The days intervening until Friday passed without event, and the household affairs went on much as before, Tyntie proving herself fully capable of replacing Aunt Penine as head of the domestic régime.
That lady kept her room, seeing no one except Tyntie and one of the younger maids. She had refused all overtures extended by her niece and Mary Broughton; and so, by the advice of the head of the house, they left her to herself.
Even Aunt Lettice was refused admittance by her sister, and refrained from seeking it a second time after being informed by Joseph Devereux of the recent occurrences.
The gentle old lady now went about the house in a sad, subdued fashion, secretly debating as to whether she would decide against King or Colony, but carefully keeping her thoughts from being known to others.
Johnnie Strings had kept his word to Dorothy, and brought the ribbon and lace. Aunt Lettice had paid him for the goods she purchased, making no response when he said, as he strapped his pack, "The Britishers be quartered on the Neck, ma'am,—landed there this very mornin'. The reg'lars,—they came down by ships from Salem; an' a troop o' dragoons be ridin' over to join 'em."
It was Mary Broughton who asked, "What are they come there for, Johnnie,—do you know?"
"Any one can guess, mistress, I take it," he replied significantly, busying himself with the buckles.
"And what do you guess, Johnnie?" asked Dorothy, who was examining a sampler 'Bitha was working, which was to announce,—
"Tabitha Hollis is my name,New England is my nation,Marblehead is my dwelling-place,And Christ is my Salvation."
Johnnie Strings finished his work with the straps and buckles; then raising himself from the floor, he said jocosely: "Now, Mistress Dorothy, surely ye don't care to burden your mind with matters o' state. Whatever they be come down for, 't is a true fact that the redcoats be on the Neck,—a hundred or more of 'em. An' as I was tellin' ye but t'other day, ye'd best keep at home till they be called away again."
This was Thursday; and Friday morning the two girls, with 'Bitha, were down in the Sachem's Cave, a small opening that ran, chasm-like, into the rocks a few feet above the level of the sea, with a natural roof projecting over it.
Within was a sandy floor,—whether or not the work of man, none living could say. It was studded with shells, placed there by childish hands, and the cave had served as playhouse for many generations of boys and girls.
The opening was hung about with a lace-like weed, wherein some drops of water were now sparkling in the morning sunshine; and beyond, stretching away to the horizon, could be seen the sea.
The waves creeping in against the shore broke with gentle plashings as they touched the rocky base of the headlands; a wonderful serenity lay over the face of the earth, and all between the land and horizon seemed a blank and dreaming space of water.
"We are sure to have a fine night," Dorothy had just said, as she looked out at the sea and sky.
"H-m-m," murmured Mary, warningly, and with a quick glance at 'Bitha, who seemed to be poring intently over a small book she had taken from her pocket.
"What are you reading, 'Bitha?" Dorothy asked; and the little girl came close beside her.
It was Aunt Lettice's "Church Book;" and on the titlepage was:—
"A NEW VERSION OFthePSALMSofDAVID,fitted to the Tunes ufed in the Churches:With feveral HymnsOut of theOld and New Teftaments.By John Barnard,Paftor of a Church in Marblehead."
In the back part of the book was the music of several tunes such as were used at that time in the churches; and amongst them was one known as
"Marblehead."
music scoremusic score
music scoremusic score
* Copied literally from publication "printed by J. Draper for T. Leverett in Cornhill 1752."
Good Parson Barnard had years since been laid away in his grave on the old Burial Hill, which rose higher than all the land about, as though Nature were seeking to lift as near as might be to the skies the dead committed to her care.
The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led her to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,—a thing she was always proud to be asked to do.
Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have "fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the sentence, "The Saints that fit above."
Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:—
"My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heatWithers, that I forget to eat;By reafon of my conftant GroansI am reduced to fkin and Bones.I'm like the Pelican, and Owl,That lonely in the Deferts ftroll;As mournful fparrows percht aloneOn the Houfe Top, I walk and moan."
"Tell me, cousin,—what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked, as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee.
"'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the child, and began to laugh.
'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double attack upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry.
"If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what does the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page.
"Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took the book into her own hands.
"There,—right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,—
"Thou hast a book for my complaints,A bottle for my Tears."
"There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep bottles in Heaven,—and what sort would He keep?"
"I think you will know more about such things when you grow older," was Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine without.
"You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself as she read the lines.
"That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little girl pouted.
Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to their feet with exclamations of dismay.
A vivid gleam of scarlet shut away the daylight, and a pair of sea-blue eyes, set in an olive-hued face, were looking at them with much curiosity.
