Buch lesen: «From Kingdom to Colony», Seite 13

"So it would seem," was his grim answer.

"Where do you purpose taking me?" she demanded, all her wits now well in hand.

"That shall be just as you say, sweet mistress," he replied, so good-naturedly as to surprise her.

"Then take me at once to my father's house," she ordered, with her natural imperiousness.

"So be it," he said. "And that will be on my own way, as it leads to Jameson's."

They rode in silence along the snowy road, whose whiteness and the stars made the only light, until they were within her father's grounds, and partially up the driveway.

Here she bade him let her down; and he dismounted silently and lifted her from the horse, detaining her as she stood alongside him, as in her heart she had hoped he would. And yet had he not done this, she would have gone her way without a word.

"Is there any doubt but that you will get within the house all safe?" he asked anxiously.

"None." She lifted her face, and he wished there were a better light with which to see her.

"And now," he said, "what is your will that I do?"

Dorothy answered quickly and with angry decision.

"Go away and leave me," she exclaimed, "and never speak to me again!"

She could not see the look of pain come to his face. But he still lingered beside her, and asked again, "And you are certain to get within the house, and that you fear naught?"

"I fear nothing!" she said impatiently.

"Aye, – I should have cause to know better than ask such a question," he declared, in a voice that sounded as if now he might be smiling. Then he asked, "And you mean it, – that I leave you, and keep away?"

"Yes, yes; let me go." And she sought to escape from his grasp.

But he held her firmly, and still closer.

"Do you realize, sweet mistress, that you are my wife, – my own little wife?"

She did not reply; and bending his head nearer, he exclaimed passionately: "My own wife you are, and no man can change that, – never, never! And now, having gained you, I am content to await your pleasure. My lips shall be sealed until you choose to open them; and until you send for me, sweet mistress of my heart, I shall not come nigh you. Only, I pray you, in God's name, not to let the time be far away."

"Let me go," was all she could say, dismayed as she was by the weight of sorrow that had come to her, and threatened those whom she loved.

He released her without another word, and she fled swiftly to the house.

Having awakened Tyntie by tossing some bits of ice against her window, she soon gained entrance, and quieted the wonder of the faithful servant by telling her that there had been a street fight, and a gentleman had brought her home on his horse.

Despite the terrible struggle going on in her childish heart, Dorothy kept up bravely until alone in her own room, whose very familiarity seemed almost a shock to her, for all that had been crowded into these few hours made it as though weeks had passed since she arrayed herself for her brother's wedding, – little dreaming that it was for her own as well.

And such a wedding! How was it that the young Britisher had dared to do such a thing? How was it that she had come to sign the register so meekly? How could she ever dare tell of it? And if she did so, might not her revelation bring harm to him?

Such were the questions that chased one another through her mind, only to return again and again with renewed importunity.

She had told him to go, and yet – she loved him truly. And could she be loyal to her father's cause with such a love battling in her heart?

With thoughts like these the few remaining hours of the night wore away, bringing to her but snatches of fitful sleep.

Johnnie Strings appeared at the Devereux farm early the following morning. The red of his face was almost pale, and he was haggard and wild-eyed, with one of his arms in a sling.

He came to report to John Devereux the happenings of the night before, and to consult with him as to the best way of imparting to his father the news of Dorothy's disappearance.

The newly wedded pair had already been told by Tyntie of the girl's presence in the house; and Jack now hastened to assure the almost distracted pedler of her safety, adding that they had thought it best to leave her sleeping undisturbed until she should be ready to come down and join them.

When Johnnie Strings heard this, he collapsed into a chair.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could find his voice, "I never was so dead beat out! My broken arm is pretty bad, to be sure, but my feelin's was a danged sight worse when I come to my senses last night. There they had me in fisher Doak's, an' naught could they tell o' Mistress Dorothy, for none had seen her. I went down to Storms's at daybreak, and then over to Horton's, an' she'd been seen at neither place. Comin' by Master Lee's, I first thought to make inquiry there, thinkin', ye know, she might o' flewed to her father. Then, thinks I, 'Hold on, Strings. If she did, then she's safe as safe; an' if she did n't, why, ye may be the death o' the old gentleman.'

