Mary Broughton was where Dorothy suspected her to be; and standing well back among the deeper shadows, she had been straining her eyes to see all that took place on the rocky platform above the cave.
She marvelled greatly at the lengthy converse Dorothy seemed to be holding with the stranger, after Johnnie Strings disappeared over the side of the rocks in the direction of Riverhead Beach; and she had started out of the wood, half determined to go and meet the younger girl, when she saw her leaving the peak.
A prudent afterthought led her to draw back again when she saw the two forms swallowed up in the deeper darkness lying at the base of the rocks. Then, hearing steps coming toward her hiding-place, she was on the point of calling out, when Dorothy's words came to her ears, and she remained silent, but still wondering what scheme her friend was pursuing, and who was the stranger with whom she seemed to be upon such excellent terms.
Then came the impulse that she had better find her way to the Black Hole, and tell the waiting party of what had happened; and acting upon this, she set out at once.
She had not gone very far when there came to her the sound of tramping feet; and hastening to get out of the more open part of the wood, she drew aside amongst the denser growth.
She now heard a low-pitched voice singing a snatch of an old song, trolling it off in a rollicking fashion that bespoke the youth of the singer,—
"We hunters who follow the chase, the chase,Ride ever with care a race, a race.We care not, we reck not—"
Here the song was silenced by another voice which Mary recognized as that of Doak, an old fisherman, who growled: "Belay that 'ere pipin', Bait. Hev ye no sense, thet ye risk callin' down the reg'lars on us with such a roarin'?"
They were now quite near; and slipping out of the bushes, Mary called out, "Doak, is that you?"
"Who be it?" he demanded quickly, while all the other men came to a halt.
"It is I—Mary Broughton. Don't stop to question me, but listen to what I have to tell you."
She told them in the briefest possible way of what had happened. And in doing this, she deemed it wiser to tell them of Dorothy's disguise, being fearful of what might befall the girl should the men chance to meet her,—more especially as they would now be on the lookout for the stranger, who was doubtless an ill wisher to their scheme.
Doak chuckled mightily over it all, particularly at Mary's description of Dorothy kicking the lanterns off the rock; and several of the other men gave hoarse utterance to their admiration.
"Ev'ry natur' be fitted for its own app'inted work," remarked old Doak, dogmatically. "If Mistress Dorothy had not allers been darin', by the natur' o' things, she'd never a ketched holt o' the right rope so true an' quick as she hev this night,—God bless her!"
Here a younger voice broke in impatiently with, "But, Doak, we ought n't to stand here chatterin' like this."
"True, true, Tommy Harris," the old man replied good-naturedly. "But," turning to Mary, "what shall ye do, Mistress Mary? Hed n't ye best let one o' the boys tek ye to the house? Ye see we be goin' down to the shore to Master John an' the rest of 'em, as was 'greed we should as soon as we saw the 'Pearl' show her light."
Mary said she preferred to go with them. But the old man shook his head, and his companions began to move onward.
"D'ye think 'twould be wise, mistress?" he asked gravely. "Ye see we don't know jest what sort o' work we may find cut out for us,—'specially if the man ye saw throttlin' Johnnie Strings were a British spy, as belike he were, pretty sure." Then he added impatiently, "I wonder where in tarnation Johnnie hev gone to, thet he did n't cut back to tell us?"
"And I am wondering where Dorothy has gone," said Mary, with much anxiety.
"I rather guess ye need hev no fear for her, mistress," Doak made haste to reply. "She be wide awake, I'll bet my head, where'er she be."
"But it seems so strange a thing that she should go off in such fashion," Mary said, by no means satisfied with the old man's confident words.
"She went 'cause she wanted to go; an' she wanted to go 'cause she saw work cut out to do, I warrant ye," declared Doak, with whom the girl had always been a great favorite, since the days he used to take her and Mary Broughton on fishing excursions in his boat. "But as to ye, mistress—"
"It is this way, Doak," she said, interrupting him: "you see I cannot get into the house until I find Dorothy; for she has the key of the only door by which I could enter, except I disturbed every one."
"If ye did thet, Mistress Mary, the father would find out all 'bout the prankin', eh?" And he chuckled knowingly.
"And so 't is best," she went on, paying no attention to him, "that I go along with you until we can see Master John; and he will know what to do."