The two older girls stood speechless, facing the intruder, whose gaze wandered with respectful curiosity over the regal form and gold-brown hair of the one, whose mouth was decidedly scornful, as were also her steady blue eyes, which regarded him fearlessly, despite her quaking heart.
Then the new-comer's eyes turned to the smaller figure; and a flash of admiration came into them as his hand stole to his head and removed its covering, while he said with unmistakable courtesy, "Do not be alarmed, I beg of you,—I mean no harm."
"What do you want?" Mary Broughton demanded, seeming in no wise softened by his gentle bearing.
"Only your good-will," he replied, with a smile that showed beautiful teeth.
She flashed a scornful glance in return.
"Good will!" she repeated. "That is something we have not in our power to give one who wears a coat the color of yours." She spoke defiantly, looking the young man squarely in the face.
"Such words, uttered by such lips, almost make me coward enough to regret the color," he said good-naturedly, and as though determined not to take offence.
With this he took a step or two inside the cave; and small 'Bitha, dismayed at the near approach of the scarlet-clad form, clung tightly to Dorothy's gown, pressing her face into its folds.
"Speak him fair, Mary," Dorothy whispered, apprehending possible danger from her friend's want of discretion.
But Mary did not hear, or else she did not care to heed, for she said: "Neither your raiment, nor aught that concerns you, can matter to us. This is our property you are trespassing upon; and I bid you begone, this moment."
"You are surely lacking in courtesy, mistress," he replied, still smilingly.
The words were addressed to Mary, but his glowing eyes were fixed upon Dorothy, who was still standing with her arms about 'Bitha. The color was coming and going in her cheeks, and something in the big eyes told him that a smile was not far away.
"We have no courtesy for British soldiers," was Mary's haughty answer to his imputation; and there was an angry tapping of her foot upon the shell floor.
He shrugged his shoulders, and turning more directly away from Mary, now spoke to Dorothy.
"I was only wandering about the shore," he declared, looking at her as though pleading for her good-will, "and hearing voices as I stood on the rocks above, I made bold to find out from whence they came."
Mary had not taken her eyes from his face, and now she was quick to answer him.
"Well," she said, before Dorothy could speak, "having found where the voices came from, you'd best go on about your own affairs and leave us to ours."
"And what if I refuse?" he asked quickly, a flash coming from his eyes as though she had at length nettled him.
"I should try to tumble you over the rocks at your back," she answered with sudden anger; and she stepped toward him as if to carry out her threat.
He moved back hastily, and then, missing his footing on the slippery granite, fell over backwards down the rocks.
Dorothy's shriek was echoed shrilly by little 'Bitha, while Mary stood as though transfixed, looking at the opening through which the young man had disappeared.
Dorothy was the first to find her voice. "Mary," she cried in terrified reproach, "you have made him fall into the water, and perhaps he will drown. Whatever shall we do?"
Mary did not reply, but speeding to the entrance of the cave, looked out over the uneven ledges.
The Britisher was lying, apparently unconscious, only a short distance below her, his shoulders caught in a deep seam of the rocks, while the rest of his body lay along a narrow ledge a few feet lower.
"There he is," she said, turning a white face to Dorothy,—"lying there in the rocks."
Putting 'Bitha aside, Dorothy came and looked down.
"See the blood on his face!" she exclaimed wildly. "'T is coming from a cut on the side of his head. Oh, Mary, I'm afraid you have killed him!"
Mary started to reply; but Dorothy had already sprung past her through the mouth of the cave, and was flying down the rocks to where the wounded man lay.
Tearing the silken kerchief from about her neck, she knelt beside him and endeavored to wipe the blood from his face, while Mary watched her in silence from above, with 'Bitha clinging to her, and crying softly.
"I must have some water, Mary," said Dorothy, who saw that the blood came from a cut in the side of the young man's head, "and I want another kerchief. Throw down yours."
Mary, without replying, tossed down her own kerchief, but without removing her eyes from the white face beneath her.
Dorothy ran to the sand-beach near by, and, having dabbled her bloody kerchief in the water, hurried back; then laying it folded upon the wound, she bound it fast with the one Mary had thrown her, lifting the sufferer's head as she did this, and holding one of his broad shoulders against her knee, while her nimble fingers deftly tied the knots.
Scarcely had she finished when she was startled, but no less relieved, to hear a long, quivering sigh come from his lips; and her color deepened as she looked into his face and met his opening eyes gazing wonderingly into her own. Then they wandered over her bared neck and throat, only to return to her eyes, dwelling there with a look that made her voice tremble as she said, "We are sorry you are hurt, sir; I hope it is nothing serious."
