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"That is more as it should be," Washington said with an approving nod. "And in case no one comes for you, I myself will take pleasure in seeing that you are provided with a suitable escort."

Mary courtesied once more, and both girls murmured their thanks.

The sad look had departed from Dorothy's face as she now stood watching the great man whom she might never have the opportunity of beholding again; and while so engaged, it happened that one of the buttons of his coat came directly opposite her small nose.

At first she looked at it without any interest, – almost mechanically. Then she was overcome by a sudden intense desire to possess it as a souvenir, to be treasured for all time to come.

The feeling grew stronger each moment, and there is no saying to what lengths her childish impulsiveness might have spurred her, had it not been for the keen looks bent upon her by the officers at the other side of the room.

Washington seemed to be conscious of this, for his eyes took a curious expression as he said, looking down into the girl's earnest face, "I am tempted to ask, little one, what great subject makes your eyes so solemn."

He spoke more than half jestingly, and it was apparent that he judged her to be much younger than her actual years, because of her diminutive stature and childish appearance.

"I was wishing, sir, that you would give me something to remember you by," was her frank answer; "that is," – hesitating a little – "I was wishing I could have something to keep all my life."

She stopped, scarcely knowing how to express herself, while Mary stared at her with manifest disapproval.

"I understand, my child," Washington said, now looking at her more gravely.

He paused, and seemed to be considering the matter. Then he laid his hand lightly upon the girl's shoulder, much in the way a father would have done.

"I shall take pleasure, little one, in giving you something by which to remember me."

Resuming his seat by the table, he took up the packet he was examining when they interrupted him a few minutes before.

He now opened it hastily, and a number of papers dropped out.

One of these he picked up, and tore from it a strip, which he looked at carefully, as though to be certain it was clear of writing; then, dipping a quill into the ink, he wrote a few words upon it.

"Take this, my child," he said, extending it to her, "and should you ever be in need of any service within my power to render, you have but to send this slip of paper, to remind me that I have promised to assist you."

Dorothy stood speechless, well-nigh bewildered, her eyes fixed upon his face, now alight with an aspect almost paternal.

She said nothing, did not even thank him; but taking the paper, she pressed her lips to the hand that proffered it, and then, turning quickly, sped from the room.

"We are most honored, sir – you are very kind," said Mary, who felt it incumbent upon her to express their gratitude in more formal fashion than Dorothy had adopted.

Washington was looking at the door through which the girl had disappeared, but now he turned and bowed courteously.

"Much of the obligation is my own," he replied with courtly gallantry. Then his manner changed as he said: "Your sister is a sweet little maid, – it is most sad that she should have lost her father. He was, as is his son, a worthy and stanch patriot. These are troublous times, Mistress Devereux, and one so young and charming as she may come to feel the need of a protector; although, from all I have seen of her brother – your husband – it might well be supposed my own poor services would never be called into use."

"I thank you, sir; and I am sure Dorothy does the same – and both of us with all our hearts." And Mary ventured to extend her hand.

Washington arose from his chair, and his large, strong fingers closed about her own slender ones in a firm clasp, which she felt still tingling in their tips when she found Dorothy waiting for her at the head of the stairs.

"Oh, Mary," she burst out, looking as though something were amiss, "I am glad you are come. I've been so affrighted."

Then, as they started down the stairs, she told how a dreadful-appearing man had come out of the tap-room, and stood glaring at her, as he demanded fiercely to know her business.

"I was so scared that I could not speak, and I did not dare go back into the room. I am sure the man was full of drink."

"Where is he? I see no one." And Mary craned her neck to look over the rail into the hall below.

"He went back into the taproom when he found I would not answer him."

They had now reached the foot of the staircase; and as though waiting for the clicking of their high heels on the oaken floor, the taproom door opened suddenly, and a great hulking fellow, with a red face, topped by a wild shock of black hair, came staggering against them.

Both girls cried out, and started to fly up the stairs. But they were reassured by the advent of Mistress Trask, who chanced to be coming down the hall, and who spoke sharply to the man, bidding him have a care how he ran into ladies.