"Very well, Mistress Mary," Doak said; "come 'long o' me, an' 't will go hard with any man as seeks to molest ye,—though, from what Johnnie Strings told me o' what ye did to the spyin' Britisher this mornin'—"
Here he stopped short, both in speech and walking,—for they had been hurrying to overtake the others, now well in advance—and slapping his thigh, exclaimed: "I hev it, I hev it! What a blind old fool I be, not to hev thought o' thet afore! 'T were sure to be the same devil, or some one he sent, thet ye saw fightin' with Johnnie Strings."
"Do you think so?" asked Mary, surprised that the thought had not occurred to her before. "Whatever should make him come back there at this hour of the night?"
"Spyin', mistress, spyin', as 't is the only business he an' his soldiers be sent down to do hereabouts. Who can say how many of 'em be lyin' 'round this minute, to jump on us?"
Mary glanced about apprehensively, and moved a little closer to the sturdy fisherman's side.
They were now out of the woods, and could discern vaguely in the open field before them the dark forms grouped near the shore, awaiting some signal or sign that might bespeak the expected boats.
Mary and Doak joined the others, and they all stood in silence, watching the black water, now streaked with a narrow bar of sullen red from the eastern sky, where, out of a wild-looking cloud-bank, the moon was just lifting a full, clear disk.
"Can ye see aught?" muttered one stalwart fellow to his nearest neighbor,—the two standing near Mary and old Doak.
"Not I," was the low reply. "Mayhap they won't come at all now, since seein' the lanterns go out."
"Whate'er be ye thinkin' on?" chimed in Doak. "Cap'n Brattle hev brought the stuff down, fast 'nough; an' he won't be for carryin' it over to Salem, under the Gov'nor's nose. 'T is to be brought here; an' here, an' nowhere else, hev they got to land it. They'll only be more on the lookout now—thet's all. They know us to be here, an' all they hev to do be to get to us. An' get to us they will, 'though the meadow be grass-grown with redcoats, an' the King hisself 'mongst 'em."
"D—n the King and all his redcoats!" came hoarsely from another man; and then the talk was stopped by a faint sound from the water.
Doak commanded the men to keep perfectly silent, for only the keenest alertness could catch what the wind now brought to them. It was the faintest imaginable noise of working oars; and it sent a shudder, like a great sigh, through the waiting group.
Mary Broughton felt her pulses thrill as the sound became more distinct; and she glanced nervously about, and back of her,—at the dark woods on the one hand, the frowning rock-piles on the other, and at the sweep of clear meadows in the rear.
"Draw aside, Mistress Mary, do ye now, please," Doak urged, laying his hand upon her arm. "Get over there close by the rocks. For if so be there comes any surprise from the Britishers, 'twill surely be from the back of us, here; an' in such case ye'll be safe an' clear from 'em, or from flyin' bullets, if ye get behind the rocks."
She felt the wisdom of this advice, and silently complied, while he went forward to the men, now drawn down close to the water's edge.
The next moment he sent a likely-to-be-understood signal out over the water. It was the curlew's cry, which he imitated perfectly; and while it rang out softly, it was clear and penetrating.
There was a second of silence, save for the wind, and the rippling of the waves upon the shingle; then came a like cry from out the darkness, and seeming nearer than had the sound of the oars.
"Now, then, lads, face 'bout, an' watch afore ye!" Doak commanded, his voice now strong with excitement; and pushing through them until he reached the very edge of the water, he sent back another call,—loud, clear, and fearless in its sound.
The other men, with faces turned inland, stood with listening ears and keen eyes, each gripping his gun, ready to repel the onslaught of any lurking enemy that might be awaiting a favorable moment to swoop down upon them.
Following close upon Doak's second call there came the unmistakable sound of rapidly working oars. Then a sizable lump of dark shadow showed, speeding toward the beach, and soon defining its shape into that of a large rowboat.
Crouched closely against the rocks, and listening with checked breathing, Mary Broughton almost cried aloud as a step startled her. Then looking intently at the form drawing near, she recognized it, and said quickly, with a deep sigh of relief, "Oh, Dorothy!"
"Yes, Mary—is that you?" The speaker came closer and asked eagerly, "Are those our own men down there on the shore, and was it the boat they were signalling with the curlew's cry?"
"Yes, and the boat is nigh in. But whatever have you been up to, Dot, and who was the man you went off with, and where is he now?"
To this fusillade of questions Dorothy only replied with a laugh. Then she asked in turn, "Where is Johnnie Strings?"
