CHAPTER XXIII
The town was as silent as a city of the dead when the four started ontheir way, Master Storms--a fussy, irritable old gentleman--in advance,with his pretty daughter Patience hanging on his arm, and followedclosely by the small erect figure of Dorothy, wrapped in her darkcloak; while Johnnie Strings, on guard against any unseen danger,walked directly behind her.
There were hurrying masses of cloud overhead that made gorges andravines, hemming in the glittering stars, now grown brighter since themoon had set; and the sound of the sea came faintly hoarse, as thelittle party bent their steps in its direction. For near it lay theStorms domicile,--up near what was known as "Idler's Hill."
Suddenly a wild uproar broke out upon the night, coming from ahead ofthem; and Master Storms bringing his daughter to a halt, Dorothy andthe pedler came up with them.
They all stood listening. There were the shouts and cries of anot-to-be-mistaken street fight; and the turmoil was becoming moredistinct, as though the combatants were approaching.
Patience urged her father to hurry on towards their house; but hehesitated.
"What think you is amiss, Johnnie Strings?" he inquired nervously,fidgeting from one foot to the other, while his terrified daughtertugged at his arm.
"Usual trouble, I guess," drawled the pedler. "Redcoats paradin' thestreets, and gettin' sassy." Then turning to Dorothy, he said, "Hadn't ye best let me take ye back, Mistress Dorothy?"
Before she could answer him a small body of soldiers issued from a sidestreet near by. A wavering, yelling crowd of angered men swept forwardto meet them; and the two girls and their escorts found themselves inthe midst of a struggling, shouting mass, with here and there ahorseman looming up, whose headgear, faintly outlined in the uncertainlight, proved him to be a British dragoon.
Master Storms seized his daughter by the arm, and taking advantage ofan opening he saw in the crowd, darted through and sped with the girldown 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 hischarge; but although he was known to many of them, rage, and the lustof battle, seemed to dull their ears to his voice.
In the midst of it all he was felled to the ground; and with no thoughtof tarrying to find out if he were hurt, Dorothy, seeing a smallopening in the mass of men, dashed through it, with the intention ofmaking her way back to the Hortons'.
She had gone only a short distance when her path was barred by severalhorsemen, who seemed to be the leaders of the troop. They had foughttheir way to a clearer space, and were looking back as though for theirfollowers 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, forone, would take pleasure in having a hand at that game."
Dorothy attempted to glide by them, hoping that the dark color of thecloak she wore would save her from detection. But the voice of thefirst speaker called out gayly, "Aha, who goes there? Stop, prettyone, and give the countersign."
"Or, if indeed you be a pretty one, we'll take a kiss instead, and callit a fair deal," laughed another, as flippantly as if the night werenot being rent with the uproar of the fighting mob just behind them.
Dorothy came to a standstill, and for the instant was uncertain whichway to turn. Then she resolved to pursue the road she had taken, andsaid spiritedly, "Stand aside, and let me pass out of hearing of suchinsults, or it may be the worse for you."
She lifted her head as she spoke; and as the rays of a near-by lampfell upon her face, one of the riders spurred toward her.
"Mistress Dorothy!" The voice made her heart leap; and then she feltsick and faint.
"Dear mistress,"--and now Cornet Southorn had dismounted close besideher--"let me conduct you safely out of this place, where you surelynever should have come."
The other horsemen had drawn to one side and away from them, and werenow silent.
Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Dorothy permitted him to lifther to his saddle. He sprang up behind her, and holding her firmlywith 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 insilence. Then Dorothy heard the young man laugh, and in a way tofrighten her, and rally her dreaming senses to instant alertness.
"So now, my sweet little rebel, you are my captive, instead of being myjailer, as that night in the summer." And she felt his breath touchher cheek. "You shall not speak to me in such fashion. And--oh, youhave passed the street leading to Mistress Morton's, which is where Imust go."
Dorothy began with her usual imperiousness, but ended in affright asshe saw the street fade into the darkness behind them.
"Is that where I stole like a thief to catch one glimpse of you, prettyone?" he asked, paying no heed to her indignation. "And I felt likecommitting murder, when I saw all the gallants who wanted your smilesfor themselves."
"Take me back this minute!" she demanded angrily; but her heart was nowthrilling 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 realalarm, "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'sear; and his deep voice, now trembling as with suppressed feeling, senteach word to her with perfect distinctness.