"So thinkin', I rode back to Horton's ag'in an' begged 'em – an' Mistress Lettice, who was about plum out o' her head with fright – to keep quiet, an' not risk scarin' your father to death, while I rode out here to see ye an' have a sort o' meetin' over it, to decide what's to be done next an' best. So now, thank the Lord, I find the bird is safe here in the nest where she b'longs, an' I'll hurry back an' tell Mistress Lettice, as I promised to do."

With this he pulled himself up from the chair and started for the door. But the young man stopped him.

"You had better stop here awhile, Strings," he said, "and have something to eat and drink; I can send Leet in to see Aunt Lettice." And Mary adding her persuasions, the worn-out pedler was induced to accept the invitation.

Tyntie soon had a tempting meal spread for him; and having been without food since leaving the Horton house the night before, he was in a condition to do it full justice.

John Devereux sat by while the pedler ate, and drew from him the details of the disturbance.

It had been brought about by a party of the Britishers being requested to depart from a tavern kept by one Garvin, where they were eating and drinking until a late hour. A wrangle ensued, during which one of the dragoons knocked Garvin down, and then the latter's son had retaliated in kind.

At this, some of the other guests – townsmen – had joined in, and a regular fight began, spreading soon from the inn to the street, where, aroused by the noise, others had taken part, although scarcely knowing why, except for the reason that here were some of the hated enemy, and they must be made to retreat.

No one had been killed outright, although several were quite badly hurt.

"The queerest part of it is, sir," said the pedler, having finished his story, "that I've a firm belief 't was none other than David Prentiss who broke my arm for me. Somethin' must o' turned him blind, I should say, for him to see a red coat on me."

"That is the trouble with these street fights, and especially at night, – the men seem to lose all sense of sight and reason. Something has got to be done to make the Governor remove the troops from the Neck." While speaking, John Devereux rose from his chair, and paced up and down the room in angry excitement.

"Aye, very true, sir," Johnnie assented, as he drained the last drop of spirits from his glass. "But however will such a thing be brought about?"

"I don't know," was the impatient reply. "But it must and shall be brought about, if we have to rise up and drive them out by main force, and at the risk of turning our very streets into a battle-ground. And this is the only thing that has kept us from doing it long ago. But their insulting tyranny only grows worse, and they seek deliberately to stir up the people to rash actions; and these, when reported, serve but to hurt the real cause of our revolting, when tidings of them comes to the King's hearing."

"Aye, no doubt," the pedler agreed, as he arose from the table. "Now, if His Majesty could be got to sit down, comfort'ble, like another man might, an' listen to all we could tell him, he might agree to let us have what we want, an' what is only fair we should have, an' no fightin' need be done o'er the matter. The trouble is in this everlastin' lot o' lyin', gabblin' poll-parrots that he puts atwixt himself an' us, to tell him what the people do an' don't say an' do. An' to the poll-parrots he listens, and, listenin', b'lieves. So, for one, I should say the quicker we fight it out – whether it be in our streets or up to Boston – "

Mary now came into the room looking very grave; and her husband, paying no further attention to the pedler, asked anxiously, "What is amiss, sweet wife?"

She tried to speak quietly, but the tremor in her voice told of alarm.

"Dorothy is awake," she said, "and I think you had best see her at once. She seems ill."

They left the room together and were soon standing at the girl's bed, – one on either side, looking down at the restlessly moving head.

The big eyes stared at Jack for an instant with evident recognition. Then a vacant look came into them, and she laughed in a way to fill him with apprehension.

A moment more, and she began to mutter – something about Hugh Knollys falling into the water, and how dark and cool it was, and that she wanted to go into it, for she was hot, – so hot.

"She is out of her head," Mary whispered; "and this is the way she went on, to me, before I called you."

Her husband looked again at the unquiet little figure, and reached down to take the small hand wandering about the coverlid; but she snatched it from his clasp.

