cloak; while Johnnie Strings, on guard against any unseen danger, walked directly behind her.

There were hurrying masses of cloud overhead that made gorges and ravines, hemming in the glittering stars, now grown brighter since the moon had set; and the sound of the sea came faintly hoarse, as the little party bent their steps in its direction. For near it lay the Storms domicile, – up near what was known as "Idler's Hill."

Suddenly a wild uproar broke out upon the night, coming from ahead of them; and Master Storms bringing his daughter to a halt, Dorothy and the pedler came up with them.

They all stood listening. There were the shouts and cries of a not-to-be-mistaken street fight; and the turmoil was becoming more distinct, as though the combatants were approaching.

Patience urged her father to hurry on towards their house; but he hesitated.

"What think you is amiss, Johnnie Strings?" he inquired nervously, fidgeting from one foot to the other, while his terrified daughter tugged at his arm.

"Usual trouble, I guess," drawled the pedler. "Redcoats paradin' the streets, and gettin' sassy." Then turning to Dorothy, he said, "Had n't ye best let me take ye back, Mistress Dorothy?"

Before she could answer him a small body of soldiers issued from a side street near by. A wavering, yelling crowd of angered men swept forward to meet them; and the two girls and their escorts found themselves in the midst of a struggling, shouting mass, with here and there a horseman looming up, whose headgear, faintly outlined in the uncertain light, proved him to be a British dragoon.

Master Storms seized his daughter by the arm, and taking advantage of an opening he saw in the crowd, darted through and sped with the girl down a narrow alley. But the pedler, trying to follow with Dorothy, was baffled by a number of the combatants closing in around them.

He shouted lustily for them to make a passage for himself and his charge; but although he was known to many of them, rage, and the lust of battle, seemed to dull their ears to his voice.

In the midst of it all he was felled to the ground; and with no thought of tarrying to find out if he were hurt, Dorothy, seeing a small opening in the mass of men, dashed through it, with the intention of making her way back to the Hortons'.

She had gone only a short distance when her path was barred by several horsemen, who seemed to be the leaders of the troop. They had fought their way to a clearer space, and were looking back as though for their followers to join them.

"Devils – fools," panted one. "They deserve to be wiped out."

"Aye," said another. "If we might use our weapons as we liked, I, for one, would take pleasure in having a hand at that game."

Dorothy attempted to glide by them, hoping that the dark color of the cloak she wore would save her from detection. But the voice of the first speaker called out gayly, "Aha, who goes there? Stop, pretty one, and give the countersign."

"Or, if indeed you be a pretty one, we'll take a kiss instead, and call it a fair deal," laughed another, as flippantly as if the night were not being rent with the uproar of the fighting mob just behind them.

Dorothy came to a standstill, and for the instant was uncertain which way to turn. Then she resolved to pursue the road she had taken, and said spiritedly, "Stand aside, and let me pass out of hearing of such insults, or it may be the worse for you."

She lifted her head as she spoke; and as the rays of a near-by lamp fell upon her face, one of the riders spurred toward her.

"Mistress Dorothy!" The voice made her heart leap; and then she felt sick and faint.

"Dear mistress," – and now Cornet Southorn had dismounted close beside her – "let me conduct you safely out of this place, where you surely never should have come."

The other horsemen had drawn to one side and away from them, and were now silent.

Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Dorothy permitted him to lift her to his saddle. He sprang up behind her, and holding her firmly with one arm about her waist, spurred his horse away from the scene, shouting to the others not to wait for him.

The uproar soon died away behind them, but still they sped on in silence. Then Dorothy heard the young man laugh, and in a way to frighten her, and rally her dreaming senses to instant alertness.

"So now, my sweet little rebel, you are my captive, instead of being my jailer, as that night in the summer." And she felt his breath touch her cheek. "You shall not speak to me in such fashion. And – oh, you have passed the street leading to Mistress Morton's, which is where I must go."

Dorothy began with her usual imperiousness, but ended in affright as she saw the street fade into the darkness behind them.

"Is that where I stole like a thief to catch one glimpse of you, pretty one?" he asked, paying no heed to her indignation. "And I felt like committing murder, when I saw all the gallants who wanted your smiles for themselves."

"Take me back this minute!" she demanded angrily; but her heart was now thrilling with something that was not altogether rage nor fright.

"That will I not," he answered quickly, and with dogged firmness.

"You are no gentleman," she cried, beginning at last to feel real alarm, "if you do not take me to Mistress Morton's this minute."

The young man leaned forward until his lips were close to the girl's ear; and his deep voice, now trembling as with suppressed feeling, sent each word to her with perfect distinctness.

"I hope, sweet Mistress Dorothy, I am a gentleman," he said. "As such I was born, and have been accounted. But" – and his voice sank to a tremulous softness – "take you anywhere, I will not, until we have seen good Master Weeks, for whose house we are now bound. And when we leave it, it will be as man and wife."

"You – dare not," she gasped. "You dare not do such a thing."

He laughed softly. "Dare I not? Ah, but you mistake. I dare do anything to win you for my own. I know your sweet rebel heart better than you think, and I know that except it be done in some such manner, you may never be mine."

She tried to speak, but fright and dismay sealed her lips. Suddenly he bent his face still closer and whispered: "Ah, little sweetheart, how I long to kiss you! But my rose has its thorns; and I fear their stinging my face, as they did that day in the wood, ages ago, – so long it seems since I had the happy chance to hold speech with you."

Still Dorothy could not utter a word, seeming to be in a dream, while the powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow looked new and strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breast pillowing her head, and she could feel distinctly the beating of his heart, as if his pulse and her own were one and the same.