"No one knows," Mary answered. "'T is old Doak down there with the men." And she added with a little impatience, "But why don't you tell me, Dot—what has become of that man?"
Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged, instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It was the Britisher, Mary,—the same one who gave us such a turn this morning. He mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance to lead him away by the nose."
"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this, and what have you done with him?"
"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the ten-acre lot, and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should manage to break the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for Trent has the key; but I should think the bar was strong enough to hold the door—at least until the arms be safely landed and stowed away."
"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to make any present comment upon Dot's exploit.
"Yes, all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told me that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not inspect more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he admitted were not to his liking."
"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."
"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out—that you were a girl masquerading in boy's apparel?"
"Not he," with another laugh. "And I trust he never will, after the hoydenish manner of speech I thought it best to use in keeping up my character. He took me for a young brother of Mistress Dorothy Devereux, I tell you."
"Yes," Mary said musingly, as if to herself, "and I pray no harm may come of it."
"Harm!" Dorothy exclaimed, quick in her own justification. "What harm can come of it? I take it as a most lucky thing that I was able to get him out of the way. Had I not done so, then you might have had something to say about harm."
"He would have been taken prisoner by our men, had he stayed about here," Mary asserted confidently, "and would have been shot, had he made any disturbance. And that would have been just what he deserved." Her usually gentle voice sounded unnaturally hard.
"Oh, Mary," her friend cried, regardless of who might be within hearing, "how can you speak so harshly—and he such a handsome young gallant?"
"What is it to us, whether he be handsome or ill-favored?" was Mary's sharp retort. "What interest have you in him?"
"I should be sorry if he were hurt." And Dorothy's tone was almost tender by comparison with that of her companion.
"Shame on you, Dot!" Mary said in a low voice, but quite fiercely. "How can you talk so, and he a hateful Britisher?"
But before Dorothy could reply, the sound of a boat's keel grating on the sand turned their thoughts to different matters.
"They are in!" exclaimed Dot, exultantly. "And safe!"
"Aye—safe so far," Mary murmured. She was still uncomfortable, and suspicious of some danger lurking in the darkness about them.
The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the two girls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the group in a way to make all their movements visible.
"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come here to me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house." And Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.
A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which were well wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" were waiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.
Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it, in a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.
Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway, dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to the open sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boats and report the recent occurrence.
This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing among the men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to be told, while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.
So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that he did not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her low voice he turned quickly and came toward her.
There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his face as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the curling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she had never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint light giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his voice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shore his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed more tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she felt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could hear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent his head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world see me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you surely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at once, is whether my love is returned."
Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,—just behind these rocks; come and speak to her first."
"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declared firmly. "I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent and blessing, if you will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me, Mary—sweetheart; tell me, do you love me well enough to be my wife?"
A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down on his arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked a long moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.
Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lips on hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the few yards to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.
John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I thought she was here."
"Iamhere, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; and Mary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told her that her own precious secret was known.
"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, giving her the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that Johnnie Strings had told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks, as indeed the pedler supposed to be the fact.
"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can do it just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house. But before I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked in the new shed, in the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms are safe, you had best get him out."
"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.
"I did," was the answer.
"You, Dot—what for?"
"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know. Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will release him as soon as you unfasten the door."
"Who is he—do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly as his sister would have liked.
"He is a redcoat,—one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck," said Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came upon Dot and me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowling about the place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, and caused Dot to put out the signal-lights."
Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignant at Dorothy's apparent lack of what she herself considered to be a proper view of the affair.
"Aha," muttered her lover, his voice full of sharp suspicion. "Did this man hold much converse with you this morning, Mary?"
"No, very little," she replied uneasily; and Dorothy added with a laugh,—
"I fancy he had a bit more than he enjoyed."
"Johnnie Strings told me of your frightening a Britisher so that he nearly tumbled into the sea," John said, speaking in an approving way. "And so this is the same fellow, is he? But how comes it, Dot, that you found the chance to lock him away?"
"'T is a long story," his sister replied, with a touch of petulance, "and Mary and I must get back to the house. Only,"—and her voice softened again—"won't you promise me, Jack, that you will not permit him to be injured? I could never sleep again if I thought I was the cause of any ill befalling him."
She was almost in tears; and knowing this, her brother hastened to say, "There, there, Dot! You've too tender a heart, child. But your mind may rest easy, for I myself will let the man out as soon as 't is prudent to do so. He shall go his way for this once, but I'll not promise as to what may befall should he see fit to repeat such a bit of business."