"Go away, – go far away!" she cried. "I told you to go, and I meant it. Oh, yes, – I did mean it. I am only crying because I hate you, – never think it is for anything else. I hate you because your coat is red, – red, like the ruby ring you forced on my finger whether I would or no. And even the ring did not want to stay, for it knew me better than you did. It was so big that you had to hold it on; and now I've put it away safe, – safe, where no one will ever see, ever know. But it is red, and red means cruelty; and that is what this war is to be."

The babbling died away in a moan; but before Jack or his wife could speak, Dorothy began again, now in a stronger voice than before.

"Moll said it must bring sorrow, – sorrow. And yet she said I wound him like a silken thread around my finger. Ah, that winds tight, although the ring was loose. And the thread Moll spoke of means love, but the ring means – But no, I must not tell, never, never, for it would kill my father. Father, I want you, – where are you?"

This came in a loud cry, and she sank back sobbing, on the pillows, – for she had struggled partially to her elbow, where Jack held her so that she could rise no farther.

"Mary, what is to be done?" asked the young man helplessly, anxiety and fear having for the moment deprived him of his usual promptness and decision.

"Don't you think we had best send for your father and Aunt Lettice?" Mary said in her calm way, although the tears were running down her cheeks. "And the doctor must be called at once."

"Leet has already gone into the town to tell them that Dot is here. But I will have Trent put the horses into the sleigh, and he and I will hasten in at once and fetch them all back, and the doctor as well, unless he can come out ahead of us. You will stop right here beside her, won't you, sweetheart?" he added anxiously, as he turned to leave the room.

"Why, of course I will." And Mary looked at her husband a little reproachfully.

"And you do not mind being left alone?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder, while his hand gripped the open door in a way that told of the tension upon him.

She shook her head, smiling at him through her tears.

Jack had no sooner gone than the faithful Tyntie came to see if she were needed. But Mary sent her away with the assurance that she herself could do all that was to be done at present.

The ravings of the sick girl troubled her; and she deemed it prudent that no other ear should hear words she felt might have a hidden meaning.

Dorothy still rambled on about the ruby ring and scarlet coat. Once the name of Master Weeks fell from her lips, coupled with wild lamentations that she had ever signed the register, and so risked the breaking of her father's heart.

After a little time – Dorothy having become quiet – Mary stood looking out of the window, her eyes resting on the glittering fields that spread away to the gray line of the ocean, where the cold waves were curling in with glassy backs, and foam-ridged edges as white as the snow they seemed to seek upon the land.

She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams or hanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.

She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently at her, while she seemed to fumble under the pillow for something.

"What is it, dear?" Mary asked, hastening to the side of the bed.

Dorothy drew from beneath the pillow a heavy ring of yellow gold, with a great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.

"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "It is his ring, – only he gave it to me. Hide it, – hide it, Mary. Never let any one see – any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but I am so tired now, so tired, and – " The girl fell back with closed eyes, and in a moment she appeared to be asleep.

After standing a few minutes with her eyes fixed upon the unconscious face, Mary opened her hand and looked at the ring.

It was a man's ring, and one she recalled at once as having seen before.

It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.

There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with Dorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master Weeks, and signing the register?

She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and let his judgment decide what was to be done.

And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden sickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to speak. And so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away, resolved that for the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel.

After all – so she tried to reason – it might be nothing more than that the young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.

And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared now to consider.

Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; and so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence.

Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was many weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced well again, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow of her former self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes, while her father was well-nigh beside himself with anxiety.

But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.

She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.

At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty tyranny of their unwelcome visitors.

It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of the family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the drawing-room.

Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and 'Bitha, with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low stool. A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became too dark for her to work.

Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playing as if her thoughts were far away.

Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased with the setting of the sun.

It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash in the western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where the evening star was beginning to blink.

It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime to running from the trees and shrubs, and melted the snow upon the roofs, while the white covering of the land was burned away here and there, until it seemed to be out at knees and elbows, where showed the brown and dirty green of the soil.

But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snow to crystal, and hanging glittering pendants from everything.

"I wish Cousin Dot was all well, the way she used to be," sighed small 'Bitha, sitting with her rosy face so rumpled by the pressure of the little supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen upon ancient tombstones.

She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearest her; and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstracted face of her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flames leaping from the logs.

