From Kingdom to Colony

by Mary Devereux

  CHAPTER XXV

  Whether it was due to ordinary physical causes, or was the result ofmental agitation arising from what has been told herein, cannot well bedetermined; but, soon after Dorothy had been carried to herroom,--conscious, but in a condition to forbid all questioning orexplanation--her father was taken with what in the language of that daywas termed a "seizure,"--so serious as to alarm the household, anddivert all thoughts from other affairs.

  He had been pacing up and down the drawing-room, now deserted by allsave himself and his son. His hands were clasped behind him, his chinwas sunk upon his breast, and his brows knit as though from anxiousthought.

  Jack sat staring into the fire; and both were waiting for the return ofeither Mary or Aunt Lettice, both of whom had gone to Dorothy's room togive her such attention as she might require.

  It was Mary who came to announce that the girl was now better, andthat, having taken a sleeping potion administered by Aunt Lettice, shewished to see her father.

  The old gentleman left the room with a brisk step; and Mary's eyesfollowed him nervously as she went over and seated herself by herhusband.

  They were silent for a time, both of them watching the flames thatarched from the logs over the fiery valleys and miniature cliffs madeby the burnt and charred wood, until Jack asked suddenly, "Why do younot tell me now, sweetheart?"

  Mary well knew what he meant; but she waited a moment, thinking howbest she might reveal the sad and terrible matter she had to disclose.

  "Mary,"--he now spoke a little impatiently, and as though to rouse herfrom her abstraction--"tell me what all this means."

  She stole a hand into his, and then repeated to him all that Dorothyhad told her.

  He listened with fast-growing anger; and then, coupled with his firstoutburst of rage against the hated redcoat, were reproaches for hiswife, that she had not sooner informed him of the trouble.

  "He would never have left the house alive, had I known it before," hecried savagely. "As it is, I'll ride after him as soon as day comes,and call him to an accounting for his villany,--the dastardlyscoundrel! And Mary--oh, my wife, how could you keep it from me tillnow?"

  Her heart sank at this, the first note of reproof or displeasure hisvoice had ever held for her.

  "You must remember, Jack," she pleaded, "how sorely I was distressed toknow what to do, for I had given my promise to Dot, and could not breakit. And you must know as well that it was not until this very eveningthat I learned of the matter."

  "True," he admitted. "But"--persistently--"there was the ruby ring,when the child was first taken ill; how could you keep that from me?"

  He spoke reproachfully, but his voice was growing softer, and his angerwas now gone, for Mary was sobbing, her head against his breast. Andthis was as strange to him as his harsh words had been to her.

  "I'll never--never keep any matter from you again," she protestedbrokenly. "I promise it, Jack, for now I see it was very wrong."

  "There--there, sweetheart," he said soothingly, as he stroked herbright hair,--"'t is all well for us now, and will ever be, if you butkeep to what you say. But Dot--poor little Dot!" And his anger cameagain.

  "Oh, that villain, that cursed villain,--but he shall reckon with mefor this outrage! And 't is well for that scoundrel Weeks that he'sbeen made to flee the town for his seditious sentiments and preachings."

  "But," Mary explained, "Dot said he was forced to do it, at peril ofhis life; that he--the Englishman--held a pistol to his head and sworehe'd shoot him if he refused."

  "Pah," said Jack, contemptuously, "he'd never have dared go so far asthat. Master Weeks is but a poor coward." Then he asked quickly,"Think you, Mary, that Dot is telling our father aught of the matternow?"

  "I cannot say," was his wife's irresolute answer. "I fear so, and yetI cannot but hope so, as well,--for how can another ever tell him?"

  "Aye," groaned the young man; "it will come nigh to killing him."

  But Dorothy had not told her father anything. No sooner had he come toher bedside than her eyes filled with a contented light, and slippingher hand within his close clasp, she fell tranquilly asleep, toostunned and numbed by physical weakness and contending emotions,--hersenses too dulled from the effects of Aunt Lettice's draught--to findwords wherein to pour out her heart to him.

  He left her sleeping quietly, and returned to those below; and soonthereafter the seizure came, and he fell back in his chair, speechless,with closed eyes and inert limbs.

  It was Mary and Aunt Lettice who ministered to him, with the help ofhis son and the faithful Tyntie, who was summoned from Dorothy's room,where she had been sent to watch the sleeping girl.

  Leet was too old and slow of movement to be entrusted with thesummoning of Dr. Paine; and Trent, who slept in one of the outerbuildings, was aroused and despatched forthwith, with orders to use allpossible speed, as they feared the master was already dead or dying.

  They carried him at once to his own bed, where he lay unconscious, withno change in his appearance or breathing; and his son, sitting besidehim, gazed with agonized eyes upon the white face lying against thepillows, his own face almost as white, and seeming to have aged underthis flood of sorrow now opened in their midst.

  It was well along toward morning, although yet dark, with the skycloudless and gemmed with stars, before Dr. Paine arrived.

  The first thing the bustling little man did was to bleed his patient,as was then the practice in treating most ailments. Its presentefficacy was soon apparent, for it was not long before the labored,irregular breathing became more natural and the old man opened his eyes.