The moon was rising higher, and its light becoming clearer and more silvery. The boats were unloaded, and the sailors were pulling them back to the ship, when the girls saw Hugh Knollys coming toward them from the beach; and at sight of him they turned to flee.
"I must go to the house with you two, Mary;" and John Devereux laid a detaining hand upon her arm, bidding Dorothy wait a moment.
"No need for that," she said quickly, fearing that Hugh might accompany them; "we are not afraid."
But John called out to Knollys,—speaking very carefully, for it still seemed as though each rock or bush might be concealing a spying enemy—asking him to go to the Black Hole in charge of the men, as he himself must first hurry to the house, to rejoin them later.
Hugh turned back, and the three took their way through the woods, Dorothy keeping ahead and the others walking closely together just behind her.
"Mary," John said presently, and his voice was tremulous as a woman's, "I can scarcely believe it."
"Hush!" she whispered warningly.
But pressing her hand, he said, "Dot knows all about it." And he laughed softly, while Mary's cheeks burned, and she was silent.
Then he added: "You see, I have been under such a strain, so filled with anxious thoughts, that I well-nigh lost my senses when I landed on the beach, and knew you were near me, and heard your voice. Then, afterwards, I was so shocked by Dot's prank when I came upon her by the rocks, that it is just coming to me what the child has done. It was a brave deed; and but for her doing it, who can say what might have happened—brave little girl!"
The slight figure was too far ahead of their lagging footsteps to be reached by his words. Indeed they could not see her at all through the gloom of the woods, although they could hear now and again her light footfall, or the cracking of a twig as she stepped upon it.
"She thinks you are displeased with her prank," Mary said, "and I'm sure she feels very unhappy about it."
"She shall not feel so very long," he replied heartily.
They found her waiting for them at the back door of the house, ready to put the key into the lock. But before she could do this her brother put his arms about her and kissed her fondly.
"Brave little girl!" he whispered. "'T is you who have saved the arms and powder for the town."
To his amazement she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing and trembling like a child.
"Why, Dot, whatever is it?" he asked anxiously, lowering his voice so as not to arouse the inmates of the house.
"She is suffering from a reaction, I think," Mary said softly; "but it will soon pass away."
But Dorothy was of too dauntless a spirit for her brother to be content with this explanation; and holding her close in his arms, he went on assuring her that he was not displeased, but that she had done a brave act, and that every one would say the same if the news of it should get abroad.
"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, where you should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll go together and release your prisoner."
All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over his heart, quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as she said with a hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am making for Mary,—a big boy crying in your arms!"
"You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was opening the door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man."
"And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queried Mary Broughton, with dignified coquetry.
"Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already. And now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, he leaned over and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followed Dorothy into the house.
No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously through the pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs.
The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of each overlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reaching expanse of the sea.
Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, rooms were in the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those of Joseph Devereux were far to the front, and looked out directly upon the grounds and wooded land that ran down to the beach, where the water stretched away to the horizon.
They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with the moonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they needed no candle.
As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat to tell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, while the solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal.
"You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to so disconcert Mary that she said uneasily,—
"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."
At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's neck.
"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"
Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.
Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned face upon which the moonbeams were resting.
"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."
"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was crying once more.
"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."
"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I do or say."
"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherly fashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. And now," she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, this very minute. I want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."
With this she began tugging at the fastenings of the unfamiliar garments; and Dorothy, despite her tears, commenced to laugh, but in a nervous, unnatural way.
"Never mind," she said; "I will do all that, Mary, for I understand it better than you. And," straightening herself, "I'll stop crying. I never knew I could be such a fool."
Long after Mary was sleeping, Dorothy was still lying awake listening for her brother's return. She knew she would hear him, for his room was just across the hall, opposite her own.
As she nestled among the lavender-scented pillows, visions would keep coming to her of the handsome face she had seen that morning, and again that very night. The purple-hued eyes, edged so thickly with swart curling lashes, seemed to be looking into her own, as when she held his wounded head pillowed against her knee, while his voice yet thrilled in her ears as had never any man's before.
And then came the realization that this man was her country's avowed enemy,—a hated Britisher!
Her conscience smote her as she thought of the trick she had played him, recalling how trustingly he had entered the dark shed, and how silent he had been at first, when she slammed the door and shot the wooden bar across. Then how fiercely he had seemed to fling his broad shoulders against the door of his prison, making her fear that he would be able to come forth and visit his wrath upon the audacious young rebel who had served him such a trick.
