Pashar had not yet appeared, but Dorothy set forth upon her return with no thought of danger or delay.
It was now high noon, and the sun making itself felt disagreeably, she pushed back the hood of her red cloak as she entered the wood, the cool wind coming refreshingly about her bared head while she walked slowly along with downcast eyes, musing over this last prophecy of Moll Pitcher.
"Aha, Little Red Ridinghood, have you been, or are you going, to see your grandmother?"
Dorothy's heart throbbed tumultuously for an instant. Then she felt cold and half sick, as she looked up and saw coming from under the trees the gleam of a scarlet coat, topped by a shapely head and olive face, whose dark-blue eyes were bent laughingly upon her.
She stopped, startled and hesitating, not knowing what to do, while Cornet Southorn came toward her along the path, his hat swinging from one hand, the other holding a spray of purple asters.
This he now raised to his forehead, saluting her in military fashion, as he said with a touch of good-humored mockery, "Your servant, fair mistress,—and will you accept my poor escort, to guard you from the wolf who is waiting to eat Little Red Ridinghood?"
A smile now began to dawn about the corners of the girl's mouth; but she made an effort to keep it back, while she replied with an attempt at severity, "There are no wolves about here, sir, to guard against, save only such as wear coats of the color you have on."
"If my coat makes me anything so fearsome in your eyes, I will discard it forever." He had dropped his tone of playfulness, and now came a step closer, looking down into her face in a way to make her feel uneasy, and yet not entirely displeased.
"I have no liking," she said, in the same bantering manner he had assumed at first, "for those who so readily change the color of the coat they are in honor bound to wear."
"It was not an easy thing to contemplate until I met you," he replied bluntly, and looking at her as if hoping for some approval of his confession.
This he failed to obtain, for Dorothy only smiled incredulously as she asked, "Is it kind, think you, to credit me with so pernicious an influence over His Majesty's officers?"
"I credit you only with all that is sweetest and best in a woman," he said with quick impulsiveness. And coming still nearer to her, he dropped the flowers and seized one of her hands, while the basket fell to the ground between them.
"'T is small matter what you may or may not credit me with," she answered, with a petulant toss of her head. "Leave go my hand this minute, sir! See, you have made me drop my basket; let me pick it up, and go my way."
A sudden, curious glance now flashed from his eyes, and looking sharply into her face, he said, "I thought that perhaps you would like me to go with you, so that you might shut me up again in your father's sheep-house."
Dorothy ceased her efforts to withdraw her hands—for he now held both of them—from his clasp, and stared up at him in affright.
"Who told you I did?" she gasped. "Who said so?"
The young man threw back his head and laughed exultingly.
"Aha,—and so it was really you, you sweet little rebel! I was almost certain of it, the morning I spoke to your father of the matter, and saw the look that came into your eyes."
"You are hateful!" she cried, her fear now giving place to anger. "Let me go, I say,—let go my hands at once!" Her eyes were filled with hot tears, and her cheeks were burning.
"Never, while you ask me in such fashion." And he tightened his clasp still more. "Listen to me!" he exclaimed passionately. "I have been eating my heart out for dreary weeks because I could see no chance to have speech with you. I felt that I could kill the men I've seen riding with you about the country. And now that I have this opportunity, I mean to make the most of it, for who can say when another will come to me?"
His words were drying her tears, as might a scorching wind; and she stood mute, with drooping head.
"Don't be angry with me for what I have said," he entreated, "nor because I found it was you who played that trick upon me. That prank of yours is the happiest thing I have to remember. You might lock me up there every day, and I would only bless you for being close enough to me to do it."
He stopped and looked at her beseechingly. But she would not raise her eyes, and stood pushing at the spray of asters with the tip of her little buckled shoe, while she asked, "Think you I only find pleasure in going about the country to lock folk up?"
She spoke with perfect seriousness; and yet there was that in her look and manner to make his heart give a great bound.
"I think of nothing, care for nothing," he replied, almost impatiently, "save that you are the sweetest little girl I ever met."
Something in his voice made Dorothy glance up at his face, and she saw his eyes bent upon her lips with a look that startled her into a fear of what he might have in his mind to do. So, drawing herself up, she said with all the dignity she could muster, "Such speech may perchance be an English custom, sir; but 't is not such as gentlemen in our country think proper to address to a girl they may chance upon, as you have me."
"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," and he seemed to dwell lovingly upon her name, "I crave your pardon. I meant no lightness nor disrespect. And if I have lost my head, and with it my manners, you have but to look into your mirror, and you'll surely see why."
Dorothy knew not how to reply to this bold speech, and the look that came with it. They made her angry, and yet she knew that the flush upon her cheeks did not come from anger alone, but that a certain undefinable pleasure had much to do with it. Then came the consciousness that she had no right to be where she was, and the fear of danger coming from it. And this was sufficient to make her say with some impatience: "'T is idle to stand here prating in such fashion. Please release my hands, and let me go. I should be well on my way home by now."
He bent his head suddenly, and without a word kissed her hands. And the burning touch of his lips made her pulses thrill and her heart beat with what she knew to be delight,—exultation.