  But there was an unusual look in them,--one that never went away. Andalthough after a time he recovered some of his strength, and was ableto go about the house, the hale, rugged health and vigorous manhoodwere gone forever, and Joseph Devereux remained but a shadow of hisformer self.

  His days were all alike,--passed in sitting before the fire downstairs,or else dozing in his own room; and he had neither care nor thought forthe matters that had once been of such moment to him.

  The others were with him constantly, to guard against possible accidentor harm, as well as to do all in their power in smoothing the way forthe loved one they felt was soon to leave them. And he, as well asthemselves, albeit he never spoke of it, seemed to understandthis,--that they, like him, were waiting for the end, when he should besummoned by the voice none can deny.

  And thus he remained day after day, spending much of his time with theother members of his family,--listening apparently to all they mightsay to him or to one another; but sitting with silent lips, and eyesthat seemed to grow larger and more wondrous in expression and light,as if already looking into that mysterious world,--

  "Beyond the journeyings of the sun, Where streams of living waters run,"--

  that world whose glories no speech might convey to earthlyunderstanding.

  "I can never tell him now," Dorothy said with bitter sorrow, addressingMary, as the two were alone in the dining-room. It was one of the dayswhen her father had risen for his morning meal, and, after sitting withthem awhile, had returned to his room to lie down.

  "'T is best not, dear," Mary assented. "Do not burden his heart now,for it would only give him bitter sorrow to brood over. Jack knows thewhole matter, and he can do all that is to be done."

  "And what is that?" Dorothy asked, speaking a little sharply.

  "Call the man to a strict account," was Mary's reply, with anger nowshowing in her voice.

  "No, Mary, no," cried Dorothy, with much of her old spirit. "That mustnot be,--at least not now." Then more gently, as she observed Mary'slook of surprise, "Naught that he nor any one can say or do will mendwhat has been done; and it is my earnest wish that the matter be letalone, just as it is, for the present. Perhaps the future may showsome way out of it." But she spoke as though saying one thing andmeaning quite another.

  "Will you tell Jack all this?" Mary asked, with an odd look.


  "Me?" cried Dorothy, in great alarm. "No, no, Mary; you must do that.I do not wish to have him speak to me of the matter; I could not bearit." And she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out thevery prospect of such a thing.

  Mary's white forehead wrinkled as though from perplexity, while herslender fingers tapped nervously upon the arm of her chair.

  She knew not what to make of the girl,--of her words and actions, ofher strange and sudden sickness and faintings, of all that had come toher since the advent of this young Britisher.

  And within these past few minutes a new anxiety had found its way intoher mind, and this prompted her to ask, "Can it be, Dot, that you havepermitted this stranger to come between you and your only brother, wholoves you best of all in the world?"

  But Dorothy evaded the question. "That he does not," she asserted,taking her hands from in front of her face and trying to smile; "'t isyou he loves best of all."

  Mary flushed a little, but replied with tender earnestness, "But youknow, Dot, he and I are one. We both love you next to each other, andwe wish to serve you and assure your happiness."

  Dorothy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I doubt if I shall everbe happy again, Mary," she said; "and the best way to serve me is toleave me alone and let me go my own way."

  She spoke as though wishing to dismiss the matter, and, rising from herchair, walked over to the window and stood looking off over the meadowlands and toward the sea.

  It was a cheering, hopeful sight, for the snow was gone, and everythingin nature was beginning to show a touch of the coming spring.

  Later that same morning they were in Mary's room, the young wife busywith some sewing, while Dorothy, with much of the former color showingin her face, was moving restlessly about.

  "Dorothy!"

  Mary spoke suddenly, as though impelled by a hasty resolution, andthere was a look in her blue eyes that made a fitting accompaniment toher words; but she kept them averted from Dorothy, who had turned andwas coming slowly toward her.

  "Dorothy," she repeated, as the girl drew close to her, "where is thatruby ring?"

  Dorothy came to a stop, and every drop of blood seemed to find its wayto her face.

  "Eh,--ring,--what ring?" She glanced at her hands, and then at Mary'sface, still turned partially away from her.

  "That ruby ring I gave you back, and advised that you throw it into thefire or into the sea, and with it all thought of the dastardly giver."

  Dorothy did not reply, and Mary now looked at her as she said slowlyand distinctly, "If you cannot tell, I can. It is over your heart,hanging about your neck on a chain."

  The girl gave a gasp, and Mary saw her face paling, only to flushagain, while the dark eyes filled with tears.

  "Oh, Dot," she cried, astonished and angry, "how can you love such aman?"

  Dorothy threw herself on her knees and hid her face in Mary's lap,sobbing as if the words had broken a seal set to keep this knowledgefrom even her own heart.

  "I don't know, Mary, but I do--I do love him, and have, for always.And now he has gone--gone away, thinking I hate him, and I may neversee him again."

  Mary put her arms around the little form, and used all her efforts tosoothe the passionate outburst. She could not but feel that she hadbeen wise in thus forcing Dorothy to open her heart, for not only didshe know the girl would feel better for having spoken, but she herselfhad a new and most important fact to guide her own future action.