But she could find some comfort in thinking of how she had stolen back, and called him by name, at which the blows became stilled; and of how she had then told him to have no fear for his safety, as in a short time he would be released, to go where he pleased.
Mary, did she but know all these thoughts, would be angry, and call her unfaithful to the cause. And Jack, and her father—what would her father say to her?
She had never in her life feared him. But now a quaking dread beset her as to what the morrow might bring from him of censure and displeasure. And at this she began to cry again—softly, but bitterly.
Whether the girl knew it or not, her nerves had by this time become strained to the uttermost; and sleep, the blessed healer that comes so readily to the young and healthful, was beginning to woo her away from all her troubles, when a slight noise startled her into new wakefulness.
Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heard him say something to their father, who was passing on toward his own apartments.
Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some wool slippers and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stole softly across the passage to her brother's room.
The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small hands to shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came to answer her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, and the rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, he drew her within the room and closed the door.
"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely make yourself ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavy silver candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsome face, now looking all the darker from contrast with his snowy linen—for he was in his shirt-sleeves.
He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her hands from before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child—what is troubling you?"
"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." And two great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the rounded cheeks, whose bloom was paler than he had ever seen it.
"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he asked gently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she did not speak. "I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you in tears; it hurts me."
"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't want to hurt you."
He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he said softly: "Is it that you are jealous of me, or of—Mary? Is it that you think I cannot love her and love you as well?"
"No, no! Oh, no! It is n't that, Jack. I know you love me, and will always, as long as I live—just as I love you. I am happy to have Mary for my own sister; but I—I—" And she broke down again.
"Now see here, little girl," he said, stroking the round white arm her fallen-back sleeve left bare; "don't fret in your heart about to-night, or whatever you may have done. It is never any use to worry over what is past and gone. 'T is not a maidenly act, Dot, for a girl to array herself in men's garments, and you must never do it again. But we must all admit that 't was a lucky thing you did it this night; and the help you rendered us far more than makes up for your own thoughtlessness. So you need fear no blame on account of it."
"Does father know?" she asked nervously.
"Not as yet; but I will tell him the whole story of your bravery, so he'll not misjudge you."
She raised her face and kissed him; then after a little hesitation she asked shyly, "And the Britisher I locked in the shed,—did you release him, as you said you would?"
Jack smiled down into the upturned face. "He was gone when Hugh and I got there; and the bar was wrenched off, sockets and all."
"He is strong," Dorothy said, a light coming to her eyes that her brother did not see; and she laughed softly.
"Well, had he the strength of Samson, he'd best take heed to himself how he comes prowling about my father's premises at unseemly hours."
He spoke with angry emphasis; and Dorothy was glad the two had not met.
The men of the house breakfasted at the usual hour next morning, and with them were only Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha, Mary Broughton and Dorothy being permitted to sleep until later, when 'Bitha, despatched by her grandmother, went to arouse them.
She first awoke Dorothy by kissing her; then she asked with childish solicitude, "Why do you lie abed so late, Cousin Dot,—are you ill?"
The big dark eyes gazed at the child in bewilderment, and then came a flash of recollection.
"Ill—no. Where is Mary, and why are you here, 'Bitha?"
"Mary is still asleep, and grandame sent me to wake both of you." Then she looked curiously at the carelessly heaped up masculine garb on a nearby chair, and asked, "Are those Cousin Jack's clothes, Dot, and why did he leave them here?"
Dorothy's color deepened. "Never mind, now, 'Bitha," she said hastily, "but go and awaken Mary; then run back to Aunt Lettice, and say we will be down directly. But stop—where is every one—have you breakfasted yet?"
The child laughed. "Long ago," she said. "Cousin Jack and Hugh Knollys have gone off to town on horseback, and Uncle Joseph is away on the farm somewhere."
Dorothy's movements were lacking in their usual youthful vitality as she moved listlessly about the room. She stood in front of her mahogany dressing-case, looking into the tipped-over mirror,—that only in this way could reflect the face and head surmounting her in no wise average height—and was brushing out the tangle of curly locks, when Mary Broughton came into the room, her hair hanging about her like a veil of gold, reaching almost to her knees.
"Good-morning, Dot," she said smilingly. "You were so quiet that I thought you were yet sleeping." And she turned to go back to her own apartment.