Then, like a rushing flood, reason assailed her conscience, that she should permit a hated redcoat—one whom she ought to detest—to kiss her hands, and not feel enraged at his boldness. And so, filled with indignation, she pulled one hand away, and raising it quickly, gave his face a ringing slap.
He started back and placed a hand to his cheek, now showing a more flaming color than her own, and for a moment his eyes were alight with an angry glitter. But he said nothing, and bowing low before her, stood away from the path.
Dorothy picked up her basket, and without glancing toward him passed along on her way. But her eyes were brimming with tears, which were soon trickling down her burning cheeks.
What had she done, and what could she do, in this new, strange matter, of which she might not speak to her father? How was she to act toward him from whom she had never yet withheld her confidence?
And still how could she speak to any one—even him—of what was giving birth to thoughts and feelings such as she had never dreamed of before?
With all this—and in spite of it—came the question as to what the redcoat would think of her now,—a maiden who went about at night masquerading in masculine garb, and who slapped His Majesty's officers in the face?
There came to her a woful sense of shame,—yes, of degradation, such as her young life had never imagined could exist, and seeming to overwhelm her with its possible results.
She was startled by a sudden footfall close behind her, and without looking back, she quickened her pace into a run. But now a strong arm was thrown about her waist, holding her fast; and she caught a fiery gleam of the scarlet coat against which her head was pressed by the hand that, although it trembled a little, prisoned her cheek with gentle firmness.
Then a mouth was bent close to her ear, so close that its quick breath fanned the tiny curling locks about her temples, and a voice whispered: "Sweetheart, forgive me—for God's love, forgive me! I cannot let you go in this way; for see, you are weeping. Surely this pretence of anger is unjust,—unjust to you and to me!"
Before she could speak, the voice went on, "Little rebel, sweet little rebel, will you not surrender to—a vanquished victor?" And with this, a kiss was pressed upon her lips.
At first Dorothy had been too startled to speak,—too frightened and dumb from the tumult his caressing voice had aroused within her. But the touch of his lips awakened her like a blow.
"How dare you?" she cried, struggling from his arms. "Oh, how I wish I had never seen you!"
"You can scarce expect me to feel likewise," he said calmly, smiling into her stormy little face, "for I—"
"Never speak to me again!" she interrupted, still more hotly. And then, as the tears of anger choked her voice, she turned from him and fled away down the path.
For a time she heard him in pursuit; and this made her run all the swifter, until at last, reaching the Salem road, she glanced back as she mounted the low stone wall, and saw that he had stopped where the timber ended, and stood watching her. Then without turning to look again, she went quickly across the sunlit meadow-land.
Her breath came sobbingly; and mingled with her terror was a feeling she could not define, but which told her that life would never be the same for her again. She still felt the clasp of his arms about her, the burning of his lips upon her hands,—their pressure upon her mouth. His voice still came caressingly to her ears, and the wind seemed to be his breath over her hair.
It was not long before she saw Pashar coming to meet her; and drawing the hood about her face, she bade him go for the basket she had left in the wood. Then, without waiting for him to return with it, she hastened directly to her father's house.
She reached her own room without having encountered any of the household, and throwing off her cloak went to the glass. There, resting her elbows on the low, broad shelf, and dropping her soft round chin into her small palms, she seemed to be studying what the mirror showed to her,—studying it with as much interest as though she now saw the reflection of her features for the first time.
"You are a wicked, treacherous girl," she said aloud, addressing the charming face staring back at her with great solemn eyes, "a perfect little traitor." Then—but now to herself—"Moll said his heart turned toward me as the flowers to the sun. And if this be true, why is it not also truth that sorrow is to come with it?" She shivered, and pressed her hands over her eyes.
"Cousin Dot!" called a small voice outside the locked door.
"Yes, 'Bitha." Dorothy started guiltily, and made haste to dash some water over her glowing face and tell-tale eyes.
"Aunt Lettice says the meal is ready," came the announcement from without; "and Hugh Knollys is below with Uncle Joseph."
Dorothy felt thankful for this, as a guest at dinner would serve the better to divert attention from herself; and making a hasty toilette, she descended to the dining-room.
She found them all at the table, with Hugh at her father's right hand, and directly opposite her own place. The young man arose as she entered the room, and responded with his usual heartiness to the greeting she tendered him. But with it all he gave her so odd a look as to make her wonder if he saw aught amiss in her appearance.
The two men resumed their talk of public matters and the town's doings, and were soon so absorbed that Dorothy was able to remain as silent as she could have wished.
It had been resolved not to import, either directly or indirectly, any goods from Great Britain or Ireland after the first of the coming December. And in case the tyrannical decrees of the mother country should not be repealed by the 10th of the following September, it was agreed that no commodities whatever should be exported to Great Britain, Ireland, or the British West Indies.
This would bring about an embarrassing state of affairs for both the men who were now discussing the matter, as they, like many others in the town, had derived a considerable income from such exporting.
"But we'll stand shoulder to shoulder, Hugh," said Joseph Devereux, firmly, "if so be we forfeit every penny, until the oppressors give us fair dealings or we drive every redcoat from our soil. I will kill every cow and sheep—aye, and every horse as well, and cut down every stick o' timber on my land, for the keeping of us and our friends fed and warmed, but that I will maintain the stand I've pledged myself to keep."