"'T is only Farmer Gilbert," she said, turning to her frightened guests, and seeming surprised to find them in that part of the house. "There's no cause to be alarmed, my pretties."

Mary glanced with disgust at the drunkard, who was now attempting a maudlin apology. But she said nothing, either to him or to the landlady, and went her way with Dorothy.

No sooner had they closed the door of their own apartments than they hurried to the light and examined the precious slip of paper.

It read: "A solemn promise given to Mistress Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead. G. Washington."

"Oh, Dot," Mary exclaimed, "I never thought, – we have told him an untruth!"

Dorothy was still looking at the paper, but at Mary's alarming words she raised her eyes in wonder.

"You are not Mistress Dorothy Devereux, but Mistress – "

"Sh-h!" cried Dot, putting her hand quickly over Mary's lips. Then they looked at one another and laughed, but uneasily.

CHAPTER XXIX

Neither of the girls found much rest during the night, owing to the strangeness of their surroundings and the exciting experiences that had come to them. In addition to this, their wakefulness was increased by the noise of the gale outside.

The rain had ceased, but the wind at times attained such violence as to rattle the casements like the jarring of a cannonade. Then its force would lessen, and it would moan about the gables and down the chimneys with a sound as though the patriots already fallen might be lamenting the long-continued siege of Boston.

With these deeper tones there would come loud shrieks, like the laughter of fiends, as if the Prince of Darkness and his legions were making merry over the impending downfall of goodly customs, uprooted by slaughter and bloodshed.

During the earlier part of the night there was some unusually loud talking outside, seeming to indicate a new excitement.

This caused the girls fresh alarm; but the matter was explained by the landlady, when she brought their breakfast in the morning.

A redcoat had been caught in the cornfield back of the house, and later on, his horse was found fastened in the woods near by.

When brought, as he was at once, before the Commander-in-Chief, the prisoner had denied indignantly the imputation of being a spy. Yet he had refused stubbornly to explain the reason for his being outside his own lines, and so close to the spot where a conference was being held between Washington and his officers.

He wore the British uniform, but this was concealed by an ordinary riding-cloak, and on his head was a civilian's hat.

"So," said the landlady, after telling the story, "if he be no spy, 't will be a hard matter for him to prove it, with everything lookin' so black. An', oh, mistress, he's as handsome as a picter, an' don't look to be twenty-five. It do seem a mortal pity that he must hang."

"Hang!" repeated Dorothy, with horror. "Why must he hang?"

"Why, surely ye know, mistress," the woman explained, "in war-times a spy be always hanged."

"Is it not dreadful – and will they hang him?" Mary asked with a shudder, staring into the face of the voluble landlady, who was now arranging the dishes upon the table.

"So the talk goes 'mongst the men. They had much ado with Farmer Gilbert, who was for takin' the young man an' hangin' him there an' then. But he had to be brought afore General Washington himself. An' now he's locked up in one o' the upper rooms, with Tommy Macklin pacin' up an' down afore the door, like he was measurin' the hall for a new carpet, 'stead o' wearin' out the strip I wove with my own hands, out o' rags."

Dorothy, who sat facing Mary, her elbows on the table, and her chin resting in her small palms, now drew the landlady's attention by inquiring if she knew the prisoner's name.

"Yes, – I did get to hear it when General Washington asked him; for, to say truth, I was listenin' outside the door. He answered up fair enough, an' spoke it like there was naught to be ashamed of in the matter, neither. 'T was Captain Southorn."

She heard a half-choked gasp from Dorothy's lips, and saw the look that came to Mary's face as her eyes turned like a flash toward the younger girl.

"Is it possible he can be known to ye?" she asked quickly.

"Yes, – I think we met him once," Mary answered falteringly. "That is, we met a young man of the same name. But he was not a captain – only a cornet of dragoons."

"Still, it is like to be the same man," the landlady said rather insistingly, as though hoping that such was the fact. "Cornets grow quick to be captains in these woful days, if they be but brave, which surely this young man is, unless his looks belie him."

Neither of the girls had paid any attention to her, but sat motionless, each with her eyes riveted upon the other's face, as if seeking to read her thoughts.