He made no reply, and, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Do you feel able to stand on your feet?"
Still he did not answer, but gave her that same intent, questioning look, as if gazing through and beyond the depths of the eyes above him.
As she stammeringly repeated her inquiry, he sighed heavily, and seemed to shake his dreaming senses awake, for, raising himself a little, he passed his shapely brown hand over his bandaged head, and laughed, albeit not very mirthfully.
"The other fair young dame must be rejoiced at my mishap," he said, "but—I thank you for your care. I seem to have done something to my head, for it feels like a burning coal." And he touched the bandage over the wound.
"It is the salt water, getting into the cut," Dorothy explained, as he rose slowly and stood before her. "I am very sorry it is so painful; but it will stop the bleeding."
"As it was you who placed it there, I like it to burn," he said in a tone to reach her ears alone. "But I'll not forget, even when the pain ceases." And he looked down into her face in a way that made her eyes droop.
"I regret very much, sir, that you were injured," said Mary Broughton, her voice coming from over his head.
He glanced up at her and bowed mockingly. Then stooping to regain his hat, he said, bending his eyes on Dorothy, "Tell me the name I am to remember you by."
She did not answer; and he stood looking at her as though awaiting her pleasure.
"That can be no matter," she said at last, and in a very low voice.
"Ah, but it is—a very great matter," he exclaimed eagerly, laying a hand on her arm, as she turned away to climb up to the cavern.
Some inward force seemed to be impelling her, and scarcely aware of what she was saying, she murmured her own name, and he repeated it after her.
This brought a still deeper color to her cheeks; but as if remembering all she had so strangely forgotten in the presence of this enemy of her country, she pushed away his detaining hand, and passed quickly up the rocks to where Mary was standing.
The young man said nothing more, but looked up at the two; then lifting his hat, he turned and walked slowly away.
He had scarcely gone when the two girls made haste to leave the cave and return to the house.
"'T is most unfortunate for us, Dot, that he found the cave, or that all this should befall," said Mary, as they went down the rocks. "You know what we have to do to-night; and it may make our work dangerous, now that he has been here."
A soft whistle interrupted Dorothy's reply; and looking up, they saw the lean visage of Johnnie Strings, who was perched upon the rocks above the cave they had just left.
Having attracted their attention, the pedler made haste to join them.
"Well, I snum!" he exclaimed. "Mistress Mary, whatever was the Britisher seekin' about here, an' talkin' about? What ailed his head, all tied up, like 't was hurt?"
"He said he heard us talking, and came to see who it was," small 'Bitha took it upon herself to explain, "and Mary Broughton pushed him down the rocks."
Johnnie began to laugh, but Dorothy turned to the child and said, "'Bitha, you know that it is not true, for he stepped backward himself, and fell over."
"Yes; but 't was Mary made him," 'Bitha insisted. "And, 'though I was sorry to have him hurt, I was glad Mary made him go away."
"Were you there all the time, Johnnie Strings, and never came nigh to help us?" demanded Mary, indignantly. They were now walking along together, for Johnnie seemed inclined to accompany them to the house.
"Nay, nay, mistress," he declared emphatically, but still grinning, as though vastly pleased. "But I should say ye needed no help from me to frighten away redcoats. I only came up as I heard Mistress Dorothy say you'd made him fall into the water. Then I sat an' watched her tie up his head,—more 's the pity; for belike he'll only use it to hatch more deviltry for his soldiers to carry out hereabouts."
"Do you know who he is?" inquired Dorothy, her face taking on a little more color.
"Yes, mistress,—he is a dragoon. I saw him over at Salem t' other day. They call him Cornet Southorn; an' I only hope he don't get to know my face too well." Johnnie winked as he said this, and his voice had a note of mystery.
"I don't believe he would ever harm us," said Dorothy, paying no attention to the pedler's anxiety concerning himself.
Johnnie's eyes fastened upon her glowing face with a look of surprise as he remarked grimly, "He's a Britisher, an' our sworn enemy."
On the porch of the house they found Joseph Devereux, who listened with frowning brows while the girls told him of their adventure.
"Go within, child, to the grandame," he bade 'Bitha, when they had finished; and as soon as she was gone he said to the pedler, "Now, Strings, you may, or may not, know aught o' the work in hand for the night."
The pedler nodded understandingly. "Me an' Lavinia Amelia jogged a bit o' the mornin' down road with the party from here, an' I was reckonin' to offer my help, should it be needed. I was on my way this very mornin' to tell ye that Master Broughton an' the rest thought I'd better have some of our own men 'round hereabouts, handy for the powder party to-night."