"Let us hope, sir, that the redcoats will not first seize your cattle," said Hugh, his eyes fixed gravely upon the abstracted young face opposite him. "I met Trent as I was riding along the pastures, and he told me the sheep had escaped through a broken place in the fence of the ten-acre lot, and he had a chase after them to Riverhead Beach. He said he met a party of soldiers there, and they deliberately took one of the sheep from under his very nose, and carried it off with them to the Neck. And when he remonstrated with them, they only laughed at him, and told him to send the bill to the King for the dinner they would have."
The old man's eyes flashed with anger as he listened to this.
"It is an outrage!" he exclaimed when Hugh had finished,—"to steal stock under our very eyes. I must see Trent about the matter, and the cattle must be kept nigh the house."
"Why not take them by boatloads over to the islands till the redcoats be gone, as has been done before, for pasturage?" The suggestion came from Aunt Lettice, and was made rather timidly.
"You were never cut out for a farmer's wife, Lettice, my dear," her brother-in-law replied, a good-humored smile now breaking over his face, "else you'd remember there is no pasturage there at this time o' year. And I doubt if they'd be so safe on the islands as here, for Trent and the men would have to go each day with fodder for them, and the soldiers' spying eyes would be sure to note the coming and going o' the boats. No," he added with decision, "I shall have the flocks kept penned, nigh the house; and I shall make complaint o' this matter to the Governor. As for the rest," and he smiled grimly, "I take it our guns can protect ourselves and our property."
Hugh Knollys was so much a member of the household that Aunt Lettice thought nothing of going her own way when dinner was over and leaving him in the living-room with Dorothy; and the two now sat on one of the low, broad window-seats, watching Joseph Devereux as he went out of doors in search of Trent, with 'Bitha dancing along beside him.
"How fast 'Bitha is growing!" Hugh remarked. "She will soon be taller than you, Dot. Although, to be sure," he added with a laugh, "that is not saying very much."
Dorothy did not reply. Indeed it would seem that she had not heard him; and now he laid his hand softly upon one of her own to arouse her attention as he called her by name.
At this she started, and turned her face to him.
"What, Hugh—what is it?" she asked confusedly.
His smiling face became sober at once, and a curious intentness crept into his blue eyes while he and Dorothy looked at each other without speaking. Then he asked deliberately, "Of what were you dreaming just now, Dot?"
A burning blush deepened the color in her cheeks, and her eyes fell before those that seemed to be searching her very thoughts.
"Shall I make a guess?" he said, a strange thrill now creeping into his voice and causing her to lift her eyes again. "Were you dreaming of that young redcoat you were walking with this morning?"
She sprang to her feet and faced him, her eyes blazing, and her slight form trembling with anger.
"I was not walking with any such," she replied hotly. "How dare you say so?"
"Because it so appeared as I came along the Salem road," was his calm answer. "I saw him on one side of the road leaning against the stone wall, and watching you, as you went from the wall on the opposite side, and across your father's lot. His eyes were fixed upon you as though he were never going to look away; indeed he never saw nor heard me until my horse was directly in front of him."
Dorothy was now looking down at the floor, and made no reply.
After waiting a moment for her to speak, Hugh took both her hands and held them close, while he said with an earnestness that seemed almost solemn in its intensity: "Don't deceive me, Dot. Don't tell me aught that is not true, when you can trust me to defend you and your happiness with my life, if needs be."
His words comforted her in a way she could not explain. And yet they startled her; for she was still too much of a child, and Hugh Knollys had been too long a part of her every-day life, for her to suspect how it really was with him.
"I was not intending to tell you any untruth, Hugh. But—I was not walking with him."
The anger had now gone from her eyes, and she left her hands to lie quietly in his clasp. But she had not forgotten the warm pressure of those other hands in whose keeping they had been that same morning.
"Had you not seen him, Dot?" Hugh asked, looking keenly into her face.
At this her whole nature was up in rebellion, for she could not brook his pursuing the matter farther, after what she had already told him.
"Let go my hands!" she exclaimed angrily. "Let me go! You have no right to question me as to my doings."
He dropped her hands at once, and rising to his feet, turned his back to her, and looked out of the window. A mighty flood of jealousy was surging through his brain; and that which he had so long repressed was struggling hard to uproot itself from the secret depths,—where he was striving to hide it from her knowledge—and burst forth in fierce words from his lips.
Had this hated Britisher dared to steal into the sacred place of the child's heart, which he himself, from a sense of honor, was bound to make no effort to penetrate? The mere suspicion of such a thing was maddening.
Dorothy glanced at him. How big and angry he looked, standing there with tightly folded arms, his lips compressed, and his brows contracted into a deep scowl! How unlike he was to the sunny-faced Hugh Knollys who had been her companion since childhood!
"Don't be angry with me, Hugh," she pleaded softly, venturing timidly to touch his shoulder.
He whirled about so suddenly as to startle her, and she fell back a pace, her wondering eyes staring at the set white face before her.