But now they both looked at Mistress Trask, whose voice had lost its speculative tone, and was filled with intense earnestness.

"Oh, mistress," she was saying, still addressing Mary, "mayhap he be the same man ye've known. An' if this be so, I do beg ye to try what prayin' the favor of his pardon from Washington will do. 'T is a foul death – to be hanged; an' such as he ought surely to die in their beds, unless they come to die in battle. The General be still here, 'though Colonel Glover an' many o' the other officers left early this mornin'. If they should take the young man out an' hang him, I'd never 'bide here another day. Will ye not go, mistress, an' try to save his life?"

Before Mary could reply, Dorothy spoke up.

"I will go," she said quietly, taking her elbows from the table, and with an expression in her eyes such as Mary never saw there before.

"Oh, do, mistress!" the landlady exclaimed eagerly, looking at the girl with admiration. "Pray do, an' God will bless ye for it."

But Mary protested, although weakly, and feeling that she had but little hope of success.

"No, Dot, – no," she said. "You must not, – it would never do. And then it might not be the same one, after all."

But her own belief contradicted her words, and sounded in her voice even as she uttered them. She was certain it was he who had appeared to be watching them when they came from Aunt Penine; and he had doubtless followed them to the tavern.

Dorothy made no reply until she drained a glass of milk the landlady filled for her; then she arose from the table.

"I am going," she said, as calmly as before. "Please," seeing that Mary was about to renew her objections, "say no more about it. I am going – and I prefer to go alone."

But Mary could not restrain herself.

"Oh Dot," she asked tremulously, "do you dare do such a thing?"

"Yes, I dare do it, because I must, – because there is nothing else for me to do."

"Let her go, mistress," urged the landlady; "surely there be naught to fear for her." Then she said confidently, as Dorothy passed through the door and out into the hall: "She be that young an' tender that no one would harm her, – least of all, General Washington. No doubt she'll be just the one to touch his heart with her pleadin' for the young man. No one would have the heart to say no to her, she be so little an' sweet."

Mary felt her own helplessness to turn Dorothy from her purpose. Indeed she did not dare to say, even to herself, that it was not the girl's solemn duty to do as she had proposed.

And so she sat silent, with clasped hands, musing over all these things, while Mistress Trask removed the dishes. And while she was doing this, the landlady told for the first time – the excitement having driven it from her mind – how Johnnie Strings had appeared at an early hour, and bade her say that he was forced to go across country to carry a despatch, but would return by noon, to escort the two girls to Dorchester.

Dorothy took her way up the stairs toward the room above. All the girlishness within her was now dead, and the expression in her pale face was that of a woman – and one whose heart was wrung by bitter sorrow.

The door was closed, and in front of it a man was seated. A musket lay across his knees, and his head was sunk on his breast as if he were buried in his own meditations. But as Dorothy drew near, he looked up, and she saw that it was none other than Fisherman Doak.

"Mistress Dorothy!" he gasped, staring open-mouthed at her white face as though doubtful of her being a reality.

"Yes," she said quickly, "and I am glad it is you, Doak."

"Sweet little mistress," he exclaimed, amazement showing in every lineament of his honest visage, "in Heaven's name, whatever be ye doin' here?"

"Never mind, Doak," she answered, "what I am doing here. I wish to see – to speak with General Washington, and at once."

"You – you?" he stammered, rising slowly to his feet, and shaking himself in the effort to collect his scattered wits.

"Yes," she said impatiently. "You are on guard here – he knows you are outside his door?"

"Why, yes, mistress – o' course. I'm to be here in case he needs aught, as well as to keep folk out. He be alone, an' has ordered thet he's not to be disturbed."

"If he is alone," and her tone expressed relief, "so much the better for me. I must have speech with him this very minute."

Doak opened his mouth in remonstrance, but she would not permit him to speak.

"Do you hear?" she demanded. "I must see him this minute. Go and tell him so; and tell him it is upon a matter of life and death."

He said nothing more, but, looking more dazed than ever, turned and rapped on the door.