But Dorothy called out: "Don't go yet! Oh! Mary, do you know I am dreading so to go downstairs and meet my father. I wonder if he will be angry at what I did last night? He was never angry with me in all my life." And she turned her troubled eyes away from the glass, for which indeed she seemed to have little use, so slight was the note she was taking of the reflection it showed.
"I hope not," Mary replied, but her voice had a touch of doubt, "for he would surely be angry with me as well, for abetting you in what you did. But you remember what Jack said last night; would not your father take the same view of the matter?"
The color deepened in her cheeks as she spoke her lover's name; and this seemed to bring a new recollection to Dorothy.
"Oh, Mary," she cried, "I'd clean forgot, for the moment, all that has befallen." With this she rushed impetuously across the room and caught Mary about the neck. The latter blushed redder than before, while she laughingly disengaged Dorothy's arms. Then urging her to hurry and dress, she hastened back to her own room.
The two girls had finished breakfast and were out on the porch in front of the house, when the hearty tones of Joseph Devereux were heard within, asking Tamson, the red-cheeked housemaid, after her young mistress.
"Here I am, father," answered a low, agitated voice; and Dorothy stood before him, looking quite pale, and with eyes downcast.
"Come with me, my daughter," he commanded, and led the way into the library.
He closed the door after them, and seated himself, while Dorothy remained standing, her hands loosely clasped and her eyes still bent on the floor, her attitude being much like that of a culprit before a judge.
"Come here, child," and his voice was a trifle unsteady. "Why do you stand there and look so strangely?"
For answer, she sank upon her knees before him and laid her face in his lap; and a grateful thrill went through her as she felt his fingers stroking her curly head in his usual loving fashion.
"Ye madcap!" he exclaimed after a short silence. "Whatever possessed ye?"
"Oh, father, don't be angry with me!"
At this, he leaned over, and drawing her into his arms, lifted her to his knee.
"Angry with you, my little Dot!" he said. "My precious, brave little girl, how could I be that, except it were for your risking so carelessly the life that is so dear to my old heart?"
All the sternness of his face had given place to an expression of loving pride.
"One cannot censure an eagle, my baby," he went on,—"that it be not born a barnyard fowl or a weak pigeon. It would seem that a higher power than of poor mortality must have put it into your head and heart to do what you did last night. And I've no word of blame for your having togged yourself out in Jack's clothes. Many a heroine has done a like thing before you. If Joan of Arc had been more like most womenfolk, no doubt many would have reckoned her more properly behaved, according to the laws laid down by men for the behavior o' women. But who dare question the bravery and unselfishness of her deeds? And you, my baby, were our Joan of Arc last night!"
All this was balm to her troubled heart. But she could not speak, and only hugged him more tightly around the neck as she wept on his shoulder.
"Here—hoity toity!" he said presently. "What manner o' bravery be this—crying for naught?"
She raised her head, but before she could reply, they were both startled by a noisy trampling of horses in front of the house, and strange voices coming in through the open windows.
Hastily wiping away her tears, Dorothy sprang from her father's lap and ran to look out.
"Oh, father," she cried, turning to him in dismay, "here be a lot of British soldiers on horseback! Whatever can they have come for?"
He hurried out, Dorothy close by his side, to meet face to face at the open door a tall young officer coming up the steps with much clanking of sabre and jingling of spurs, while on the driveway were a dozen mounted troopers, one of whom held the rein of a spirited gray horse.
The officer raised his hat, and his sea-blue eyes, keen as steel, looked with smiling fearlessness straight into the lowering face of Joseph Devereux. Then they changed like a flash, and with swift significance, as they fell upon the slight figure shrinking close beside him.
"Sir," he asked, "are you Joseph Devereux?"
"As you say," was the calm reply. "And what might an officer of His Majesty's army want with me?"
"Only an audience," the young man answered respectfully. "I wish to assure you, in case of its being needful, of my good will, and of my desire to see that your person and property are guarded from annoyance during our stay in your neighborhood."
The old man frowned, and drew his tall figure to its full height.
"It would seem a strange chance," he replied haughtily, "that should put such a notion into your mind, young sir. I've lived here as boy and man these seventy years and more, and my fathers before me for well beyond one hundred years; and I 've needed no protection o' my own rights save such as God and my own townsfolk have accorded me as my just due."
"Such may have been the case before now, sir," the officer said, his eyes still fixed upon Dorothy's blushing face; "but troublesome times, such as these, have brought changes that should, methinks, make you take a somewhat different view of matters."