"I am not angry, Dot," he said, letting his arms drop from their clasping; "I am only—hurt." And he slowly resumed his place upon the window-seat.
"I don't wish to hurt you, Hugh," Dorothy declared, as she sat down by him again.
He seemed to make an effort to smile, as he asked, "Don't you?"
"No, I do not." And now her voice began to gather a little asperity. "But you do not seem to consider that you said aught to hurt me, as well."
He took her hand and stroked it gently.
"You know well, Dot," he said, "that I'd not hurt you by word or deed. And it is only when I think you are doing what is like to hurt yourself, that I make bold to speak as I did just now."
Dorothy was silent, but her brain was busy. The thought had come to her that she must bind him by some means,—make it certain that he should not speak of this matter to her brother. And a wild impulse—one she did not stop to question—urged her to see that the young soldier was not brought to any accounting for whatever he had done.
She wondered how much Hugh might know, and how much was only suspicion,—surmise. And with the intent to satisfy herself as to this, she said, "Just because you saw a redcoat watching me, as you thought, and at a distance, you forthwith accuse me of walking with him."
She spoke with a fine show of impatience and reproof, but still permitting him to hold and caress her hand.
"Aye, Dot, but there be redcoats and redcoats. And this one happened to be that yellow-faced gallant we are forever meeting, the one you—"
She interrupted him. "I know what you mean. But I tell you truly, Hugh, I had not been walking with him, nor did I know he was by the stone wall looking after me, as you say."
"And you had not seen him?" Hugh asked, now beginning to appear more like himself, and bending his smiling face down to look at her.
But the smile vanished, as he met her faltering eyes.
"Don't tell me, Dot, if you'd sooner not; only know that you can trust me, if you will, and I'll never fail you,—never!"
These words, and the way they were spoken, settled all her doubts, and clasping her other hand over his, that still held her own, she burst forth impetuously: "Oh, I will tell you, Hugh. Only you'll promise me that you'll never tell of it, not even to Jack."
The young man hesitated, but only for a second, as the sweet prospect of a secret between them—one to be shared by no other, not even her idolized brother—swept away all other thoughts.
"I promise that I'll tell no one, Dot,—not even Jack."
He spoke slowly and guardedly, the better to hide the mad beating of his heart, and the effort he was making to restrain himself from taking her in his arms and telling her what she was to him.
Dorothy uttered a little sigh, as if greatly relieved. Then she said with an air of perfect frankness: "Well, Hugh, Ididsee him—up in the wood, as I was coming from old Ruth's. He spoke to me, and I ran away from him."
"What did he say?" Hugh demanded quickly.
"Oh, I cannot remember,—he startled me so. I was dreadfully frightened, although I am sure he meant no harm."
"No harm," Hugh repeated wrathfully. "It was sufficient harm for him to dare speak to you at all."
"No, but it was not," the girl declared emphatically. "He and I are acquainted, you know—after a fashion. It was not the first time he has spoken to me, nor I to him, for that matter."
Hugh's blue eyes flashed with anger.
"I have a great mind to make it the last!" he exclaimed with hot indignation, and half starting from his seat.
But Dorothy pushed him back. "Now mark this, Hugh Knollys," she said warningly,—"if you say aught to him, and so make me the subject of unseemly brawling, I'll never speak to you again,—no, not the longest day we both live!" And she brought her small clenched fist down with enforcing emphasis upon Hugh's broad palm.
"What a little spitfire you are, Dot!" And he smiled at her once more.
"Spitfire, is it? You seem to have a plentiful supply of compliments for me this day." She spoke almost gayly, pleased as she was to have diverted him so easily.
He was now staring at her with a new expression in his eyes, and appeared to be turning over some matter in his mind; and Dorothy remained silent, wondering what it might be.
"Dorothy," he said presently, and very gravely, "I wonder will you promise me something?"
"I must know first what it is." She was smiling, and yet wishing he would not look at her in such a strange way; she had never known before that his frank, good-natured face could wear so sober an aspect.
"I wish you would promise me that you'll keep out of this fellow's way,—that you'll never permit him to hold any converse with you, and, above all, when no one else is by."
"I'll promise no such thing," she answered promptly, and with a look of defiance.
"And why not?" he asked in the same grave way, and with no show of being irritated by her quick refusal. Indeed he now spoke even more gently than before.
"Because," she replied, "it is a silly thing to ask. He is a gentleman; and I do not feel bound to fly from before him like a guilty thing, or as though I were not able to take care of myself. Besides, we are not like to meet again—he and I."
Her voice sank at the last words, as though she were speaking them to herself—and it had a touch of wistfulness or of regret.
This set Hugh to scowling once more. But he said nothing, and sat toying in an abstracted fashion with her small, soft fingers.
The desire to plead his own cause was again strong upon him, and he was wondering if he might not in some way sound the depths of her feeling toward him, without violating the pledge which, although unspoken by his lips, he knew her brother—his own dearest friend—assumed to have been given.
He was aroused from these speculations by a question from Dorothy.
"You will never speak to him of me in any manner, will you, Hugh?" she asked coaxingly.
"Speak to whom?" he inquired in turn. Then, noting the embarrassment in her eyes, he muttered something—and not altogether a blessing—upon Cornet Southorn.
