From Kingdom to Colony

by Mary Devereux

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Mary felt that she must lose no time in making her husband as wise asherself with respect to Dorothy's real sentiments, and in having himunderstand that he could not bring any harm to the young Britisherwithout making his sister all the more unhappy.

  She wondered what Jack would say--as to the effect it would have uponhis temper and actions. But she was determined upon this,--that if heshowed resentment or anger, she would assert herself in Dorothy'sdefence, feeling as she did that it was too late to do other thansubmit to what fate had brought about, and all the more especially,since Dorothy had confessed to loving this man.

  "I could almost wish he had been killed outright the morning I made himtumble over the rocks," she said to herself, "or that he had falleninto the sea, never to be seen again." Then, realizing that this waslittle short of murder, she shrank from such musings, shocked to findherself so wicked.

  There came still another burden of sorrow when she imparted the wholetruth to her husband.

  He listened with a brooding face, only the unusual glitter in his eyesshowing how it stirred him. Then, after a long silence, while heappeared to be turning the matter in his mind, he exclaimed, notangrily, but with nothing showing in his voice save bitterself-reproach: "Blind fool that I've been, seeking to keep my littlesister a child in thought. And right here, under my very eyes, has shebecome a woman, both in love and suffering!"

  He sprang to his feet and began to pace back and forth, his wifewatching him with troubled eyes. Presently he came and looked downinto her face.

  His own was pale, but it had a set, determined expression, as thoughthe struggle were over, and he had turned his back upon all the hopeshe had builded for his beloved sister,--upon what might have been, butnow never to be.

  "Sweetheart," he said, "there is one other we are bound in honor totake into our confidence, to tell all we know of this sad matter, andthat is Hugh Knollys. He is not like to return here this many a day;still it is possible he may, or that I may be sent to the neighborhoodof Boston before the summer comes. But whichever way I see him, Ishall have to tell him the truth. Poor old Hugh!"

  "Why, John!" But Mary's eyes filled with a look bespeaking fullknowledge of what he was to say, although she had never suspected ituntil now.

  He told her of all that passed between Hugh and himself that night, somany months ago. And when he finished, she could only sigh, and repeathis own words, "Poor Hugh!"

  "Aye, poor Hugh, indeed, for I know the boy's heart well. It will be adreadful thing for him to face, and with his hands tied, as are my own,against doing aught to the Britisher because his welfare matters somuch to Dot."

  Then he added almost impatiently: "I wish the child would let me talkwith her. She must, before I go away, else I'll speak without herconsent. So long as we are situated as now, it may do no harm to letthe matter drift along; but if I have to leave home--"

  "Oh, Jack, don't speak of such a thing," Mary interrupted. And risingquickly, she laid her hand on his shoulder as though to hold him fast.

  "Why not, sweetheart?" he said, compelled to smile at her anxiety. "Weknow what we have to face in these distracting times; we knew it whenwe married. Matters grow worse with every week, each day almost. Butwe must be brave, my darling, and you will best hold me to my duty bykeeping a stout heart, no matter whether I go or stay. And go I ampretty sure to, the same as every other man in the town, for we maylook, any day, for a battle somewhere about Boston."

  Mary clung to him shudderingly, but was silent.

  Hugh Knollys had been all this time at Cambridge, where troops weremustering from every part of the land; and many men from Marbleheadwere there or in the neighborhood.

  They had heard from him but once, and then through Johnnie Strings,who, after this last trip--now over a month since--had returned toCambridge with a very indefinite notion as to when he would come backto the old town.

  The pedler also reported having seen Aunt Penine, who was quarterednear Boston, at the house of some royalist relatives of her brother'swife,--he himself having left his home in Lynn and taken up arms forthe King.

  Mistress Knollys was also away, for she had closed her homestead andgone to stop with an only sister living at Dorchester,--doing this forsafety, and before the soldiers left the Neck.

  A decided feeling of impending war was now sharpened and well defined,and all were waiting for the actual clash of arms.

  Late in February, His Majesty's ship "Lively," mounting twenty guns,arrived in the harbor and came to anchor off the fort; and her officersproceeded to make themselves fully as obnoxious as had the hatedsoldiers.