"'T is best that you do so, as matters have turned out. And 't is wiser that you be trusted to give the signals to the 'Pearl,' for a safe landing o' the stuff, and that Mary and Dorothy be left out o' the matter altogether. 'T is no work for women to risk, with the British soldiery skulking about the place."
The day passed without event, save that a number of men—mostly brawny, weather-beaten sailors—came to the house, to go away again after a private converse with Joseph Devereux.
Johnnie Strings was about the place all day,—now wandering down to the beach to look out over the wide expanse of ocean, as he whittled unceasingly at a bit of stick and whistled softly to himself, or else sitting on the steps of the porch, telling wonderful stories to 'Bitha. But wherever he was, or what doing, his keen little eyes were always roving here and there, as though on the lookout for something unexpected.
It was evident that he was nervous and ill at ease; and this, for Johnnie Strings, was a new thing.
Toward sunset he arose from the porch steps and gave a great sigh, as of relief that the day was ended. Then, without a word to any one, he tramped off in the direction of the Neck.
"'T is as well," he muttered to himself, "to see what the devils be doin', an' if they be like to suspect what is goin' on about 'em."
The sunset was of marvellous beauty. It was as if all the golds, purples, and scarlets of the hour had been pounded to a fine dust, and this was rolling in from over the ocean in one great opaline mist.
The waves, curling in to break upon the sands of Riverhead Beach, seemed to be pouring out flames and sparks; while the quieter waters of Great Bay, on the other side of the causeway, looked as though shot through with long, luminous rays of light, that slanted athwart the mists of prismatic coloring, to withdraw swiftly now and again, like search-lights seeking to probe the clear water to its uttermost depths.
But the far-off eastern horizon held aloof from all this glory. It stood out like a wall of pearl and cold gray, with no sail showing against it to Johnnie Strings' sharp eyes, as he took his way across the narrow strip of causeway that left the Devereux estate behind, and led to the Neck and the enemy's camp.
The pedler knew nothing of the passion called love, else he would never have been so lacking in shrewdness as to formulate the scheme now working in his mind. And this, notwithstanding the suspicion that had shot through his wide-awake brain at the way he had seen Cornet Southorn looking into the downcast face of Dorothy Devereux, and had noted later her words in his defence.
His present idea—and one that had been gathering force all day—was to see the young officer, and while pretending to have come solely to inquire as to his injury, to so lead the talk as to impress upon his mind the needlessness of watching the Devereux place or household, which he should be made to understand consisted only of the women-folk and one enfeebled old gentleman,—the son being away in Boston.
And now, as he neared the enemy's quarters, he chuckled to himself at the cleverness of his scheme.
The British troops had taken possession of the entire Neck, occupying several large warehouses standing near the end, and appropriating even the buildings used by the lighthouse-keeper and his wife, who, with her two children and as many of her most precious possessions as she could carry, had gone across the bay to abide with friends in the town.
Johnnie Strings knew this, and gritted his teeth in silent rage as he saw a group of redcoats standing around a fire where they were cooking some of the good woman's chickens for their evening meal.
They hailed him good-naturedly, and invited him to join them, several of the soldiers recognizing him as one from whom they had purchased certain things necessary for their comfort.
But he declined their offer, and pulling his hat well over his forehead, the better to conceal his features, went on beyond to another group, and demanded to be taken to the presence of Cornet Southorn, speaking in a way to imply that he had an important message for that officer.
He was ushered at once into the front room of the lighthouse-keeper's abode, where, upon a settle drawn near the window overlooking Great Bay, sat the personage he desired to see.
The young man's head was still bandaged, and the table before him with food and dishes upon it was evidence of his having supped alone; this confirming what Johnnie Strings had suspected,—that the soldiers upon the Neck were at present under the charge of Cornet Southorn.
Captain Shandon, who should have been there,—an elegant fop, high in favor with the Governor,—was sure to avoid any rough service, such as this, preferring to remain until the last moment in Salem, where better fare, both as to food and wines, to say naught of the gentler sex, was to be had.
Johnnie Strings stood in the shadow, without removing his hat, as Cornet Southorn demanded pleasantly enough to know his business.
"I came to see how your head was doin' at this hour o' the day, young sir," the pedler answered in an obsequious tone.
As the last two words came from his lips, the officer scowled. He was only five-and-twenty, and looked still younger; and he was boyish enough to resent any familiarity grounded upon his seeming youth.