"But you 'll—promise me you 'll," she insisted.
"And if I promise?" he asked slowly. He was looking into her face, thinking how sweet her lips were, and wishing he could throw honor to the winds and kiss them—just once, while they were so close to his own.
"There is nothing," she declared with a sudden impulse, "that I will not do for you in return!"
"Nothing!" A reckless light was now growing in his eyes. "Are you sure, Dot, there is nothing?"
"No, nothing I can do," she affirmed. But she could not help remarking his eagerness and illy repressed excitement, and felt that she must keep herself on guard against a possible demonstration,—something whose nature she could not foresee.
The young man was still looking fixedly at her. But now he let go her hands and sprang to his feet.
"I'll make no bargain with you, Dot," he said excitedly. "I hate this man, and have from the very first, and I hope I'll have the good fortune before many days to meet him face to face, in fair fight. But I promise, as you ask it, that I'll seek no quarrel with him. And even had you not asked, I'd surely never have mentioned your name to him."
"Thank you." Dorothy spoke very quietly; and before he could know of her intention she snatched his hand and kissed it.
She did it so suddenly and quickly that he knew not what to say or do. He felt the hot blood rush to his face, and found himself trembling from the storm aroused within him by her caress.
Before he could speak, she was on her feet alongside him, smiling up into his burning face, and saying, "You are a good friend to me, Hugh, and I'll not forget it." Then, as she laid her hand on his arm, "Come, I will play something for you; I feel just in the humor for it."
He followed her into the drawing-room, where a huge wood-fire leaped and crackled on the hearth. She bade him be seated in a big chair in front of the dancing flames, and then went over and perched herself upon the bench—roomy enough to hold three Dorothys—before the spinet.
A moment later and there stole from beneath the skilful touch of her fingers one of those quaint melodies of which we in this generation know nothing, save as they have come down to us through the ear alone, never having been put upon paper.
Hugh Knollys sat and watched her, noting the pretty curves of her cheeks and throat,—the firm white neck, so small and round, with the wayward hair breaking into rebellious little curls at the nape,—the slender wrists, and small, snowy hands.
None of these escaped him, as he sat a little back of her, his hungry eyes absorbing each charming detail. He thought what a blessed thing it would be, could she and he always be together, and alone, like this, with peace smiling once more over the land, and they happy in the society of each other.
The music seemed to fit exactly into his present mood, and he sat motionless for a time, listening to it. Then, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, he arose to his feet; and as the final cadence died softly away, he was in a chair beside the bench, with his arm clasping Dorothy's waist.
She turned a startled face, to find his own bending close to her, and with a look in it such as she had never before known it to hold.
"Dorothy," and his voice was almost a whisper, "you care more for me than for the Britisher?"
An alarmed suspicion of the truth came to her. She saw a new meaning in all he had said, in what she had beheld in his face and manner; and realizing this, she sat white and motionless, her fingers still resting upon the keys.
He now bent his head, and she was frightened to feel tears dropping on her wrist.
She was possessed by a wild desire to fly,—to get away from him. But she found herself unable to stir, and sat rigid, feeling as if turned to marble, while his arm was still lying loosely about her waist.
Then his hand stole up, and his fingers clasped her hand.
"Oh, my God,"—his voice was hoarse and choked—"I cannot endure it!"
At this, there came to the girl a flash of remembrance from that same morning. She seemed to feel the arm of the young soldier around her, and to see the scarlet-clad breast against which her head was pressed so tenderly. A feeling as of treacherous dealing with his faith and with her own rushed upon her, and she struggled to get away.
"Are you gone daft, Hugh Knollys," she cried angrily, "or whatever ails you?"
He arose shamefacedly, and stood mute. But as she moved off, he stretched out a hand to detain her.
"Wait,—wait but a moment, Dot," he begged. "Don't leave me in such fashion. Don't be angry with me."
"Are you mad?" she demanded again, and with no less impatience, although pausing beside him.
"Aye, I think I must be," he admitted, now speaking more naturally, and trying to smile down into the small face, still glowing with indignation, so far beneath his own.
"So it would seem," she said coldly, and in no wise softened. "I ne'er expected such a thing from you."
"Never mind, Dot,—forget it," he pleaded, now full of penitence. "I've a great trouble on my mind just now, and your music seemed to bring it all to me with a new rushing."
Dorothy's face changed in a second, and became filled with sympathy.
"Oh, Hugh, I am so sorry," she said with quick solicitude, taking him by the hand. "Don't you want to tell me about it? Mayhap I can help you." Her anxiety about this unknown trouble had lulled to sleeping her suspicions as to the reason for his outbreak.
He smiled,—but sadly, grimly. "I'll tell you some day," he said, "and we will see if you can help me. But we'll be better friends than ever after this, won't we, Dot?" His eyes had been searching her face in nervous wonder, as if to assure himself that he had not told her aught of his secret,—the secret his honor forbade him to reveal.
"Yes, Hugh, I am sure we shall be." Dorothy said it with a warmth that set his mind at rest.
"And you'll let no redcoats, nor any coats—whate'er be their color—come betwixt us?" he added, with a touch of his old playfulness.
