From Kingdom to Colony
"fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the
sentence, "The Saints that fit above."
Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:--
"My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heat
Withers, that I forget to eat;
By reafon of my conftant Groans
I am reduced to fkin and Bones.
I'm like the Pelican, and Owl,
That lonely in the Deferts ftroll;
As mournful fparrows percht alone
On the Houfe Top, I walk and moan."
"Tell me, cousin,--what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked,
as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee.
"'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the
child, and began to laugh.
'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary
Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double
attack upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry.
"If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what
does the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page.
"Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took the
book into her own hands.
"There,--right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for
yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,--
"Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my Tears."
"There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep
bottles in Heaven,--and what sort would He keep?"
"I think you will know more about such things when you grow older," was
Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while
her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine
without.
"You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself
as she read the lines.
"That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little
girl pouted.
Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow
darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to
their feet with exclamations of dismay.
A vivid gleam of scarlet shut away the daylight, and a pair of sea-blue
eyes, set in an olive-hued face, were looking at them with much
curiosity.
The two older girls stood speechless, facing the intruder, whose gaze
wandered with respectful curiosity over the regal form and gold-brown
hair of the one, whose mouth was decidedly scornful, as were also her
steady blue eyes, which regarded him fearlessly, despite her quaking
heart.
Then the new-comer's eyes turned to the smaller figure; and a flash of
admiration came into them as his hand stole to his head and removed its
covering, while he said with unmistakable courtesy, "Do not be alarmed,
I beg of you,--I mean no harm."
"What do you want?" Mary Broughton demanded, seeming in no wise
softened by his gentle bearing.
"Only your good-will," he replied, with a smile that showed beautiful
teeth.
She flashed a scornful glance in return.
"Good will!" she repeated. "That is something we have not in our power
to give one who wears a coat the color of yours." She spoke defiantly,
looking the young man squarely in the face.
"Such words, uttered by such lips, almost make me coward enough to
regret the color," he said good-naturedly, and as though determined not
to take offence.
With this he took a step or two inside the cave; and small 'Bitha,
dismayed at the near approach of the scarlet-clad form, clung tightly
to Dorothy's gown, pressing her face into its folds.
"Speak him fair, Mary," Dorothy whispered, apprehending possible danger
from her friend's want of discretion.
But Mary did not hear, or else she did not care to heed, for she said:
"Neither your raiment, nor aught that concerns you, can matter to us.
This is our property you are trespassing upon; and I bid you begone,
this moment."
"You are surely lacking in courtesy, mistress," he replied, still
smilingly.
The words were addressed to Mary, but his glowing eyes were fixed upon
Dorothy, who was still standing with her arms about 'Bitha. The color
was coming and going in her cheeks, and something in the big eyes told
him that a smile was not far away.
"We have no courtesy for British soldiers," was Mary's haughty answer
to his imputation; and there was an angry tapping of her foot upon the
shell floor.
He shrugged his shoulders, and turning more directly away from Mary,
now spoke to Dorothy.
"I was only wandering about the shore," he declared, looking at her as
though pleading for her good-will, "and hearing voices as I stood on
the rocks above, I made bold to find out from whence they came."
Mary had not taken her eyes from his face, and now she was quick to
answer him.
"Well," she said, before Dorothy could speak, "having found where the
voices came from, you'd best go on about your own affairs and leave us
to ours."
"And what if I refuse?" he asked quickly, a flash coming from his eyes
as though she had at length nettled him.
"I should try to tumble you over the rocks at your back," she answered
with sudden anger; and she stepped toward him as if to carry out her
threat.
He moved back hastily, and then, missing his footing on the slippery
granite, fell over backwards down the rocks.
Dorothy's shriek was echoed shrilly by little 'Bitha, while Mary stood
as though transfixed, looking at the opening through which the young
man had disappeared.
Dorothy was the first to find her voice. "Mary," she cried in
terrified reproach, "you have made him fall into the water, and perhaps
he will drown. Whatever shall we do?"
Mary did not reply, but speeding to the entrance of the cave, looked
out over the uneven ledges.
The Britisher was lying, apparently unconscious, only a short distance
below her, his shoulders caught in a deep seam of the rocks, while the
rest of his body lay along a narrow ledge a few feet lower.
"There he is," she said, turning a white face to Dorothy,--"lying there
in the rocks."
Putting 'Bitha aside, Dorothy came and looked down.
"See the blood on his face!" she exclaimed wildly. "'T is coming from
a cut on the side of his head. Oh, Mary, I'm afraid you have killed
him!"
Mary started to reply; but Dorothy had already sprung past her through
the mouth of the cave, and was flying down the rocks to where the
wounded man lay.