  They diligently searched all incoming vessels that could by any pretextbe suspected; and where they found anything in the nature of militarystores, these were confiscated.

  One vessel, carrying a chest of arms destined for the town, was,although anchored close to the "Lively," boarded one night by a partyof intrepid young men under the lead of one Samuel R. Trevett, whosucceeded in removing the arms, which they concealed on shore.

  Later on in the month a body of troops landed one Sunday morning onHomans' Beach; and after loading their guns, the soldiers took up theirmarch through the town.

  The alarm drums were beaten at the door of every church to warn theworshippers, and it was not long before the hitherto quiet streets werethronged with an excited crowd of indignant citizens, gathered inactive defence of their rights.

  They suspected the object of the enemy to be the seizure of severalpieces of artillery secreted at Salem. But in this--or whatever wastheir purpose--they were baffled, meeting with such determinedopposition as to be forced to march back to the shore and re-embark,with no more disastrous result to either side than the usual number ofbloody faces and bruised fists, such as had distinguished the sojournof the regulars upon the Neck.

  Aside from these two events, the days in the old town passed much asbefore, despite the ever-increasing certainty of war,--this leading thetownsfolk to go armed night and day, and to keep close watch from theoutlooks for any sudden descent the enemy might seek to make.

  The last vestige of snow was gone from the shaded nooks amid the treeson the hills,--the land, swept dry and clear of all signs of winter,was waiting for the sun to warm the brown earth into life; and in thehollows of the woods, the tender shoots of the first wild flowers werealready showing, where the winds had brushed away the fallen leaves ofthe year before.

  It was the twenty-first of April, and the expected battle had come atlast, for Lexington was two days old. The news was brought into townbefore the morning of the twentieth, and had resulted in the suddendeparture of many of the younger men for the immediate scene of action.

  Among these was John Devereux; and Mary was to accompany her husband tothe town, in order that she might be with him until the very lastmoment.

  The parting between father and son was full of solemnity, for each feltit to be the last time they would meet on earth.

  "God bless and keep you, my dear boy," said Joseph Devereux, showingmore of his natural vigor than for many weeks past, as he fixed hislarge eyes upon the handsome young face, pale, but filled withresolution and high purpose. "God bless and keep you in the strugglein which I know you will do your part unflinchingly. Never be guiltyof aught in the future, as you have never in the past, to stain thegood name you bear."

  Fearing that which he deemed a reflection upon his manhood, the youngman did not reply in words, but threw his arms about his father's neckin a way he had not done since boyhood; and the old man alone knew howsomething wet still lay upon his withered cheek after his son had lefthim.

  The last person to whom Jack said farewell was his sister. She hadstolen away to her own room, and there he found her weeping.

  "Little Dot," he said in a choking voice, opening his arms to her as hepaused just across the threshold.

  She looked up, and with a low cry--half of pain, half joy--fled to him;and with this the shadow, almost estr
angement, that had come betweenthem was swept away forever.

  He held her tight against his breast, and let her weep silently for atime, before he said very gently, "Dot, my little girl, I must speak toyou on a certain matter before I go away."

  She raised her head and kissed him; and this he took as permission totell her what was upon his mind.

  "Dot, I cannot go from you without having everything between us thesame as has been all our lives, until these past few sad months."

  At this she clung all the closer to him.

  "You were badly treated, little one," he continued, "shamefullytreated; and it was a great grief to me that you did not come and trustyour brother to the end of telling him the whole matter at the veryfirst. But 't is all past now, and words are of no worth. Only this Imust know from your own lips,--if you love this man who has forcedhimself to be your husband, and if you love him sufficiently to leaveus all, should he so bid you?"

  "That he will never do," Dorothy answered, her voice full of sadconviction. "He has gone, thinking I hate him."

  "And why did you send him away with such a notion as that?"

  "Oh, Jack," the girl cried piteously, "cannot you see--can you notunderstand? I could not go and leave you all. I dared not tell at thetime all that had happened--I did not know what to do."

  "And you love not the cause he fights for, though you love the manhimself?" And a faint smile touched his lips.