"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch of impatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Many times I ask her something over and over again, when she is looking straight at me; and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and ask me what I've been saying."

"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandame explained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be like herself again."

But the child shook her blonde head with an air of profound wisdom.

"I think it is only that bad medicine of Dr. Paine's," she said. "When I am ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as the Indians have. I should like to see him dance and beat his drum."

"I should think we have had enough of the sound of beating drums, 'Bitha," replied Mary, speaking so sharply as to arouse her father-in-law into looking toward her.

Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and announced the withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.

"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.

"A shipload of them has already sailed, – it left the harbor before sunset; and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heart good to see the red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quit of them; and when they are gone we can easily manage all the ships they send into the harbor to annoy us or spy upon us."

He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his manner changed quickly as he glanced toward his sister.

"Dot!" he cried, "what is it, child?" And he sprang to her.

She had turned about when he came into the room, and was now lying back against the spinet, her head on the music-rack, – lying there speechless, motionless; for the girl – and for the first time in her life – had fainted.

CHAPTER XXIV

An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured out her secret sorrow.

The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below, albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge, and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands.

The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the candles.

"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.

"No – no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary – if only I might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.

Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she were a little girl.

Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of its own passion.

Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.

"Dorothy," she whispered – "dear little Dot!"

"Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible.

"When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust me any longer?"

"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost convulsively.

"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss the troubled face.

There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and the sputtering of the sap from the logs.

Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with wavering, and was now resolved to speak.

"Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemed filled with fear again, "you can tell no one, – no living person, – not even Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?"

"Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committing herself.

"What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply.

"Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and told me to keep for you, – a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?"

"No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then she cried in terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell him or my father of the matter?"

"No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited until you were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself."

"Good Mary, – good, true sister." And Dorothy pressed her lips to the hand she clasped.

"But the matter has given me such a heartache, Dot, for I feared I might be doing wrong. Surely no one can love you more than your own father and brother. Why not tell them, as well as me, of – whatever it is?"

"I will, Mary," Dorothy said resolutely. "I intended to, all the time. But not yet, not yet. I want to tell you, first of all, and see if you can think what is best to be done. And," with a little shudder, "I thought I had lost the ring; and the first day I was able to slip out of doors, I hunted for it where I got off the horse that night. Oh, that dreadful night!" She almost cried out the words as the sharpness of awakened sorrow came to her.

"Come, Dot," Mary urged, "tell me. I'll promise to keep silent until you bid me speak." She knew they were losing precious time, for her husband would not be long gone, having promised to return in order that she might go down for her own supper.

Dorothy hesitated no longer, but, in the fewest possible words, unburdened her heart, while Mary listened in speechless amazement.

Her indignation and horror grew apace until the story was all told. Then she cried: "It was a cowardly, unmanly trick, – a traitor's deed! He is no gentleman, with all his fine pretence of manners."

"Ah – but he is." And Dorothy sighed softly, and in a way to have opened Mary's eyes, had she been less absorbed by the anger now controlling her.

"By birth, mayhap," she admitted, although reluctantly; then adding fiercely, "he surely is not one in his acts."

Then her voice grew gentle again, and the tears seemed to be near, as she laid her head alongside the curly one upon the pillow.

"Oh, my poor, poor little Dot," she said; "to think of the dreadful thing you have been carrying in your mind all this time! Small wonder that you were pale and sad, – it was enough to kill you."

The words brought Dorothy's grief to her once more. Then Mary broke down as well, and the two wept together, their heads touching each other on the pillow.

"And now whatever is to be done?" Mary said, as soon as her calmness returned, – a calmness filled with indignation and resentment. "Since this man is surely your husband, you must needs obey him, I suppose, if he insists upon it. And now that he is going away, it would seem natural for him to come here, despite his promise to wait until he was asked. And I should say he would be quite sure to demand that you go away with him. And," almost in terror, "for your father to hear of it for the first time in such a fashion, and from him!"

"Oh, Mary, don't talk in that way!" cried Dorothy, in affright, and clinging still closer to her.