"No, never!" And there was a sincerity and firmness in her answer that warmed his very heart.
"Thank you, Dot," he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. "And thank God!" he muttered as he released her hand, saying it in a way to make Dorothy feel uncomfortable in the thought that perhaps she had pledged herself to something more than she had intended.
Just here Aunt Lettice came into the room. "Leet has returned from the town," she announced, full of excitement, "and says that Mugford's wife has at last prevailed upon the English officers to release him."
"Can this be true?" inquired the young man, instantly alert, and quite his natural self again.
"So Leet says; and that Mugford is now in the town, with every one rejoicing over him." And she poked the fire with great energy, sending a thousand sparkles of flame dancing up the wide chimney.
"How happy his poor wife must be!" was Dorothy's comment, as she stooped to pick up 'Bitha's kitten, which had followed Aunt Lettice, and was now darting at the steel buckles on the girl's shoes, where the bright fire was reflected in flickerings most inviting to kittenish eyes and gambols.
"I think I'll ride over to town and see Mugford," said Hugh. "I want to congratulate him upon his escape."
He glanced at Dorothy, as if half expecting her to speak, as he had just declined Aunt Lettice's urgent invitation that he return for supper, saying that his mother was looking for him before evening.
But all Dorothy said was, "Here come father and 'Bitha." And she walked over toward the window.
Hugh followed her, and said in a low voice, not meant for Aunt Lettice's ears, "You'll not forget our compact, Dot, and your promise?"
"No," she answered, smiling at him; "nor will you yours?"
"Never!" He pressed the hand she extended to him, and then hurried away.
Joseph Devereux met him on the porch, and they stood talking for a few minutes, while 'Bitha came within, her cheeks ruddy from the nipping air.
"Leet is back," she said, as she entered the drawing-room; "but Uncle Joseph says it is too cold for us to take so late a ride over to see Mistress Knollys."
"So it is, 'Bitha," Dorothy assented. "But we'll go to the kitchen, and ask Tyntie to let us make some molasses pull."
She was, for the moment, a child again, with all perplexing thoughts of redcoats and Hugh Knollys banished from her mind.
All the outdoor world seemed encased in burnished silver, as the new moon of early December came up from the black bed of the ocean's far-out rim, and mounting high and higher in the pale flush yet lingering from the gorgeous sunset, brought out sparklings from the snow drifted over the fields and fences of the old town.
The roads were transformed into pavements of glittering mosaics and pellucid crystals; and all about the Devereux house the meadow lands stretched away like a shining sea whose waves had suddenly congealed, catching and holding jewels in their white depths.
Dorothy was looking out at the beauty of it all, her face close to the pane her warm breath dimmed now and then, compelling her to raise a small hand to make it clear again for her vision.
It was her brother's wedding night. And the girl was very fair and sweet to look upon, in her soft pink gown, with its dainty laces and ribbons, as she stood there awaiting the others; for they were all to drive into town, to the house of Mistress Horton, where the marriage was to be celebrated.
Nicholson Broughton was away from his home, enforced to tarry near Cambridge, where several of his townsmen were holding weighty conclaves which it was important for him to attend. But he had urged John Devereux to make no delay in the ceremony, feeling that his daughter, once wedded, and an established member of the family at the Devereux farm, would be happier, as well as safer, now that riots in the town were becoming more frequent and fierce.
Hugh Knollys also was absent, having undertaken an important mission in the neighborhood of Boston.
Only the young man himself knew how eagerly he had desired to be given this responsibility, as a reason for being away. For as the time drew near for his friend's wedding, he feared to trust his self-control should he find himself again in Dorothy's presence.
And then, besides, the hated redcoats were still on the Neck, and several of the officers, among them Cornet Southorn, having accepted more comfortable quarters at Jameson's house, Hugh thought it the wiser course to remove himself from the vicinity for a time.
It seemed as though these two young men were continually meeting one another on the roads and byways of the town and its neighborhood. And the sight of the stalwart form dashing along upon a spirited horse,—of the handsome face and reckless eyes, raised in Hugh a fierce desire to lay them in the dust through the medium of an enforced quarrel.
Dorothy had been by Hugh's side at several of these encounters; and it had made him heartsick to see the fluttered way in which her eyes would turn from the young Britisher after meeting his ardent gaze, and how for a time she would be uneasy and abstracted, resisting all attempts to gain her attention.
But he bravely held his own counsel, and since that memorable day in October had never mentioned the Englishman's name, nor made any allusion to him or his doings.
As for Dorothy, she had gone about all these days with a face grave almost to sadness; and it was well for her own peace that the others of the family ascribed her altered mien to jealousy, thinking that her exacting heart found it a hard matter to share her adored brother with another whom he reckoned more precious than her own spoiled self.
Her musings were now disturbed by Jack coming into the room.
He looked the brave soldier in his new regimentals,—a round jacket and breeches of blue cloth, with trimmings of leather buttons; and his dark handsome face was aglow with happiness.
His curling locks were gathered at the back of the neck, and tied with a black watered-silk ribbon; and in his hand was a broad-brimmed hat, caught up on one side, as was the fashion, and adorned with a cockade of blue ribbons belonging to his sweetheart.