  "That is it, Jack," she answered, relieved at being understood. "Youhave spoken my own feelings. I could not leave father; had I done so,think of what would have come to me now."

  "Poor father, 't is well he will never need to know. Well, Dot," andhe tried to speak cheerily, "although 't is a sad tangle now, perhapstime will straighten it somewhat; and all we can do is to wait andhope."

  "And you'll never say aught to--him, should you two meet?" Dorothyasked wistfully, a burning color deepening in her cheeks.

  "Should he and I meet," the young man said with a scowl, "it is notlikely to be in a fashion that will permit discourse of any sort."Then he regretted his words, for his sister shivered and hid her faceover his heart.

  "Come, Dot,"--and now he spoke more calmly, while he caressed the curlyhead lying against his breast--"try to keep a brave heart. You havedone no wrong, little one, and we are all in God's hands. Pray you toHim for your brother while he is from home; and pray as well that allthese sad matters will come right in the end."

  He pressed a kiss upon her tearful face, and was gone.

  Arriving in the town, he found his companions ready to depart; andbefore sunset he was upon the road to Boston, leaving his wife to stopfor a day with Mistress Horton.

  The following evening it was apparent that the end was coming fast toJoseph Devereux.

  Dorothy was alone with the stricken man, Aunt Lettice, who took 'Bithawith her, having gone into the town early that afternoon, to make somepurchases, intending to return later with Mary.

  Dr. Paine had told them how the end would probably come; and it was ashe had said. He himself was away toward Boston, where his serviceswere most needed, and there was no other physician for Dorothy tosummon, even had she felt it necessary.

  But she well knew the uselessness of this. No human skill couldprolong the life of him who had been stricken down late in theafternoon, and now lay unconscious, breathing heavily, like a strongswimmer breasting heavy seas. And what sea beats so relentlessly as dothe black waters of Death?

  Dorothy had stolen for a moment to the window, scarcely able to endureto sit longer by the bed, listening to those gasping breaths that wrungher heart with the passionate sense of impotence to help, or even ease,the dying man.

  Curled up in the broad window-seat, her face turned from the dimlylighted room to the fast-falling night outside, the past, and itscontrast with the present, seemed to unroll before her with a vividnessof detail such as we are told comes to one who is drowning.

  All that was happy seemed to lie behind her; all the cheer and comfortof the old home were gone, never to return--no more than would herfather's protecting love.

  And he--her father--was now drawing nigh to the day that knows nodarkness, no dawning; while for her the night shadows of the bitterparting were closing about, dark and cold.

  The incoming tide was almost at the full, and the surf sounded like amoaning voice from the sea. It was to the young girl's torturedimagination a warning voice, bidding her heed that the fashion of thisworld must pass away, and with it the souls of its children, who, likemerry little ones gathering flowers in fair fields, unheeding,unthinking, grow grave only as the day draws on. It told her that theygrow wise--sad, perhaps--as the sun sinks; and that when the darknessfalls they lie down to sleep, with tired brains and heavy hearts, alltheir buoyancy gone with the day's brightness. They have come to knowits bitter lesson of weary struggle, of sore disappointment andheart-breaks.

  The sky was filled with broken banks of ragged clouds that sent greattattered streamers across the zenith, entangling the glittering starsthat seemed struggling to push them away, as if they were smotheringdraperies, from before their silvery faces.

  Over in the east a faint spot of dusky red was showing in a cloud-rift.It was the rising moon, seeming to battle, like the stars, with theblack hosts seeking to envelop it. It fought bravely, like a valiantsoldier, and emerging triumphantly at last, threw a bar of dull red,like a pathway, across the sullen floor of the ocean.

  This reached from the shore, out over the water, far away, to end inthe heavy shadows looming against the horizon like the walls of theCity of Death, whose angel keeper was even now unbarring the gates forthe call that should bring the soul of Joseph Devereux within theirmisty portals.

  Dwellers by the sea have a belief that the souls of those who arecalled, go ever with the turning of the tide. It was now only an hour,or less, to that; and Dorothy was waiting with a trembling heart forthe ebb of the sea to carry her father away to the world of shadows.

  He lay motionless, as though his soul were already departed, save forthat same heavy breathing.