"Have a care, old man, as to how you address His Majesty's officers," he said with some severity, accompanied by a pompousness illy in keeping with his frank, boyish face.
"I meant no harm, Cornet Southorn," the pedler replied in an apologetic way. "I saw ye over at Salem t' other day, when I was peddlin' my wares there; an' I've been all day at the house o' Mistress Dorothy Devereux, the young lady who tied up your hurt head this mornin'. And so"—here Johnnie smiled knowingly—"I came to see if ye were any the worse for your fall, which might have been a bit o' bad luck, had not the ledge caught ye an' held ye from slippin' into the sea."
The young man's manner changed at once.
"Did Mistress Dorothy Devereux send you to inquire?" he asked eagerly.
"She send me?" said the pedler cautiously, and lowering his voice. "Lawks! 't is well her old father don't hear ye; 'though sure he be that feeble he's good for little but tongue fight, an' the only son be away to Boston for this many a day. An' that," he went on to say quickly, seeing that the young man was about to speak, "is one reason why 't is well for me to be about the place till the brother cares to come home, with all those women-folk there, an' no man but the old father, who is feeble, as I've said. An' 't is not very safe for them, who be easily frighted by strange men comin' 'round, 'specially soldiers."
This was a long speech for Johnnie to make, and he watched narrowly its effect upon the young officer. This was soon apparent, for he said at once, "You have done well to tell me of this, and I'll see to it that none of my men cause any annoyance to the ladies."
He fell so neatly into the trap that Johnnie Strings could scarcely keep from laughing outright; but all he said was—and very meekly: "Ye be most kind, sir, an' I'll tell Mistress Dorothy what ye say. An' I'll tell her as well that your head be none the worse for its thumpin' on the rocks." With this he backed toward the door.
"No, no," said Southorn, "my head is all right. But come back, won't you,—come and have something to drink before you go?" And he pounded vigorously on the table.
But Johnnie declined, with many thanks, asserting that he never drank anything,—a statement fully in accord with his fictitious story concerning the Devereux household. But he reckoned upon having accomplished his purpose, and so bowed himself out, just as a red-faced orderly appeared in response to his officer's summons.
"Never mind, Kief," said the latter, as the soldier stood stiffly in the doorway awaiting his orders. "I don't need you now." Then, as the man saluted and turned to go, he asked, "Who is that fellow who just left? Do you know?"
"Johnnie Strings, sir, the pedler; 'most everybody knows 'im 'twixt Boston town and Gloucester."
"Ah, yes, I've heard of him before. That is all, Kief; you may go."
As soon as he was alone, Kyrle Southorn, Cornet in His Majesty's Dragoons, bethought himself of how strangely lacking he had been in proper dignity during his brief interview with this humble pedler; and a feeling of sharp anger beset him for a moment as he took himself to task for his unofficerlike demeanor and manner of speech.
Then came a mental picture of the distracting face he had seen that same morning; he seemed to be looking once more into the girl's eyes, and feeling the soft touch of her little hands about his head.
He recalled all this, and gave utterance to a queer, short laugh, as though in the effort to excuse his folly.
"Either that girl has bewitched me," he muttered, lying back in his chair, "or else the cut in my head has been making me addlepated all day." And he let his gaze wander out through the window, where the dusk was coming fast, blotting out the fort and town like a dark veil, pierced here and there by the dimly twinkling lights showing from the houses.
"I wonder if she sent the fellow?" his thoughts ran on. "She told me she was sorry for my being hurt, and she looked it. But the other—the fair one—she was a tartar." And he laughed again at the recollection of Mary Broughton's angry blue eyes and dauntless bearing.
"From what I've seen of these folk," he said, now half aloud, "it will be no easy matter to suppress their meetings and make them obey His Majesty's laws. They seem not to know what fear or submission may mean." Then, after pondering a few minutes, "I wonder if it would not be a wise thing for me to call upon this man Devereux, as he is so old and feeble, and assure him and his women-folk that I will see to it they be not molested—annoyed in any way? I might see her again,—I might come to know her; and this would be very pleasant." And now his thoughts trailed away into rosy musings.
If Johnnie Strings had not added fresh fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of the impetuous young Englishman by Dorothy's sweet face and pitying eyes,—had he not made it burn more fiercely by giving him reason to believe that she had sent to inquire for his welfare,—he might not have thought to carry out his present impulse.
He was seized by a strong desire to see for himself the place where she dwelt,—to look upon her surroundings,—to make more perfect the picture already in his mind, by adding to it the scenes amid which her daily life was passed.
