From Kingdom to Colony
at which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses.
But these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, charged
through them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side with
a speed that quickly carried him out of sight.
Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which she
crossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in a
narrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness was
broken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear of
the intruder.
The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led in
different directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tall
pine-trees standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothy
pursued brought her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took a
sharp turn, and then ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, about
the door of which grew a honeysuckle vine.
In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden;
everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in the
unshuttered windows were spotlessly bright.
Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within the
living-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, and
low-ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls,
bedimmed with age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was the
open hearth, back of which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling in
front of the logs was a girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair of
bellows to blow it into a brisker flame.
She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, but
started quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your granny
this morning?"
"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing to
her feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally old
and worried face.
"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down the
heavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhat
disarranged the curls over which it was drawn.
"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, she
says. An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. She
was sayin' last evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."
Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her old
nurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with an
open Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.
"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunny
face, that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devoured
its every feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill,
for sure. An' what a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be a
fine day outside. Ah," with a deep sigh, "if I could only get about as
I used to, my lamb!" The old woman's voice faltered, and the moisture
was showing in her eyes.
"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set,"
Dorothy said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always make
you feel poorly."
"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday I
was runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an'
but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An'
here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor
granddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her.
An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."
Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall
always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she
can for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had
that moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for
anything.
She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said
with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only
she be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."
The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her
shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.
As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of
things I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you
another time."
"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that
ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old
nurse."
"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that
fashion, I'll go straight home again."
The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers
nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher
was here yesterday to see me."
"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath;
for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.
"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it
afterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She
did not want to tell me, either; but I made her."
"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what
she said, Ruth."
The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her
restless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She
told me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one
could change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with a
scarlet color."
"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to
us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes
looked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon
the pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still more
impressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside.
But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said
that naught could change it,--that his heart was set to ye as the
flowers to the sunshine,--that ye held him to wind about your little
finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow,
would come to ye with it."
Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thought
her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. For
a moment--only a moment--she felt frightened and almost helpless, even
turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outer
room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.
Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and she
laughed with joyous disbelief.
"Nonsense, Ruth,--nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and
making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."
"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping
her wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time
will bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some
herbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night,
an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to
Lynn to 'bide."
"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you
fret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and
get well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and
Mary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."
Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my
lamb, if ye married the right man."
Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,--did Moll
tell you where he was?"
"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd
best keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had
to open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,--keep all the redcoats
away from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to
the true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys--he be most
fit for ye."
Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he
is almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to
any one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry
Hugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."
"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and her
lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make
a jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.
"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and
so don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly
head threateningly.
CHAPTER XX
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