"But never you fear, Dot," Mary said more encouragingly, "so long as Jack is here to look after you. That man will never dare seek to drag you from your father's house while Jack is about. And besides, the townspeople would never permit him to leave the place alive, should he attempt such a thing."

"I won't go – I'll never go!" Dorothy exclaimed passionately. "But – " Her voice took a different note, and she stopped.

"But – what?" asked Mary instantly, for she heard her husband's footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.

"I don't want any harm to befall him," was the tremulous answer.

"Oh, Dot," Mary began in dismay, "can it be possible that, after all, you – "

But Dorothy interrupted her.

"Hush!" she whispered, "here comes Jack." Then beseechingly, "Oh, Mary, say once more that you'll not tell him yet."

But her husband was already in the room, and all Mary could do was to press Dorothy's hand.

A little later in the evening all the members of the family were again in the drawing-room. Dorothy, in order to relieve their anxiety, and especially on her father's account, had joined them; and the girl now made greater efforts than ever before to appear like herself.

This was now easier for her, from having shared her burdensome secret with Mary, who seemed to have taken upon her shoulders a good part of the troublesome load.

She carried herself with a much quieter mien than usual, but in a way not to excite comment, save when her husband said to her as they were closing the shutters to keep out the night and make the room still more cosey, "What is it, sweetheart, – are you troubled over Dot?"

"Yes," she replied, thankful that she could answer so truthfully.

"The child is going to be as she should, I am sure," he said, glancing over his shoulder to where his sister was sitting, close beside her father, her head resting against his shoulder. She was smiling at something Aunt Lettice had been telling of 'Bitha, whom she had just been putting to bed.

Before Mary could say anything more, a sudden clatter of hoofs outside announced the arrival of horsemen, and a minute later the sounding of the heavy brass knocker echoed through the hall.

Dorothy and Mary looked at each other in alarm, the same intuition making them fear what this might portend.

"Whatever can it be at this hour!" exclaimed Joseph Devereux, as his son went to answer the noisy summons. "I hope nothing is wrong in the town."

There came the sound of men's voices, low at first, but soon growing louder, and then almost menacing, as the outer door was sharply closed.

"And I say, sirrah," – it was the voice of John Devereux – "that you cannot see her."

Dorothy sprang from her father's side and sped to the door, which she flung wide open, and stood, with widening eyes and pale cheeks, upon the threshold. A moment more, and Mary was alongside her; and then, his face filled with amazement and anger, Joseph Devereux followed them.

Standing with his back against the closed door, was a stalwart young dragoon, his red uniform making a ruddy gleam in the dimly lit hall as he angrily confronted the son of the house.

But no sooner did he catch sight of the small figure in the open doorway than the anger left his face, and he stood before her with uncovered head, paying no more heed to the others than if they had been part of the furniture in the hall.

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," he said, – and his eyes searched her face with a passionate inquiry – "we are ordered away, as you may have heard. I am leaving the town to-night, and could not go until I had seen you once more."

The eyes looking up into his were filled with many emotions, but Dorothy made no reply.

He waited a moment for her to speak. Then an eager, appealing look came to his face, and he asked, "Have you naught to say to me – no word for me before I go?"

Joseph Devereux now found his voice.

"Aught to say to ye, sirrah!" he demanded furiously. "What should a daughter o' mine have to say to one of His Majesty's officers, who has been to this house but once before, and then, as now, only by means of his own audacity?"

At the sound of this angry voice Dorothy shuddered, and tearing her eyes from those blue ones that had not once left her face, she turned quickly and clung to her father.

The young man laughed, but not pleasantly, and there was a nervous twitching of the fingers resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"You are surely aware, sir," he said, "that I have the honor of a slight acquaintance with your daughter. And I fail to see why I should be insulted, simply because I was mistaken in holding it to be but natural courtesy that I should bid her farewell."

Here his voice broke in a way that was strange to all save Dorothy and Mary, as he added: "We leave this place to-morrow, sir, and your daughter and myself are never like to meet again; and I had good reason to wish the privilege of begging her forgiveness for aught I may have done to cause her annoyance. And if she refused me forgiveness, then she might be pleased to wish me a right speedy meeting with a bullet from one of her own people's guns."