Such was the young man's desire; and his was a nature whose longing was likely to manifest itself by acts, and more especially now, in the very first heart affair of his life.
As soon as the guards were posted and the countersign given out, he discarded his uniform for a fisherman's rough coat, and put on a large slouch hat, which covered his head, bandage and all. And thus attired, he set forth alone to visit the scene of his morning's adventure, and to investigate its surroundings.
The night was clear, bright, and starlit, with not a wreath of vapor drifting. The rising wind moaned through the woods about the Devereux homestead, that loomed, a dark mass, and silent as a deserted house.
From the shore below came the hoarse roar of the tumbling water, to mingle with the wailing murmur of the wind; and now and then could be heard, clear-cut and eerie, the cry of a screech-owl from the woods.
As evening closed in, Joseph Devereux had ordered that no lights be shown about the house, lest they might attract the attention of any straggling soldiers; and he felt assured that this warning would be sufficient to intimidate the women into the greatest caution.
As for the men, they were all, even old Leet, out with the party watching at the "Black Hole,"—a bit of the sea shut in by a wood that bordered a wide sweep of meadow known as the "Raccoon Lot." It was here that the expected powder and arms were to be concealed by burying them in the earth, after being wrapped in oilskin coverings.
Johnnie Strings had gone alone to the Sachem's Cave, ready to give the signal.
The cave was somewhat farther down the shore, and a light shown above it could be plainly seen from the open sea.
The rising wind piped softly about the closed window where Mary Broughton was sitting in the starlight, absorbed in her own anxious thoughts, until aroused by something unusual in Dorothy's appearance and manner of moving about. The girl was at the farther side of the unlit room, and Mary asked her what she was doing.
A low laugh was the only answer; and upon the question being repeated, Dorothy came to the window, and Mary saw that she was clad in a complete suit of boy's clothes.
The unexpected transition was so startling that for a moment she could not speak, but sat looking at Dorothy in amazement.
"Oh, Dot," she then exclaimed, "you should take shame to yourself for doing such a thing!"
She could see, even in the gloom, the wilful toss of Dorothy's head, whose curls were let down and tied back with a ribbon, thus completing the masculine disguise.
"Whatever are you thinking about, to play such pranks at a time like this?" Mary demanded reproachfully.
"That is just it, Mary," Dorothy replied. She seemed in no wise abashed, but spoke with perfect seriousness. "I do it because of the time, and of what is going to happen to-night. Father said 't was not safe for us to go abroad, because we wore petticoats. Now here is this old suit Jack outgrew years ago, and I've always kept it to masquerade in; but to-night it will serve me in a more serious matter. I cannot stop in the house; I am too anxious about Jack. I want to see him and the others get ashore in safety; and I've no fear but, dressed in this way, it will be easy for me to do so."
"But you must not," Mary protested. "How can you dare to think of such a thing? Suppose some of the men should recognize you,—and they will be keeping a sharp lookout for strangers—what would your father say?" And she began to have thoughts of seeing him, and so frustrating this wild scheme.
"I tell you I must go, and will go, Mary; so do not try to prevent me. I know every inch of ground hereabouts, and can easily keep out of the way, even should any one try to hinder me. Why will you not go with me?"
Dorothy spoke quietly, but very earnestly; and as she finished, she placed both her hands on Mary's shoulders, as though to compel her consent.
Mary hesitated. There was in her own heart a like desire to that of the younger girl; she, too, wished to get out of doors, and see all that should take place. But she held herself to be more prudent than the impulsive Dorothy, and so for a time she demurred with her inclination.
But it was only for a time. Dorothy's impetuous arguments fairly swept her off her balance, as usually happened with any one who was fond of the girl; and Mary agreed to be her companion.
It was some minutes after this when the two stole noiselessly down the back stairway and let themselves out of the door opening toward the sheds at the rear of the house. As Dorothy locked it on the outside and put the key in her pocket, she whispered: "We might have bribed Tyntie to let us out, but 't is as well not to risk getting her into trouble. I shall tell father all about it to-morrow, and I know of a certainty he'll not be angry. To be sure, he may scold me a little; but"—with a low laugh—"I can soon kiss him into good humor again."
"Don't you think, Dot, it is rather of a shame,—the way you do things, and then tell your father afterwards?" Mary asked as they walked along.
"Assuredly not," was the ready answer, "else I might not get so many chances to 'do things,' as you call it. I never do aught that is really wrong; I love my father far too dearly for that. But I am young, and he is old; and that, I suppose, is why we do not think alike about all matters. He has often said I ought to have been a boy, and I agree with him; though I dare say I shall be a proper enough old maid some day. Only," with a laugh, "I cannot quite imagine such a thing."