"The times may be troublesome, as you say; but even should they grow more so, I have my country's cause too truly at heart to desire favors from its enemies."
"I am an enemy only should you determine to make me one; and this I trust you will not." He still smiled pleasantly, as though bent upon accomplishing whatever object he had in view.
"The color o' the coat you wear has determined that matter already," was Joseph Devereux's grim answer.
But the young man was proof against even this pointed rebuff, for he laughed, and said with reckless gayety, "Think you not, sir, 't is a bit unjust to refuse good fellowship to a man because of the color of his garb?"
"A truce to this nonsense, young sir!" exclaimed the old man, his impatience rapidly changing to anger. "Since you are about my premises in the manner you are, 't is certain you can in no wise be ignorant o' reasons existing which make it needless for me to say that I desire naught to do with you, nor your fellows."
The officer bowed, and with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders, resumed his hat.
"So be it, sir," he said, while the smile left his olive-hued face, "although I deeply regret your decision. But before I go, I must have speech with a young son of yours."
Dorothy moved still closer to her father, and turned a troubled look up into his face.
"My son, sir," he answered stiffly, "is not at home."
"No? Then pray tell me where I am like to find him."
"He has gone to the town on affairs of his own."
"They are like to be affairs of great weight." The young man's voice had a note of sarcasm.
"Whatever they be, they can assuredly be no concern of an officer o' the King."
"That is for me to decide, sir," the soldier retorted with evidently rising anger. "He has done that which gives me good cause to put him in irons, should I choose to be vengeful."
"What mean ye?" the old man demanded with flashing eyes.
"I mean," replied the other, slowly, "he shall be taught that he cannot play boyish pranks upon His Majesty's officers with impunity."
"It would seem you are better aware o' what you are prating of than am I," said Joseph Devereux, now laying a reassuring hand over the small one that had stolen tremblingly into his own. "As for my son playing 'boyish pranks,' as you say, he would scarcely be likely to turn back to such things in his twenty-eighth year."
"Do you mean me to understand that your son is so old as that?" was the officer's surprised inquiry.
"I care little of what your understanding may be," was the indifferent reply; "but such is the fact."
"And have you no other son—a young boy?"
"I have not, as any one can tell you."
The young man bit his lips, and looked perplexed. Then, as his eyes turned to Dorothy's flushed face, he smiled again, and said, as though addressing her, "I beg pardon for any seeming incivility; but there would appear to be some mystery here."
"No mystery, young man," answered Joseph Devereux, with unbending severity, "save to wonder why you should come riding to our door in the fashion you have, with a troop o' your fellows, when we have no liking for the entertainment of any such company."
The officer still smiled, but now sarcastically. "It can scarcely be claimed that you have entertained me, sir. But since I find my presence so disagreeable to you, I will bid you good-morning."
He bowed haughtily to the old man, while his eyes still lingered upon Dorothy's face. Then turning quickly, he strode down the steps, and mounted his horse, the servants, who had gathered about, falling away from before him.
Mary Broughton and Aunt Lettice, who had been standing in the hall listening to the colloquy, now came out to the porch and stood with the others watching the scarlet-clad troop clatter noisily down the driveway, following the rapid pace set by their youthful leader.
John Devereux and Hugh Knollys, returning from the town, met them just within the open gate, and drew to one side, watching them with scowling brows as they dashed past; and the young officer turned in his saddle to glance over his shoulder, as if something in the former's face had caught his attention.
"What did those Britishers want here, father?" the son asked, as he and Hugh came up the steps, leaving their horses with Leet and Pashar.
"He would seem to wish to assure us of his courtesy and good-will; and when I declined these, he demanded to see my son, whom he accused of playing a boyish prank upon a King's officer, and threatened him with irons, should he catch the rogue."
All eyes were now turned upon Dorothy, who laid her blushing face against her father's arm as she stood clasping it.
Jack muttered something under his breath; and Hugh, his face alight with mischief, said, "May his search take up all the attention of himself and his soldiers, which will be all the better for us." Then stretching out his hand to Dorothy, he said with a sudden change of manner, "Will you shake hands, Dorothy?"
"What for?" she asked, still clinging to her father's arm.
"As my way of thanking you that I am a free man this morning, and not, perchance, in irons myself, and on the road to the Governor, at Salem."