"Ah, Dot, and so you are here! Leet is at the door, child, and Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha are with father, in the drawing-room, all ready to start. Come, get your cloak, and let us be off."
He was close beside her as she turned from the window; and thinking he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes, he laid a detaining hand on her arm.
"You must be happy to-night, Dot," he said, "for my sake. I should like all the world to be so, and you, my little sister, more than all the rest."
She let him kiss her on the cheek, but stood silent, with lowered eyes.
"What is it, child,—don't you rejoice with me, when I am happier than ever before in my life?"
He gently took her chin in his hand and raised her downcast face. In an instant her arms were clasped about his neck and her head buried against his breast.
Just then they heard Aunt Lettice, in the hall, calling as if she supposed Dorothy to be above stairs.
"Come, Dot," urged her brother,—"they are waiting for us, and we must be off." And kissing her, he quietly unclasped her clinging arms.
At this she drew herself away from him, and fixing her eyes searchingly upon his face, said, "You are so happy, Jack, are n't you, because you and Mary love each other?"
"Why, surely," he replied, wondering at the words, and at her way of speaking them. But he smiled as he looked into her troubled face.
"Do you not think, Jack," she asked, still with that strange look in her eyes, "that when love comes in, it changes all of one's world?"
He now laughed outright. But she paid no attention to his gayety, going on in a way to have troubled him had he been less selfishly happy at the moment, "If you know this so well, Jack, you will never cease to love me, if ever love comes to change my own world, the same as it has yours? No matter what you may feel is wrong about it, you will not blame me?"
"Why, Dot, little girl, whatever are you dreaming about,—what should make you talk in this way?" And he looked at her with real anxiety.
But she only laughed, and passing her hand across her eyes, answered nervously, "I don't know, Jack,—I was but thinking on future possibilities."
"Rather upon the most remote impossibilities," he said laughingly. "But come, child, think no more of anything but this,—that 't is high time for you to put on your cloak and come to see your brother take unto himself a wife, who is to be your own dear sister."
"I am glad it is Mary Broughton," Dorothy said quietly, as she took her cloak from a chair.
"So am I," he laughed, as he wrapped the warm garment about her, shutting away all her pink sweetness with its heavy folds. Then, while he helped her to draw the hood over her curly head, "What if it were Polly Chine, now?"
"Then," she answered with an odd smile, "you would have to fight Hugh Knollys."
They were passing through the door, and he said with a keen glance at her, "I've good cause to know better than that, Dot."
But she gave no heed to this, and they joined the others outside.
The old family sleigh moved sedately along the hard, snow-packed road, the moon making a shadowy, grotesque mass of it along the high drifts, while Leet, enveloped in furs, sat soberly erect, full of the importance now attaching to him.
When they were well on their way, a body of mounted Britishers swept by, evidently bound for the town; and Joseph Devereux remarked to his son, as the two sat opposite one another, while Dorothy, riding backwards with her brother, seemed lost in the contemplation of the snowy fields they were passing, "I trust, Jack, those fellows will stir up no trouble this night."
"They are most likely to do so," was the low-spoken reply; "for you know the mere sight of their red coats acts upon our men much as the like color affects an angry bull."
"I wish they might be ordered from the Neck," observed Aunt Lettice, who sat alongside her brother-in-law, and had caught enough to guess at the rest of the talk.
"They must wish so themselves, by this time," Jack said with a laugh. "It must now be rarely cold quarters for them over there."
"Why did you not ask them to your wedding, Cousin Jack?"
The question came from small 'Bitha, who was sitting between Dorothy and her brother. "I wonder if the one Mary pushed over the rocks last summer would not like to see her married?"
"'Bitha!" Dorothy exclaimed sharply, seeming to awaken to what was being said. "Why will you always put it so? Mary did not push him over; he fell himself."
"Aye,—but, Cousin Dot, he fell over while he was stepping back from her," the child answered. "She looked so angry that I think he was sorely frightened."
Dorothy did not reply; but her brother said gayly, "Well, 'Bitha, I hope Mary will never look at me in a way to frighten me so much as that."
"She never would," 'Bitha asserted with confidence, "for you are not a Britisher."
"What a stanch little rebel it is," Joseph Devereux said laughingly; and Jack went on in a teasing way to 'Bitha, "I expect we shall all go to see 'Bitha married to a redcoat as soon as she is big enough."
"You will see no such thing, Cousin Jack," the child replied angrily. "I'd run away, so that no one could ever find me, before I'd do such a thing. Would not you, Cousin Dorothy?"
Dorothy did not answer, and 'Bitha repeated the question.
"Would I do what, 'Bitha?" Dorothy now asked, but indifferently, and as though with the object of quieting the child.
"Why, marry a redcoat?"
"Nonsense, 'Bitha,—don't let Jack tease you." And Dorothy turned away again to look off over the snow fields through which they were passing. But she wondered if the others noticed how oddly her voice sounded, and what a tremble there was in it.
The Horton house loomed up full of importance from amid its darker fellows, and warm lights twinkled out here and there where a parted curtain let them through to shine forth like welcoming smiles into the cold night.