"I hope, sweet Mistress Dorothy, I am a gentleman," he said. "As suchI was born, and have been accounted. But"--and his voice sank to atremulous softness--"take you anywhere, I will not, until we have seengood Master Weeks, for whose house we are now bound. And when we leaveit, 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 doanything to win you for my own. I know your sweet rebel heart betterthan 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 hebent his face still closer and whispered: "Ah, little sweetheart, how Ilong to kiss you! But my rose has its thorns; and I fear theirstinging my face, as they did that day in the wood, ages ago,--so longit 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, whilethe powerful gray flew along the deserted streets that somehow lookednew and strange to her eyes. And now she felt the broad breastpillowing her head, and she could feel distinctly the beating of hisheart, as if his pulse and her own were one and the same.
And so they rode along in silence until they reached the house ofMaster Weeks, where the young man pulled up his horse, and withoutdismounting, pounded fiercely with his sword-hilt upon the door.
An upper window was soon raised, and a man's querulous voice demandedto know what was wanted.
"Make haste, and come down to see," was the impatient answer. "It isCornet Southorn who wishes to speak with you."
The window was closed hastily, and a light soon flickered in the lowerpart 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 fastenthe horse to a ring in the step here. He has been fastened therebefore, 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 neverdare 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 thewood.
"Be good to me, and true to yourself, my sweet little reb
el," hewhispered, "and fight no longer with truth and your own heart. Ownthat you love me, and know that I love you,--aye, better than my life."
"I care naught for your love," cried Dorothy, struggling to freeherself from his arms. "And I tell you that I hate you!"
"Aye," and he laughed again, "so your lips say. But I know what yourheart says, for your eyes told me that, long ago. And I shall listento your heart and eyes, and pay no heed to your sweet little rebelliousmouth."
They were now standing on the upper step of the small porch, and in theopen doorway was the minister, Master Weeks, a candle in his hand, andheld above his head as he peered out into the darkness with wonderfilling his blinking eyes.
"Good Master Weeks, here is a little wedding party. And despite theunseemly 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, enteredthe 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 hesmiled down upon the bewildered little divine.
"You will do no such thing, Master Weeks," Dorothy protested, her eyesflashing with anger. "I am here against my will, and forbid you tolisten 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 mywife."
"Why, Cornet Southorn," exclaimed Master Weeks, "whatever can you bethinking on? Surely this lady is Mistress Dorothy, the daughter ofMaster 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. Thesmile 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 withinten minutes you do not make this lady my wife." And he looked at hiswatch.
The frightened little man said nothing more, but hurriedly summoned hishousekeeper and her son, who was also his clerk. A few minutes later,and Dorothy, held so firmly--albeit gently--by Kyrle Southorn that shecould not move from his side, heard the words that made her his wife.
When it was over, she was strangely silent, scarcely seeming tocomprehend what had taken place.
The newly made husband put his name upon the register. Then, as hedrew Dorothy forward to take his place, he bent down until his facecame beneath her own, and gave her a curious, beseeching look,--onethat 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 roseup, a giant in strength and might, and she could never question itagain.
For a moment her great dark eyes looked down into his pleading ones.Then in a subdued, obedient way, entirely unlike the wilful Dorothy ofall her former life, she took the pen he proffered and wrote her nameunderneath his bold signature.
A deep sigh now burst from his lips,--one of happy relief; then, as ifutterly unmindful of the minister's presence, he pressed a kiss uponthe little hand that still held the pen.
She submitted to this in silence, standing before him with downcastface, and eyes that seemed fearing to meet his gaze, while he carefullydrew the cloak about her once more.
"I trust, Mistress Dorothy, you will in no wise hold me accountable forthis young man's rashness, when the matter shall come to your father'sears, but that you will kindly raise your voice in my behalf to testifyhow that I was forced for my life's sake to agree."
Master Weeks was already on the black list, owing to his well-knownsympathy for the King's cause, and for having remonstrated openly withthe patriots of his congregation.
"You have but to keep a close mouth, Master Weeks," said Southorn, asthe little man lighted them into the hall; "and the closer, the saferit will be for your own welfare, until such time as one of us shallcall upon you to speak."
A few minutes later they were again speeding along, with everythingabout 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; andas her senses became awakened, she was filled with a wild yearning forthe safe shelter of her father's arms.
What would that father say,--how was she ever to tell him of thisdreadful 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 ofthe cause for which her brother and her friends were imperilling theirvery lives. If she went with him--this Englishman who was now herhusband--it meant that her family would brand her as a traitor, andthat she would be an outcast from them. It might bring about the deathof 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, strickendown by the followers of this very man who was now holding her so closeto his breast, and murmuring fond words between the kisses he pressedupon her lips.
She was beset by a sudden loathing of him and of herself, and pushingaway his bended face, she tried to sit more erect.
"Stop!" she cried fiercely. "Don't touch me. I did not mean to giveway so. I detest you!"
"Ah, my little rebel,"--and he spoke in no pleased tone,--"have I tofight 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 youthis,--although you have forced me to become your wife, you cannotforce my love."