And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house of Master Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and without dismounting, pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.

An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice demanded to know what was wanted.

"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It is Cornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."

The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lower part of the house; and then came the noise of the door being unbarred.

The young man sprang to the ground and held out his arms.

"Come, sweetheart," he said, "let me lift you down, and I will fasten the horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened there before, but," with a soft laugh, "scarce for a like purpose."

Dorothy clung to the pommel. "I'll not, – I'll not!" she declared. "You shall not dare do so wicked a thing, and Master Weeks will never dare listen to you."

"We'll see to that," he laughed, and lifted her from the saddle. Then, as she reached the ground, he kissed her, as he had that day in the wood.

"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little rebel," he whispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Own that you love me, and know that I love you, – aye, better than my life."

"I care naught for your love," cried Dorothy, struggling to free herself from his arms. "And I tell you that I hate you!"

"Aye," and he laughed again, "so your lips say. But I know what your heart says, for your eyes told me that, long ago. And I shall listen to your heart and eyes, and pay no heed to your sweet little rebellious mouth."

They were now standing on the upper step of the small porch, and in the open doorway was the minister, Master Weeks, a candle in his hand, and held above his head as he peered out into the darkness with wonder filling his blinking eyes.

"Good Master Weeks, here is a little wedding party. And despite the unseemly hour, you must out with your book, and your clerk, as witness, for binding the bargain past all breaking."

With this, the young officer, carrying Dorothy in before him, entered the house and closed the door, against which he placed his broad back, his gleaming teeth and laughing eyes alight like a roguish boy's as he smiled down upon the bewildered little divine.

"You will do no such thing, Master Weeks," Dorothy protested, her eyes flashing with anger. "I am here against my will, and forbid you to listen to his madness."

"Aye," the young man said, looking into her glowing face, "mad I am, and with a disease that naught will cure but to know that you are my wife."

"Why, Cornet Southorn," exclaimed Master Weeks, "whatever can you be thinking on? Surely this lady is Mistress Dorothy, the daughter of Master Joseph Devereux." And he looked closely into her face.

"Yes, so I am," she cried, moving nearer to him. "You know my father, and you'll surely not hearken to this young Britisher?"

"Aye, but he will, and that speedily," the young man asserted. The smile was now gone from his face, and his hand stole toward his pistol.

"Master Weeks," he said sternly, "it will go hard with you if within ten minutes you do not make this lady my wife." And he looked at his watch.

The frightened little man said nothing more, but hurriedly summoned his housekeeper and her son, who was also his clerk. A few minutes later, and Dorothy, held so firmly – albeit gently – by Kyrle Southorn that she could not move from his side, heard the words that made her his wife.

When it was over, she was strangely silent, scarcely seeming to comprehend what had taken place.

The newly made husband put his name upon the register. Then, as he drew Dorothy forward to take his place, he bent down until his face came beneath her own, and gave her a curious, beseeching look, – one that seemed to act upon her bewildered senses like a deadening drug.

Yes, he was right. She loved him better than all else in the world. Her mind had fought the truth these many months; but now her heart rose up, a giant in strength and might, and she could never question it again.

For a moment her great dark eyes looked down into his pleading ones. Then in a subdued, obedient way, entirely unlike the wilful Dorothy of all her former life, she took the pen he proffered and wrote her name underneath his bold signature.

A deep sigh now burst from his lips, – one of happy relief; then, as if utterly unmindful of the minister's presence, he pressed a kiss upon the little hand that still held the pen.

She submitted to this in silence, standing before him with downcast face, and eyes that seemed fearing to meet his gaze, while he carefully drew the cloak about her once more.

"I trust, Mistress Dorothy, you will in no wise hold me accountable for this young man's rashness, when the matter shall come to your father's ears, but that you will kindly raise your voice in my behalf to testify how that I was forced for my life's sake to agree."

Master Weeks was already on the black list, owing to his well-known sympathy for the King's cause, and for having remonstrated openly with the patriots of his congregation.

"You have but to keep a close mouth, Master Weeks," said Southorn, as the little man lighted them into the hall; "and the closer, the safer it will be for your own welfare, until such time as one of us shall call upon you to speak."

A few minutes later they were again speeding along, with everything about them as silent as the stars now glittering in an unclouded sky.

The touch of the keen air upon Dorothy's face seemed to arouse her; and as her senses became awakened, she was filled with a wild yearning for the safe shelter of her father's arms.

What would that father say, – how was she ever to tell him of this dreadful thing?

And yet was it sure to be so dreadful to her?

Yes, it must be. This man was the sworn enemy of her country, and of the cause for which her brother and her friends were imperilling their very lives. If she went with him – this Englishman who was now her husband – it meant that her family would brand her as a traitor, and that she would be an outcast from them. It might bring about the death of her father, the light of whose eyes and life she knew herself to be.

She seemed to see once more the beloved face, and hear his voice, warning the pedler to take care of her.

And poor Johnnie Strings – might he not at this moment be dead, stricken down by the followers of this very man who was now holding her so close to his breast, and murmuring fond words between the kisses he pressed upon her lips.

She was beset by a sudden loathing of him and of herself, and pushing away his bended face, she tried to sit more erect.

"Stop!" she cried fiercely. "Don't touch me. I did not mean to give way so. I detest you!"

"Ah, my little rebel," – and he spoke in no pleased tone, – "have I to fight the battle all over?"

"You have taken an unfair, a dishonorable advantage of me," she said. "I am not used to such manners as you have shown. But I tell you this, – although you have forced me to become your wife, you cannot force my love."