Within there was much bustle and good-natured badinage, as the neighbors, bidden to the feast, assisted the people of the house,—playing the part of entertainer or caterer, hairdresser or maid, as the needs of the other guests demanded.
It was a simple, homely wedding, as was the custom of the day; and the festivities were enjoyed with all the more zest by reason of the relief they offered from the anxiety felt by all, on account of the disturbed condition of public affairs.
There were games—such as "Twirl the Trencher" and "Hunt the Slipper"—for those who liked them; and the elders endeavored to enter at least into the spirit of all that was going on, and not dampen the younger folks' pleasure by the exhibition of gloomy faces and constrained actions.
Later in the evening there was dancing. And it was a goodly sight to look at the handsome groom and his lovely bride go through the stately minuet, with his father and Aunt Lettice opposite them,—the slow, dignified step making the feat a no-wise difficult one for the old gentleman, who had in his day been accounted one of the most graceful of dancers.
Dorothy acted for a time as though she were made of quicksilver. She was leader in all the games and frolics, and seemed the very impersonation of happy, laughter-loving girlhood. Then, and without any apparent reason, another and different mood took possession of her, and she suddenly became very quiet, taking but little part in what was going on.
Her father's fond eyes were quick to notice this; but when he hastened to draw her to one side and ask for the cause, she made light of his anxiety, and gave him a smiling assurance of her perfect well-being.
As a matter of fact, something had occurred to disturb the girl very seriously.
During one of the games she had been alone for a few minutes in a room facing upon the side yard,—a small orchard; and chancing to glance toward the window, she saw, as if pressed against the glass, the face of Cornet Southorn.
While she stood, silent and rigid, staring at it, the face disappeared; and some of the other guests now entering the room, she slipped away to recover her composure.
What, she asked herself, did he seek, and why was he here? She dismissed at once the thought of his meaning any harm, for surely he would not bring about any disturbance upon this, her brother's wedding night. And even should he seek to intrude himself upon them, there could be no just cause to warrant such an act, for although the King might expect to enforce the Acts of his Parliament, he had not as yet sought to control the marrying or giving in marriage of his American subjects.
But even so, she was startled, almost alarmed; and the matter filled her thoughts for the remainder of the evening.
It had been arranged that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were to remain with the Hortons for a time, while Joseph Devereux was to accept the invitation of his friend, Colonel Lee, to pass a few days at the latter's house, not far away.
This would make the bride and groom the only ones who would return with Leet to the farm, as Dorothy was going to the home of a girl friend, feeling that it would be a relief to be among new faces and in a strange house.
"Dorothy, are you going to let me be a good sister to you,—one of the sort you will come to with all your joys and troubles?"
The two girls were standing close to each other in one of the upper rooms, where Mary was donning a dark gray slip pelisse and hood, with warm fur linings peeping about the edges, while Mistress Horton was bustling about out of earshot, getting some last stray articles bundled for their conveyance to the sleigh waiting below.
The earnest blue eyes were bent searchingly upon Dorothy's face, as if the speaker had more than a passing notion of the impulses stirring the heart lying beneath the laces of the dainty pink gown.
But Dorothy laughed, albeit a little constrainedly, and replied, "I thought you knew all about that long ago, Mary."
"Do you know, Dot,"—and Mary's white brows contracted into a puzzled frown—"somehow you are changed. What is it, dear?"
"Your imaginings, I should say," was the careless reply. "My hair is not turning gray, is it?" And she touched her dark curls.
"Well, never mind now," said Mary, diplomatically, and not caring to press the matter, "but you will tell me when we are together again, won't you, Dot?"
Dorothy only smiled, and said nothing.
Jack had spoken to Mary more than once of some change that had come over his sister. But his words were not needed, as she herself, not having seen much of the girl these last few months, would have observed it had he not spoken.
Dorothy was as impulsive and affectionate as of old, but to Mary's keen eyes there now seemed a new-born womanliness about her. She was sensible of the absence of that childish frankness and ingenuousness which had been so much a part of the girl's nature. She was now more like a woman, and one whose mind held a secret she herself tried to evade, as well as have others blind to its existence.
It was as if a new self had been born, dominating the old self, and sending her thoughts far from where her body might be.
"She must be in love with some one, and 't is sure to be Hugh Knollys," said Mary to herself, with a glow of happiness, as the two went downstairs, Mistress Horton and a servant following them, both laden with packages to be stowed away in the Devereux equipage, whereon Leet sat rigidly upright, the darkness hiding his black face and its unusual grin.
"Take good care of her, Strings," Joseph Devereux cautioned, as he took his place within the vehicle, and pointing to the open doorway, where a pink gown and dark curly head showed foremost amongst the guests crowded there to see the bride and groom on their way. The pedler—an humble onlooker at the wedding—had urged his protection for Dorothy's safer piloting through the town to her friend's house; and this her father and brother had been glad to accept.
"That I will, sir,—never fear," was the hearty response; and as Jack Devereux sprang into the sleigh, Leet turned the horses' heads to the street and drove off, followed by a shower of old shoes and peals of merry laughter from the doorway.