From Kingdom to Colony
it will be for your own welfare, until such time as one of us shall
call upon you to speak."
A few minutes later they were again speeding along, with everything
about them as silent as the stars now glittering in an unclouded sky.
The touch of the keen air upon Dorothy's face seemed to arouse her; and
as her senses became awakened, she was filled with a wild yearning for
the safe shelter of her father's arms.
What would that father say,--how was she ever to tell him of this
dreadful thing?
And yet was it sure to be so dreadful to her?
Yes, it must be. This man was the sworn enemy of her country, and of
the cause for which her brother and her friends were imperilling their
very lives. If she went with him--this Englishman who was now her
husband--it meant that her family would brand her as a traitor, and
that she would be an outcast from them. It might bring about the death
of her father, the light of whose eyes and life she knew herself to be.
She seemed to see once more the beloved face, and hear his voice,
warning the pedler to take care of her.
And poor Johnnie Strings--might he not at this moment be dead, stricken
down by the followers of this very man who was now holding her so close
to his breast, and murmuring fond words between the kisses he pressed
upon her lips.
She was beset by a sudden loathing of him and of herself, and pushing
away his bended face, she tried to sit more erect.
"Stop!" she cried fiercely. "Don't touch me. I did not mean to give
way so. I detest you!"
"Ah, my little rebel,"--and he spoke in no pleased tone,--"have I to
fight the battle all over?"
"You have taken an unfair, a dishonorable advantage of me," she said.
"I am not used to such manners as you have shown. But I tell you
this,--although you have forced me to become your wife, you cannot
force my love."
"So it would seem," was his grim answer.
"Where do you purpose taking me?" she demanded, all her wits now well
in hand.
"That shall be just as you say, sweet mistress," he replied, so
good-naturedly as to surprise her.
"Then take me at once to my father's house," she ordered, with her
natural imperiousness.
"So be it," he said. "And that will be on my own way, as it leads to
Jameson's."
They rode in silence along the snowy road, whose whiteness and the
stars made the only light, until they were within her father's grounds,
and partially up the driveway.
Here she bade him let her down; and he dismounted silently and lifted
her from the horse, detaining her as she stood alongside him, as in her
heart she had hoped he would. And yet had he not done this, she would
have gone her way without a word.
"Is there any doubt but that you will get within the house all safe?"
he asked anxiously.
"None." She lifted her face, and he wished there were a better light
with which to see her.
"And now," he said, "what is your will that I do?"
Dorothy answered quickly and with angry decision.
"Go away and leave me," she exclaimed, "and never speak to me again!"
She could not see the look of pain come to his face. But he still
lingered beside her, and asked again, "And you are certain to get
within the house, and that you fear naught?"
"I fear nothing!" she said impatiently.
"Aye,--I should have cause to know better than ask such a question," he
declared, in a voice that sounded as if now he might be smiling. Then
he asked, "And you mean it,--that I leave you, and keep away?"
"Yes, yes; let me go." And she sought to escape from his grasp.
But he held her firmly, and still closer.
"Do you realize, sweet mistress, that you are my wife,--my own little
wife?"
She did not reply; and bending his head nearer, he exclaimed
passionately: "My own wife you are, and no man can change that,--never,
never! And now, having gained you, I am content to await your
pleasure. My lips shall be sealed until you choose to open them; and
until you send for me, sweet mistress of my heart, I shall not come
nigh you. Only, I pray you, in God's name, not to let the time be far
away."
"Let me go," was all she could say, dismayed as she was by the weight
of sorrow that had come to her, and threatened those whom she loved.
He released her without another word, and she fled swiftly to the house.
Having awakened Tyntie by tossing some bits of ice against her window,
she soon gained entrance, and quieted the wonder of the faithful
servant by telling her that there had been a street fight, and a
gentleman had brought her home on his horse.
Despite the terrible struggle going on in her childish heart, Dorothy
kept up bravely until alone in her own room, whose very familiarity
seemed almost a shock to her, for all that had been crowded into these
few hours made it as though weeks had passed since she arrayed herself
for her brother's wedding,--little dreaming that it was for her own as
well.
And such a wedding! How was it that the young Britisher had dared to
do such a thing? How was it that she had come to sign the register so
meekly? How could she ever dare tell of it? And if she did so, might
not her revelation bring harm to him?
Such were the questions that chased one another through her mind, only
to return again and again with renewed importunity.
She had told him to go, and yet--she loved him truly. And could she be
loyal to her father's cause with such a love battling in her heart?
With thoughts like these the few remaining hours of the night wore
away, bringing to her but snatches of fitful sleep.
Johnnie Strings appeared at the Devereux farm early the following
morning. The red of his face was almost pale, and he was haggard and
wild-eyed, with one of his arms in a sling.
He came to report to John Devereux the happenings of the night before,
and to consult with him as to the best way of imparting to his father
the news of Dorothy's disappearance.