"So it would seem," was his grim answer.
"Where do you purpose taking me?" she demanded, all her wits now wellin hand.
"That shall be just as you say, sweet mistress," he replied, sogood-naturedly as to surprise her.
"Then take me at once to my father's house," she ordered, with hernatural imperiousness.
"So be it," he said. "And that will be on my own way, as it leads toJameson's."
They rode in silence along the snowy road, whose whiteness and thestars 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 liftedher from the horse, detaining her as she stood alongside him, as in herheart she had hoped he would. And yet had he not done this, she wouldhave 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 lightwith 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 stilllingered beside her, and asked again, "And you are certain to getwithin 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," hedeclared, in a voice that sounded as if now he might be smiling. Thenhe 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 littlewife?"
She did not reply; and bending his head nearer, he exclaimedpassionately: "My own wife you are, and no man can change that,--never,never! And now, having gained you, I am content to await yourpleasure. My lips shall be sealed until you choose to open them; anduntil you send for me, sweet mistress of my heart, I shall not comenigh you. Only, I pray you, in God's name, not t
o let the time be faraway."
"Let me go," was all she could say, dismayed as she was by the weightof 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 faithfulservant by telling her that there had been a street fight, and agentleman had brought her home on his horse.
Despite the terrible struggle going on in her childish heart, Dorothykept up bravely until alone in her own room, whose very familiarityseemed almost a shock to her, for all that had been crowded into thesefew hours made it as though weeks had passed since she arrayed herselffor her brother's wedding,--little dreaming that it was for her own aswell.
And such a wedding! How was it that the young Britisher had dared todo such a thing? How was it that she had come to sign the register someekly? How could she ever dare tell of it? And if she did so, mightnot her revelation bring harm to him?
Such were the questions that chased one another through her mind, onlyto return again and again with renewed importunity.
She had told him to go, and yet--she loved him truly. And could she beloyal to her father's cause with such a love battling in her heart?
With thoughts like these the few remaining hours of the night woreaway, bringing to her but snatches of fitful sleep.
Johnnie Strings appeared at the Devereux farm early the followingmorning. The red of his face was almost pale, and he was haggard andwild-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 fatherthe news of Dorothy's disappearance.
The newly wedded pair had already been told by Tyntie of the girl'spresence in the house; and Jack now hastened to assure the almostdistracted pedler of her safety, adding that they had thought it bestto leave her sleeping undisturbed until she should be ready to comedown 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, "Inever 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 lastnight. There they had me in fisher Doak's, an' naught could they tello' Mistress Dorothy, for none had seen her. I went down to Storms's atdaybreak, and then over to Horton's, an' she'd been seen at neitherplace. 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 didn'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--tokeep quiet, an' not risk scarin' your father to death, while I rode outhere to see ye an' have a sort o' meetin' over it, to decide what's tobe done next an' best. So now, thank the Lord, I find the bird is safehere in the nest where she b'longs, an' I'll hurry back an' tellMistress 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 havesomething to eat and drink; I can send Leet in to see Aunt Lettice."And Mary adding her persuasions, the worn-out pedler was induced toaccept the invitation.
Tyntie soon had a tempting meal spread for him; and having been withoutfood since leaving the Horton house the night before, he was in acondition to do it full justice.
John Devereux sat by while the pedler ate, and drew from him thedetails of the disturbance.
It had been brought about by a party of the Britishers being requestedto depart from a tavern kept by one Garvin, where they were eating anddrinking until a late hour. A wrangle ensued, during which one of thedragoons knocked Garvin down, and then the latter's son had retaliatedin kind.
At this, some of the other guests--townsmen--had joined in, and aregular fight began, spreading soon from the inn to the street, where,aroused by the noise, others had taken part, although scarcely knowingwhy, except for the reason that here were some of the hated enemy, andthey 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 hisstory, "that I've a firm belief 't was none other than David Prentisswho broke my arm for me. Somethin' must o' turned him blind, I shouldsay, for him to see a red coat on _me_."
"That is the trouble with these street fights, and especially atnight,--the men seem to lose all sense of sight and reason. Somethinghas got to be done to make the Governor remove the troops from theNeck." While speaking, John Devereux rose from his chair, and paced upand down the room in angry excitement.
"Aye, very true, sir," Johnnie assented, as he drained the last drop ofspirits from his glass. "But however will such a thing be broughtabout?"