She laid her small hand in his broad palm, and the look he gave her as his fingers closed over it seemed to make her uncomfortable.
"It was very little I did," she declared quietly, drawing her hand away.
"So it may seem to you," he said gravely. "But had it not been done, the things that might have followed would show you otherwise."
In the afternoon the four young people set out to ride over to Hugh's place, where a widowed mother was anxiously expecting the arrival of her boy—and only child.
Jack, for reasons now well understood, kept close to Mary's bridle-rein; so it befell that Dorothy and Hugh were thrown upon one another's society more intimately than for some time heretofore.
As they rode leisurely along the Salem turnpike toward their destination, which lay away from the town, the young man exclaimed suddenly, "I don't believe another girl living would dare do such a thing, Dorothy, as you did last night!"
"Do cease prattling of last night," she said impatiently. "I am sick to death hearing of it."
"Are you?" And Hugh's laughing eyes widened with sober surprise. "I see no call for you to be so."
"I did not ask that you should," was the tart answer, a wilful toss of her head accompanying the sharp words.
"Why, Dorothy, whatever ails you?" And he looked more surprised than hurt at this new phase of his quondam playfellow's disposition.
She did not reply; and Hugh, seeing a glitter of tears in her eyes, said nothing more.
And so they plodded along in utter silence; the two ahead of them seeming to find no need for haste, and conversing earnestly, as though greatly entertained by each other's company.
The thickly planted cornfields rose on either side of their way, and the afternoon sun flickered the landscape with fleeting shadows from the clouds sailing in the blue overhead, while now and again there came a glimpse of the sea.
Everything about them was quiet, save the breathing of the horses and the noise of their trappings.
At length, coming within sight of the Knollys homestead, the two in front drew rein and waited for their companions to join them.
Dorothy gave the impatient mare her head, and rode up briskly, with Hugh not far behind; and then all four went clattering through the gate and up the grass-grown roadway, halting before the porch of the low frame house that stood surrounded by thickly planted fields running back to meet sloping wooded hills, with grassy meadows intervening, where flocks of sheep and many cows were grazing peacefully.
A sweet-faced old lady—Hugh's mother—came out of the door and greeted them cordially, but first casting a searching glance at her son. Then bidding a servant take their horses to the stable, she invited them to come within.
But Hugh said: "No, mother; Sam need not take the horses away. We can stop but a short time, and then I must go back to remain in town for the night. I only rode over—and these kind folk with me—to see how you were faring without having me to look after matters, and to assure you of my well being; for I know how you like to fret if I stop away long enough to give you the chance."
"You are a saucy boy," his mother replied, but with a look that belied her words; then turning to the two girls, she asked after their fathers, and inquired particularly about each member of their households.
She listened eagerly to the news of the town, and its latest doings; the color, fresh as a girl's, coming and going in her cheeks, and making a dainty contrast with the snowy muslin of her mob-cap and the kerchief wound about her throat and crossed over her ample bust.
"And have any of these red-coated gallants stolen their way to the hearts of you two girls?" she asked banteringly,—her eyes upon Mary Broughton's beautiful face.
Jack's eyes were there as well; and Hugh alone saw the sudden mounting of the blood to Dorothy's cheeks and the troubled drooping of her eyelids.
John Devereux rose from his chair, and taking Mary's hand, led her to the old lady.
"I am that one, good Mistress Knollys," he said proudly, "who has stolen his way to this sweet girl's true heart; and you are the first, outside the family, to know of it."
"Dearie me!" exclaimed Mistress Knollys, in a happy fluttered way, as she drew Mary's blushing face down and gave her a hearty kiss. "I always suspected it would be so; and I am sure every one will wish you joy, as I do with all my heart." Then turning to her son, "Hugh, dear, get some wine and cake, and let us pledge our dear friends. With all these Britishers bringing trouble upon us, who can say how much chance there'll be left for joyful doings?"
She bustled about with a beaming face, doing herself most of the setting forth she had requested of her son. But Hugh's face looked far graver than was its wont; his eyes strayed over to Dorothy, who was now laughing and chatting like the rest, and he seemed to be puzzling over a matter for which he could not find a ready solution.
It was later than they thought when they set out upon their return, Mistress Knollys urging them to come again soon, and saying, as she kissed Dorothy last of all: "It ever makes me feel young again, my dear child, to have you in the house. And now that your brother and Mary have one another, and your father has one more daughter, they can spare you to your old friend with better grace."