  There was no change in this. It was as regular in its hoarse pantingas the swinging of the pendulum in the clock outside the door,--the oldclock that had seen both joy and sorrow passing before it through manygenerations, and had seemed to look with friendliness upon everyeye--blue, black, gray, or brown--uplifted to its great face,--eyesthat had long since been closed, some of them not even having time togrow dim with age or be moistened by tears of grief.

  "Gone--gone--going," it sighed in Dorothy's ears, until she coveredthem with her hands to shut out the sound, and with it the moaning ofthe surf.

  "Dot, my little girl!" A faint voice broke the stillness as the heavybreathing was hushed.

  She flew to the bedside and knelt there, while she pressed her warmmouth against the nerveless hand, whose chill seemed to strike her veryheart. Her father felt the quivering of her lips, and tried to lifthis other hand to her head.

  She knew this without seeing it, and moving yet closer to him, she laidher face over his heart, her head fitting into the hollow of his arm asshe clasped his hand with her small fingers.

  "Dot, my baby--oh, my little girl!"

  The words came with all his old strength of voice, and she felt that hewas weeping.

  Startled at this outbreak, and alarmed for fear of some injury it mightdo him, all the girl's grief became swallowed up in the new energy thatnow surged through her.

  "Hush!" she said soothingly, placing her face against his own. "Hush,dear! Never mind me; I shall be well enough. I know--I know," chokingback a sob that rose in her throat like a stinging blow, "that all isfor the best, 'that He doeth all things well.'"

  "Yes, yes," her father murmured drowsily, as though calmed by her wordsand caresses. "Aye, my child, 'though I walk through the valley of theshadow of death, I will fear no evil.' God is on the other side,waiting--waiting--for me."

  His eyelids had fallen again, and the closin
g words came in a faintwhisper. He was now breathing heavily as before, and was seeminglyunconscious; and Dorothy felt that he had come back for a moment fromout the dark shadows gathering to shut them apart, so that he mightspeak to her once more in the voice she loved so dearly.

  She did not stir, but remained kneeling by the bed, his arm around her,and his hand clasping her fingers with marvellous firmness.

  She could feel and hear the feeble beating of the loving heart that hadever held her so tenderly. Throbbing against her cheek, its pulsesseemed to keep rhythm with the mournful booming of the surf on theshore.

  Suddenly, like a mighty ocean of falling waters, there came, tooverwhelm her unnatural calm, the thought of what her world would bewhen that true, loyal heart was stilled,--when she could only lay hercheek against the earth that shut it away from her.

  A giant hand seemed clutching at her throat; the grief, rising inmighty bursts, could find no vent in tears, and a gasping cry sprangfrom her lips, causing her to stir unconsciously within his arm.

  His grasp tightened upon her hand, and her acutely listening ears heardhim whisper brokenly, "'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end.'"

  The words brought to her a strange comfort. And now his feeble handcaressed her head in a wandering, fluttering way, and she felt as inher baby days when he used to rock her to sleep; for his failing voicebegan to croon the old hymn he so often sang to her then.

  She crept still closer to him. She was quieted for the moment, andfilled with an awe as if angels were all about them. Her wild griefwas hushed,--the agony of clutching pain in her throat dissolved itselfin silent tears, and the sound of the surf now seemed a peaceful,soothing voice.

  She felt as though she were going with her father along the way throughthe dark valley,--even to the very gates of jasper and pearl that wouldgive him entrance to the City of Light, then to close, leaving herwithout.

  Fainter, yet fainter grew his voice, at length dying away altogether.She heard her name breathed softly, just as he used to speak it whenshe, a little maid, was nestling in his arms, and he wished to assurehimself of her being asleep.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "My baby, 't is growing dark, blackly dark, little one. Ye'd betterget to bed."

  She made no answer--she could not, but listened breathlessly.

  "My baby--my baby Dot. God keep my baby!"

  The words were scarcely spoken, but came like long sighs, to mingle anddie away with the night wind moaning outside the window. And it was asif the surf caught them, and repeated them to the watching stars.

  "God--keep--my--baby!"

  The room was still--still as the great loving heart under her cheek.And the tide was on the ebb.