A voice whose deep tones had not yet left Dorothy's ears gave permission to enter, and Doak, after bidding her to stop where she was, went into the room.

For a second Dorothy stood hesitating. Then a look of fixed resolution came to her face, and before the door could close after the fisherman-soldier, she stepped forward and followed him.

Washington was – as when she intruded upon him before – seated at a table. But now he was writing; and as the two entered the room, he looked up as though annoyed at the interruption.

But Dorothy, pushing Doak aside, advanced with an impetuosity that gave no opportunity for questioning or reproof, and took away all need of explanation from the astonished guardian of the great man's privacy.

"You gave me this, sir – last night," she said, holding out the paper, and speaking in the same fearless, trusting manner she would have adopted toward her own father, "and you will surely remember what you promised."

As she came forward, Washington, seeing who it was, laid down his pen, and his face took the expression it had borne when he was talking with her the evening before. There was a tender, a welcoming light in his eyes, as though her coming were a pleasure, – as if it brought relief from the contemplation of the grave responsibilities resting upon him.

He arose from his chair, and taking the paper from her hand, laid it upon the table. Then he turned to her again and said smilingly, "My dear child, the promise was surely of small worth if I could forget it so soon after it was given."

But there was no smile upon the face into which he was looking, and its earnestness seemed now to bring to him the conviction that the girl had come upon no trifling matter.

He bade Doak resume his post outside the door, and to permit no one to enter, howsoever important the business might be. Then, when the fisherman had gone, he invited Dorothy to be seated, and asked her to tell him the object of her coming.

He sat down again by the table, but she remained standing, and now came close to him, her clasped hands and pleading eyes fully as beseeching as the words in which she framed her petition.

"Oh, sir – I have come to beg that you will not hang the English officer whom I hear you suspect of being a spy."

Washington started in surprise; a stern light gathered in his eyes, and he looked as though illy pleased.

Dorothy was quick to see this, and felt that her only hope of success lay in telling him the entire truth.

This she did, confiding in him as freely and fully as though she were his daughter.

When she ended, he sat for a time as if pondering over her story, and the request to which it was the sequel. He had not interrupted her by so much as a single word, but his eyes had been fixed upon her face with an intensity that softened as she went on, in her own impulsive way, to tell him of her troubles.

Presently he said: "It is truly a sad tangle, my child, – one scarce proper to think any gentleman would seek to bring into your young life. But I am not yet old enough to hold that we should judge hot-headed youth with too great severity. Indeed," the grave lines of his face relaxing a little, "in this case I can see that the young man had strong temptation to forget himself, and to do as he did."

He paused and looked at her keenly, as if searching for the answer to a question seeking solution in his own mind.

She stood silently waiting, and he continued: "First of all, I must know of a certainty as to one matter, in order that I may act with discretion. My child," and he took one of her hands in his own, "do not fear to show me your heart. Show it to me as you would to your own dear father, were he, rather than I, asking you. Tell me – do you love this man who is really your husband?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, with no sign of hesitancy, as she lifted her head and looked at him through the tears his words had brought to her eyes, "I do love him."

Washington smiled, as if relieved of a perplexing problem.

"This brings about a very different order of affairs," he said in a way that made her heart bound with hope. "Now it may be possible that this captain is not your Cornet Southorn, although I think there is small room for doubt in the matter. But, in order to solve the question, I will have him brought here. Do you, my child, conceal yourself behind the curtains of that window; and if he proves to be the officer of whom we have been speaking, you have but to show yourself to assure me of the fact. If not, then remain in hiding; and after putting a few questions to him, I will have him taken back to his room."

Doak was despatched to carry out the order, while Dorothy hid herself in the curtains, – trembling with agitation when the sound of footsteps was heard again outside the door.

The fisherman entered with the prisoner, and Dorothy, looking through the slightly parted drapery, saw the olive face and purple-blue eyes of the man she loved.

His long boots were splashed with the mire of the highway, his uniform showed traces of the struggle of the night before, and his curly hair was dishevelled.

More than this, his haggard face and dark-circled eyes gave proof of a sleepless and anxious night.