Tearing the silken kerchief from about her neck, she knelt beside him
and endeavored to wipe the blood from his face, while Mary watched her
in silence from above, with 'Bitha clinging to her, and crying softly.
"I must have some water, Mary," said Dorothy, who saw that the blood
came from a cut in the side of the young man's head, "and I want
another kerchief. Throw down yours."
Mary, without replying, tossed down her own kerchief, but without
removing her eyes from the white face beneath her.
Dorothy ran to the sand-beach near by, and, having dabbled her bloody
kerchief in the water, hurried back; then laying it folded upon the
wound, she bound it fast with the one Mary had thrown her, lifting the
sufferer's head as she did this, and holding one of his broad shoulders
against her knee, while her nimble fingers deftly tied the knots.
Scarcely had she finished when she was startled, but no less relieved,
to hear a long, quivering sigh come from his lips; and her color
deepened as she looked into his face and met his opening eyes gazing
wonderingly into her own. Then they wandered over her bared neck and
throat, only to return to her eyes, dwelling there with a look that
made her voice tremble as she said, "We are sorry you are hurt, sir; I
hope it is nothing serious."
He made no reply, and, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Do you feel
able to stand on your feet?"
Still he did not answer, but gave her that same intent, questioning
look, as if gazing through and beyond the depths of the eyes above him.
As she stammeringly repeated her inquiry, he sighed heavily, and seemed
to shake his dreaming senses awake, for, raising himself a little, he
passed his shapely brown hand over his bandaged head, and laughed,
albeit not very mirthfully.
"The other fair young dame must be rejoiced at my mishap," he said,
"but--I thank you for your care. I seem to have done something to my
head, for it feels like a burning coal." And he touched the bandage
over the wound.
"It is the salt water, getting into the cut," Dorothy explained, as he
rose slowly and stood before her. "I am very sorry it is so painful;
but it will stop the bleeding."
"As it was you who placed it there, I like it to burn," he said in a
tone to reach her ears alone. "But I'll not forget, even when the pain
ceases." And he looked down into her face in a way that made her eyes
droop.
"I regret very much, sir, that you were injured," said Mary Broughton,
her voice coming from over his head.
He glanced up at her and bowed mockingly. Then stooping to regain his
hat, he said, bending his eyes on Dorothy, "Tell me the name I am to
remember you by."
She did not answer; and he stood looking at her as though awaiting her
pleasure.
"That can be no matter," she said at last, and in a very low voice.
"Ah, but it is--a very great matter," he exclaimed eagerly, laying a
hand on her arm, as she turned away to climb up to the cavern.
Some inward force seemed to be impelling her, and scarcely aware of
what she was saying, she murmured her own name, and he repeated it
after her.
This brought a still deeper color to her cheeks; but as if remembering
all she had so strangely forgotten in the presence of this enemy of her
country, she pushed away his detaining hand, and passed quickly up the
rocks to where Mary was standing.
The young man said nothing more, but looked up at the two; then lifting
his hat, he turned and walked slowly away.
CHAPTER XII
He had scarcely gone when the two girls made haste to leave the cave
and return to the house.
"'T is most unfortunate for us, Dot, that he found the cave, or that
all this should befall," said Mary, as they went down the rocks. "You
know what we have to do to-night; and it may make our work dangerous,
now that he has been here."
A soft whistle interrupted Dorothy's reply; and looking up, they saw
the lean visage of Johnnie Strings, who was perched upon the rocks
above the cave they had just left.
Having attracted their attention, the pedler made haste to join them.
"Well, I snum!" he exclaimed. "Mistress Mary, whatever was the
Britisher seekin' about here, an' talkin' about? What ailed his head,
all tied up, like 't was hurt?"
"He said he heard us talking, and came to see who it was," small 'Bitha
took it upon herself to explain, "and Mary Broughton pushed him down
the rocks."
Johnnie began to laugh, but Dorothy turned to the child and said,
"'Bitha, you know that it is not true, for he stepped backward himself,
and fell over."
"Yes; but 't was Mary made him," 'Bitha insisted. "And, 'though I was
sorry to have him hurt, I was glad Mary made him go away."
"Were you there all the time, Johnnie Strings, and never came nigh to
help us?" demanded Mary, indignantly. They were now walking along
together, for Johnnie seemed inclined to accompany them to the house.
"Nay, nay, mistress," he declared emphatically, but still grinning, as
though vastly pleased. "But I should say ye needed no help from me to
frighten away redcoats. I only came up as I heard Mistress Dorothy say
you'd made him fall into the water. Then I sat an' watched her tie up
his head,--more 's the pity; for belike he'll only use it to hatch more
deviltry for his soldiers to carry out hereabouts."
"Do you know who he is?" inquired Dorothy, her face taking on a little
more color.
"Yes, mistress,--he is a dragoon. I saw him over at Salem t' other