"No," said Mary, looking into Dorothy's eyes, bright as the stars that were now being shut away by the branches of the trees in the woods they were entering; "no—nor I. But we'd best stop our chattering and use our eyes and ears. Heavens! what's that?" And she clutched Dot's arm in sudden fright as a wild cry rang out directly over their heads.
"Pooh!" said Dorothy, with a laugh, "'t is but an old hoot-owl. If you'd been in the woods as much as I, you'd not be frightened so easily."
They came to a halt at the edge of the timber growth overlooking the rock peak above the Sachem's Cave, and crouched among the bushes to watch for the light, keeping a lookout as well upon the sea, for the first signal from the ship.
And there they remained, listening to the incessant crying of the insects in the grass and the rustling of the wind in the trees overhead, these being mingled with the never-ceasing sound of the sea, as the breakers of the incoming tide flung themselves against the boulders with a quavering roar that seemed to pulse the air like great heart-throbs.
Presently Mary whispered, "Why not let us go and stop beside Johnnie Strings?" Then quickly, "Oh, I forgot—the way you are dressed would make it imprudent."
"I should not care very much for Johnnie Strings," Dorothy began; but Mary said hastily,—
"Oh, no, Dot, 'twould never do."
A long silence ensued, broken at length by Mary saying in a tone of alarm, "Oh, Dot, whatever would we do, if your father went to speak to you for somewhat, and should not find us in the house at this late hour?"
"No fear of such a thing," was the confident reply. "He has made sure long since that I am abed and asleep."
It was half-past ten of the clock when the two girls left the house; and so they reckoned it must be now several minutes after the next hour.
"Suppose it should be far into the night before the ship comes in sight," Mary suggested, for she was beginning to feel cramped and uncomfortable. "Let's not wait for so long a time as that."
"No, we will not," Dorothy assented with a yawn. But the next moment she was all alive, with her small fingers holding Mary's arm in a tight clutch as she whispered excitedly: "Look, Mary—there it is! There was one light, and 't is gone. Now there are the two; and there comes the third, as Jack said."
The girls arose and stood erect in eager interest, looking out over the water, where, several hundred yards from shore, the lights gleamed and then disappeared. And now their eyes, accustomed to the gloom, discerned a slim blackness, as of a man's form, appear on the highest point of rocks above the cave; and then a soft glow of tremulous light illumined the darkness.
While they watched this, they were startled to see a taller figure spring from the shadows, and a second later the two seemed to melt into one enlarged blur, as if they were struggling.
Quick as thought the boyish form beside Mary broke from the bushes and sped with flying steps toward the peak.
"Dot—Dot—come back!" cried Mary, regardless now of who might hear her. "Whatever are you thinking to do?"
A low but clear reply came to her from over Dorothy's shoulder.
"The lanterns—they must be put out, else Jack may be hurt!"
On, on, she flew, with no fear of the peril into which she might be rushing,—with no heed of her unmaidenly garb. Her mind held but the one thought,—that the lanterns must be extinguished, for danger threatened her brother and his companions if they should seek to land unwarned.
So absorbed were the men in their fierce wrestling that neither of them saw nor heard the slight figure that came straight up to them, and then, dashing at the lanterns, sent them flying into the water beneath.
Then the larger of the two, catching sight of the intruder, relaxed his hold on the other; and Johnnie Strings, with a derisive whoop, twisted his wiry little body from the slackened grip and sped down the rocks and away into the night.
"You young rascal, what does all this mean?" demanded Southorn, for he it was; and seizing the boyish shoulder firmly, he shook the slender form.
Dorothy, although greatly overcome by agitation now that her brave deed was accomplished, thought she recognized the voice that addressed her so roughly, and was silent from embarrassment.
"Are you dumb?" the Englishman asked angrily, shaking her again. "Speak up, you young rebel, or I may try what a salt-water bath will do for the unlocking of your stubborn tongue."
"Stop shaking me, you great—brute," Dorothy gasped indignantly. "Have you no—manners?"
At sound of the soft-toned voice, Southorn seemed to feel that he was dealing with no yokel, as he had supposed; and now, peering closely, he saw that the head of his prisoner was finely shaped, and the features refined and delicate.
"If you object to rough treatment, my young friend," he said a little more gently, "you should not put your nose into such doings as these." But he still kept a firm hold of the arm and shoulder, as though to stifle any idea of escape.