But as he came into the room he drew himself erect, and met unflinchingly the stern eyes of the man in whose hands lay his fate.

The door had no sooner closed upon Doak's retreating figure than Dorothy stepped from behind the curtains.

The young man gave a violent start, and the arms that had been folded across his chest fell to his sides, as he uttered her name, – at the same time taking a step toward her. Then he came to a standstill, and passed his hand over his eyes, as if to clear them of something that impeded his vision.

And there was reason for this, as Dorothy did not speak, and stood motionless, her hands clasped in front of her, while she looked at him with an expression he seemed unable to define.

Washington's face had grown less severe as he noted all this; and while the two still remained gazing at one another, his voice broke the silence.

"The cause of your presence in this neighborhood, Captain Southorn, which your gallantry forbade you to explain, even in the face of an ignominious death, has been revealed to me by one whose truth and fidelity no human being should know better than yourself. She has told me that which leads me to take upon myself the responsibility of clearing you from the very grave suspicions aroused by your action of last night, and of holding you simply as a prisoner of war. For all this, you have Mistress Dorothy to thank – for your life and your restored honor."

No pen can describe the emotions of the two listeners as they heard these words, nor could any pencil portray the reflection of these emotions upon their faces.

Southorn's expression was that of thankfulness, mingled with amazement, – doubt, as though he feared the treachery of his own senses, while Dorothy's face became all aglow with delight and triumph at her success.

The young man stepped impetuously toward Washington, and was about to speak, but the latter raised his hand.

"You, sir, as an officer of the King," he said gravely, "know the weight of such a debt as this, and no words of mine can add to the sense of your obligation to her. This being so," and he glanced from one to the other of them, while the suggestion of a smile relieved the sternness of his face, "I will leave you with her for a short time, in order that you may express your gratitude in fitting terms, while I consider what course is best for me to pursue in carrying out the purpose I have in view."

With this he arose from his chair, and bowing to them, withdrew to the inner room, closing the door after him.

For a single moment there was silence between the two he had left alone, and no one could now accuse Dorothy of any lack of color in her cheeks.

"Dorothy – sweetheart, what does all this mean?"

The young man spoke in almost a whisper, looking at her as though she were a vision, a part of some strange dream. His voice faltered, and his eyes moved restlessly as he came toward her, walking slowly and uncertainly.

But Dorothy, her wonted self-possession and courage now fully restored, did not wait for him to come to her. She advanced smilingly, her eyes alight with happiness, and laid both her hands within his.

Then, while they stood face to face, she told him hurriedly of what she had done.

While she was speaking, he looked at her in that same queer way, his eyes wandering over her face and figure, while now and again he pressed her little soft hands, as though to gain through them still greater assurance of the blessed reality.

But when she finished, his eyes ceased their roaming, and became fixed upon her beaming face.

"My darling," he said slowly, "do you realize the full measure of what you have done for me? Do you know that you not only have given me life, but have saved me from that which to a soldier is more terrible than the torments of hell itself, – the disgrace of being hanged as a spy?"

His voice broke, and a spasm of pain shot across his face. Then he exclaimed in a tone filled with self-condemnation, "And this you have done for the man who forced his love upon you, – who married you by a trick – aye, by violence; the man who – "

She drew one hand away from his grasp and put it firmly against his lips.

"Stop!" she commanded, with all her natural imperiousness. "I'll listen to no more talk such as that. Had you not married me in the way you did, 't is not likely you would have wed me at all, for I have come to know that I am no girl to be won by soft speeches, and sighs, and tears."

"What!" he cried, not believing his ears. "Can it be possible – "

He had no need to finish the question, for her arms stole up and went around his neck, and her blushing face was hidden over his heart.

"My love – my wife – can it be that you love me at last?"

"At last!" She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "I believe I have loved you from the very first – since the time you opened your eyes when I held your head that day on the rocks. I loved you when you kissed me, the time we met in the wood, and I loved you when we stood before Parson Weeks; and – I'll love you all my life."

He drew her to him with a force almost rough in its fierceness, and covered her face with kisses.