The newly wedded pair had already been told by Tyntie of the girl's
presence in the house; and Jack now hastened to assure the almost
distracted pedler of her safety, adding that they had thought it best
to leave her sleeping undisturbed until she should be ready to come
down and join them.
When Johnnie Strings heard this, he collapsed into a chair.
"Well, well!" he exclaimed, as soon as he could find his voice, "I
never was so dead beat out! My broken arm is pretty bad, to be sure,
but my feelin's was a danged sight worse when I come to my senses last
night. There they had me in fisher Doak's, an' naught could they tell
o' Mistress Dorothy, for none had seen her. I went down to Storms's at
daybreak, and then over to Horton's, an' she'd been seen at neither
place. Comin' by Master Lee's, I first thought to make inquiry there,
thinkin', ye know, she might o' flewed to her father. Then, thinks I,
'Hold on, Strings. If she did, then she's safe as safe; an' if she did
n't, why, ye may be the death o' the old gentleman.'
"So thinkin', I rode back to Horton's ag'in an' begged 'em--an'
Mistress Lettice, who was about plum out o' her head with fright--to
keep quiet, an' not risk scarin' your father to death, while I rode out
here to see ye an' have a sort o' meetin' over it, to decide what's to
be done next an' best. So now, thank the Lord, I find the bird is safe
here in the nest where she b'longs, an' I'll hurry back an' tell
Mistress Lettice, as I promised to do."
With this he pulled himself up from the chair and started for the door.
But the young man stopped him.
"You had better stop here awhile, Strings," he said, "and have
something to eat and drink; I can send Leet in to see Aunt Lettice."
And Mary adding her persuasions, the worn-out pedler was induced to
accept the invitation.
Tyntie soon had a tempting meal spread for him; and having been without
food since leaving the Horton house the night before, he was in a
condition to do it full justice.
John Devereux sat by while the pedler ate, and drew from him the
details of the disturbance.
It had been brought about by a party of the Britishers being requested
to depart from a tavern kept by one Garvin, where they were eating and
drinking until a late hour. A wrangle ensued, during which one of the
dragoons knocked Garvin down, and then the latter's son had retaliated
in kind.
At this, some of the other guests--townsmen--had joined in, and a
regular fight began, spreading soon from the inn to the street, where,
aroused by the noise, others had taken part, although scarcely knowing
why, except for the reason that here were some of the hated enemy, and
they must be made to retreat.
No one had been killed outright, although several were quite badly hurt.
"The queerest part of it is, sir," said the pedler, having finished his
story, "that I've a firm belief 't was none other than David Prentiss
who broke my arm for me. Somethin' must o' turned him blind, I should
say, for him to see a red coat on _me_."
"That is the trouble with these street fights, and especially at
night,--the men seem to lose all sense of sight and reason. Something
has got to be done to make the Governor remove the troops from the
Neck." While speaking, John Devereux rose from his chair, and paced up
and down the room in angry excitement.
"Aye, very true, sir," Johnnie assented, as he drained the last drop of
spirits from his glass. "But however will such a thing be brought
about?"
"I don't know," was the impatient reply. "But it must and shall be
brought about, if we have to rise up and drive them out by main force,
and at the risk of turning our very streets into a battle-ground. And
this is the only thing that has kept us from doing it long ago. But
their insulting tyranny only grows worse, and they seek deliberately to
stir up the people to rash actions; and these, when reported, serve but
to hurt the real cause of our revolting, when tidings of them comes to
the King's hearing."
"Aye, no doubt," the pedler agreed, as he arose from the table. "Now,
if His Majesty could be got to sit down, comfort'ble, like another man
might, an' listen to all we could tell him, he might agree to let us
have what we want, an' what is only fair we should have, an' no
fightin' need be done o'er the matter. The trouble is in this
everlastin' lot o' lyin', gabblin' poll-parrots that he puts atwixt
himself an' us, to tell him what the people do an' don't say an' do.
An' to the poll-parrots he listens, and, listenin', b'lieves. So, for
one, I should say the quicker we fight it out--whether it be in our
streets or up to Boston--"
Mary now came into the room looking very grave; and her husband, paying
no further attention to the pedler, asked anxiously, "What is amiss,
sweet wife?"
She tried to speak quietly, but the tremor in her voice told of alarm.
"Dorothy is awake," she said, "and I think you had best see her at
once. She seems ill."
They left the room together and were soon standing at the girl's
bed,--one on either side, looking down at the restlessly moving head.
The big eyes stared at Jack for an instant with evident recognition.
Then a vacant look came into them, and she laughed in a way to fill him
with apprehension.
A moment more, and she began to mutter--something about Hugh Knollys
falling into the water, and how dark and cool it was, and that she
wanted to go into it, for she was hot,--so hot.
"She is out of her head," Mary whispered; "and this is the way she went
on, to me, before I called you."
Her husband looked again at the unquiet little figure, and reached down
to take the small hand wandering about the coverlid; but she snatched
it from his clasp.
"Go away,--go far away!" she cried. "I told you to go, and I meant it.
Oh, yes,--I did mean it. I am only crying because I hate you,--never