"I should say 't was you who deserved rough usage,—coming onto my father's land at this hour, and putting your nose into business that can in no wise concern you." Dorothy had by this time fully recovered her composure, and being certain as to the completeness of her disguise, spoke with saucy assurance.
"Your father's land!" exclaimed the young man, in evident surprise. "Pray, who is your father?"
"A gentleman who has no great taste for stranger folk prowling about his estate." She gave her arm and shoulder a slight twitch, as though to loosen them from his hold. But this he would not have, although his voice had a still milder sound as he asked, "Is your name Devereux?"
"And whether it is or not," she answered, "pray tell me what matters it to you?"
"It matters this to me," he said quickly: "that if it is, then I'll let you off, and will go on my way, although I don't quite like the looks of the doings I've seen on this rock, and out there on the water."
"By the Holy Poker!" Dorothy exclaimed, bent upon keeping up the part she had assumed. "But you talk as if you were the Lord High Cockalorum himself! Who are you, to say what you do and do not like here, on my father's premises?"
"Never mind who I am. Perhaps I can make more trouble for your father and his household than you are able to understand. But answer what I have asked, and you'll not be sorry."
Dorothy could not fail to note the earnestness with which he spoke, nor the intent look she felt rather than saw in the dim light. But she met all this with a mocking air and tone as she said, "Since you make it so worth my while to be kind to my neighbors, how know you but I might see fit to tell you an untruth, and say my name was Devereux, when it may be Robinson, or anything else?"
"If this is your father's estate, then your name must be Devereux," Southorn asserted; "for the place is owned by one Joseph Devereux, as I have been told. So there's an end to your telling me anything misleading. And now answer me this,—know you the one who is called Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"
Dot waited a moment before answering. A new scheme had sprung into her quick-witted brain,—one that promised an effective means of getting rid of his embarrassing presence, this being likely to interfere seriously with the landing of the arms and powder, were that still in contemplation.
She was wondering, too, what had become of Mary Broughton, and what she was doing all this time.
"Answer me," the young Britisher repeated sharply, "do you know her?" And he gave a shake to the arm he still held.
"You seem over-fond of shaking folk, sir," she remonstrated. "I wish you'd let go my arm." And she pulled it impatiently.
"I will let it go at once, if you'll only tell me what I wish to know."
"And what may that be?" she asked, with an innocentsang-froidthat plainly angered him.
"You are a saucy boy," he said impatiently. "You remember well enough what I asked you. Do you know Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"
"Aye," was the quick reply; "I know her as well as you know your own face that you see in the glass every day." She stood rubbing the arm he had now released, and upon which his grip had been unpleasantly firm.
"Ah—then she is your sister." He had moved so as to stand directly in front of the slight figure, whose head reached but half-way up his own broad chest.
She looked at him for a second and then burst into laughter.
"I know you now," she said. "You must be the Britisher she told of this morning,—the one who came here, and whom Mary Broughton frightened so badly that he fell over and cut his head." And again the mocking laugh came from her ready lips.
"I don't believe your sister told you any such untruth," said the irritated young man. "I missed my footing, and fell; that was all. I meant no rudeness, although the lady you name—Mary Broughton, did you call her?—seemed not to believe me."
"Mary has but little taste for a redcoat," was the dry retort.
"And judging from your own tone, you share her taste," he said, now quite good-naturedly, for he found himself taking a strong liking to this bright, free-speaking lad.
"I? Oh, I don't know," was the careless answer. "Do you not think I am somewhat too young to have much of an opinion upon such matters?"
He smiled, but without replying. Then Dot came closer to him and said in a low voice, "At any rate, I am good-natured enough to say I can show you something that you, being His Majesty's officer, had best know about."
"What is it?" the young man asked. He was now looking around for his hat, which, together with the bandage about his head, had fallen off during his struggle with the pedler.
Dorothy's sharp eyes were the first to catch sight of these; and she picked them up and handed them to him, noting with an odd feeling that he placed the bandage inside his coat and over his heart.
"It is something you may or may not care to see," she replied. "Only I'll warrant you'll be sorry if another reports it first; for I shall show it to the next Britisher who comes this way."
"Very well," he said; "let me see it."
Without further parley, and suspecting a nest of concealed firearms, or something of the like, he followed her down the rocks, going with slow caution, while she went more rapidly and soon stood below, waiting for him. And then, side by side, they set off inland.
Dorothy, skirting as closely as was prudent the woods where she reckoned Mary was still hiding, took care to remark to her companion, in a voice loud enough to reach her friend's ears, that it would not take over ten minutes to reach their destination, and that then he had best go his own way.