"God be praised for those words!" he exclaimed. Then he sighed deeply.

"I have been such a miserable dog, sweetheart, ever since the night I left Marblehead. I was hoping until then to receive some little word bidding me come to you, – to come and tell your people the truth, and face their opinion and anger, such as I deserved for what I had done. But after I left you that night, I lost all hope, and prayed only that a bullet might set me free from my self-reproaches and misery."

"Oh – you wicked – " Dorothy began; but he silenced her with a kiss.

"I have just received tidings of my father's illness, and his wish for my return," he continued, "and was thinking of setting sail for home, when my eyes were blessed with sight of you yesterday, and I was dragged out here by a force I was unable to resist. I hoped to have speech with you somehow, if only that I might implore your forgiveness before I went away."

"And now you know there is naught to forgive," she said, smiling up into his face.

Then she drew herself a little away from him, and taking hold of the collar of his red coat as though to detain him, added softly, "But you'll not go now, will you?"

He laughed exultingly; but his face became sad again as he stroked the ripples of curling hair clustering about her forehead.

"It would seem, sweetheart," he said, "as if that might be the wisest course for me to pursue; for how can I find heart to take up arms against the country and people – aye, against the very kindred – of my own wife?"

A look of sorrowing dread swept all the light from Dorothy's face; but the brightness returned somewhat as he said more cheerily: "Well, well, my little one, it is waste of time to talk of such matters now, for you see I am not free to go anywhere just at this present. 'Sufficient for the day,' you know, 'is the evil thereof;' and surely we have evil to fear, even yet. But nothing can daunt me now – now that my honor is cleared; and that, too, by such an unlooked-for ray of light from Heaven, and with it the knowledge that you love me, and dared so bravely to save my life."

The door-knob was now rattled with a warning significance, and the two sprang away from each other as General Washington slowly entered the room.

His face bore an odd expression, and one that was pleasant to look upon, as he glanced from Dorothy to her husband. Then his eyes returned to the girl's face, and he asked, with no attempt to conceal a smile, "Well, my child, is all settled to your satisfaction, and" – after a second's pause – "liking?"

She tried to answer him, but could not. Her heart was too overflowing with gratitude, happiness, hope.

They all seemed struggling for precedence in the words that should come from her lips, and she found herself unable to speak.

Her eyes filled, and she looked up as though imploring him to find in her face all that her lips failed to say. Then she sprang forward, and seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips.

He appeared to understand fully the cause of her silence and agitation, – to know and appreciate the emotions that rendered her dumb; and the lines of his face resumed their accustomed gravity as he withdrew his hand from her clasp and laid it gently upon the curly head so far beneath his own majestic height.

"God bless you, my daughter, and keep you – always!"

No father could have spoken more tenderly to his child; and the words came to Dorothy as a benediction from him who had so recently passed away.

Washington now addressed himself to Captain Southorn.

"You have in this child a priceless treasure," he said. "God grant that you ne'er forget the fact, nor the debt you owe her."

"I never will – I never can, sir," the young man answered with unmistakable sincerity, as he came and took his wife by the hand. "Of that, sir, you may rest assured," he added, in a voice shaking with strong emotion.

Washington bent his head in approval. "For the present," he continued, "I deem it proper that you remain as before. I purpose stopping here until afternoon, and will then have you taken to Cambridge, unless some unforeseen matter shall arise to alter my plans."

The prisoner bowed in silence; then, as Washington went toward the door to summon Doak, the young man turned to smile hopefully into his wife's eyes.

"Keep a brave heart, sweet one," he whispered, "and trust in my love and truth. Naught can ever part us now."

A minute later the door closed after the fisherman and his charge.

"Keep the paper, child," Washington said to Dorothy, as soon as they were alone, "and remember that the promise it contains is renewed for the future. In such days as are about us, it is not improbable to reckon upon its being needed again – although scarcely for a like purpose."

He smiled, as his fingers closed upon the small hand within which he placed the eventful slip of paper. "And now go, my daughter," he added, "and may God bless you. Trust in Him, and He will surely watch over your life, and make all well in the end."