"I don't know," was the impatient reply. "But it must and shall bebrought 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. Andthis is the only thing that has kept us from doing it long ago. Buttheir insulting tyranny only grows worse, and they seek deliberately tostir up the people to rash actions; and these, when reported, serve butto hurt the real cause of our revolting, when tidings of them comes tothe 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 manmight, an' listen to all we could tell him, he might agree to let ushave what we want, an' what is only fair we should have, an' nofightin' need be done o'er the matter. The trouble is in thiseverlastin' lot o' lyin', gabblin' poll-parrots that he puts atwixthimself 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, forone, I should say the quicker we fight it out--whether it be in ourstreets or up to Boston--"
Mary now came into the room looking very grave; and her husband, payingno 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 atonce. She seems ill."
They left the room together and were soon standing at the girl'sbed,--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 himwith apprehension.
A moment more, and she began to mutter--something about Hugh Knollysfalling into the water, and how dark and cool it was, and that shewanted to go into it, for she was hot,--so hot.
"She is out of her head," Mary whispered; "and this is the way she wenton, to me, before I called you."
Her husband looked again at the unquiet little figure, and reached downto take the small hand wandering about the coverlid; but she snatchedit 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,--neverthink it is for anything else. I hate you because your coat isred,--red, like the ruby ring you forced on my finger whether I wouldor no. And even the ring did not want to stay, for it knew me betterthan you did. It was so big that you had to hold it on; and now I'veput it away safe,--safe, where no one will ever see, ever know. But itis 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 couldspeak, Dorothy began again, now in a stronger voice than before.
"Moll said it must bring sorrow,--sorrow. And yet she said I wound himlike a silken thread around my finger. Ah, _that_ winds tight,although the ring was loose. And the thread Moll s
poke of means love,but the ring means--But no, I must not tell, never, never, for it wouldkill my father. Father, I want you,--where are you?"
This came in a loud cry, and she sank back sobbing, on thepillows,--for she had struggled partially to her elbow, where Jack heldher so that she could rise no farther.
"Mary, what is to be done?" asked the young man helplessly, anxiety andfear having for the moment deprived him of his usual promptness anddecision.
"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 hercheeks. "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 willhasten 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 besideher, won't you, sweetheart?" he added anxiously, as he turned to leavethe room.
"Why, of course I will." And Mary looked at her husband a littlereproachfully.
"And you do not mind being left alone?" he asked, looking back over hisshoulder, while his hand gripped the open door in a way that told ofthe 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 shewere needed. But Mary sent her away with the assurance that sheherself could do all that was to be done at present.
The ravings of the sick girl troubled her; and she deemed it prudentthat no other ear should hear words she felt might have a hiddenmeaning.
Dorothy still rambled on about the ruby ring and scarlet coat. Oncethe name of Master Weeks fell from her lips, coupled with wildlamentations that she had ever signed the register, and so risked thebreaking of her father's heart.
After a little time--Dorothy having become quiet--Mary stood lookingout of the window, her eyes resting on the glittering fields thatspread away to the gray line of the ocean, where the cold waves werecurling in with glassy backs, and foam-ridged edges as white as thesnow they seemed to seek upon the land.
She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams orhanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.
She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently ather, 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, witha great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.
"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "Itis his ring,--only he gave it to me. Hide it,--hide it, Mary. Neverlet any one see--any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but Iam 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 unconsciousface, 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 ayoung man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.
There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself themeaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do withDorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about MasterWeeks, and signing the register?
She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, andlet 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 suddensickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended tospeak. 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 thatthe young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.
And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised andgrieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemakingbetween the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she darednow to consider.
Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; andso, 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 wasmany weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced wellagain, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadowof 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 thatshe was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.
She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for herto mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.
At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from theNeck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose opendemonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the pettytyranny of their unwelcome visitors.
It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of thefamily sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in thedrawing-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 quiveredalong the bright needle resting where she had left off when it becametoo dark for her to work.
Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playingas if her thoughts were far away.
Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his bigarmchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increasedwith the setting of the sun.
It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash inthe western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where theevening star was beginning to blink.
It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime torunning 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 brownand dirty green of the soil.
But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snowto 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 thelittle supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen uponancient tombstones.
She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearesther; and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstractedface of her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flamesleaping from the logs.
"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch ofimpatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Manytimes I ask her something over and over again, when she is lookingstraight at me; and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and askme what I've been saying."
"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandameexplained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be likeherself 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. "WhenI am ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as theIndians 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 herfather-in-law into looking toward her.
Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and announcedthe withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.
"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.
"A shipload of them ha
s already sailed,--it left the harbor beforesunset; and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heartgood to see the red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quitof them; and when they are gone we can easily manage all the ships theysend into the harbor to annoy us or spy upon us."
He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his mannerchanged 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 backagainst the spinet, her head on the music-rack,--lying therespeechless, motionless; for the girl--and for the first time in herlife--had fainted.
From Kingdom to Colony Page 24