From Kingdom to Colony
think it is for anything else. I hate you because your coat is
red,--red, like the ruby ring you forced on my finger whether I would
or no. And even the ring did not want to stay, for it knew me better
than you did. It was so big that you had to hold it on; and now I've
put it away safe,--safe, where no one will ever see, ever know. But it
is red, and red means cruelty; and that is what this war is to be."
The babbling died away in a moan; but before Jack or his wife could
speak, Dorothy began again, now in a stronger voice than before.
"Moll said it must bring sorrow,--sorrow. And yet she said I wound him
like a silken thread around my finger. Ah, _that_ winds tight,
although the ring was loose. And the thread Moll spoke of means love,
but the ring means--But no, I must not tell, never, never, for it would
kill my father. Father, I want you,--where are you?"
This came in a loud cry, and she sank back sobbing, on the
pillows,--for she had struggled partially to her elbow, where Jack held
her so that she could rise no farther.
"Mary, what is to be done?" asked the young man helplessly, anxiety and
fear having for the moment deprived him of his usual promptness and
decision.
"Don't you think we had best send for your father and Aunt Lettice?"
Mary said in her calm way, although the tears were running down her
cheeks. "And the doctor must be called at once."
"Leet has already gone into the town to tell them that Dot is here.
But I will have Trent put the horses into the sleigh, and he and I will
hasten in at once and fetch them all back, and the doctor as well,
unless he can come out ahead of us. You will stop right here beside
her, won't you, sweetheart?" he added anxiously, as he turned to leave
the room.
"Why, of course I will." And Mary looked at her husband a little
reproachfully.
"And you do not mind being left alone?" he asked, looking back over his
shoulder, while his hand gripped the open door in a way that told of
the tension upon him.
She shook her head, smiling at him through her tears.
Jack had no sooner gone than the faithful Tyntie came to see if she
were needed. But Mary sent her away with the assurance that she
herself could do all that was to be done at present.
The ravings of the sick girl troubled her; and she deemed it prudent
that no other ear should hear words she felt might have a hidden
meaning.
Dorothy still rambled on about the ruby ring and scarlet coat. Once
the name of Master Weeks fell from her lips, coupled with wild
lamentations that she had ever signed the register, and so risked the
breaking of her father's heart.
After a little time--Dorothy having become quiet--Mary stood looking
out of the window, her eyes resting on the glittering fields that
spread away to the gray line of the ocean, where the cold waves were
curling in with glassy backs, and foam-ridged edges as white as the
snow they seemed to seek upon the land.
She had been watching the gulls circling about with shrill screams or
hanging poised over the water, when a low call caused her to start.
She turned at once, to see Dorothy sitting up and looking intently at
her, while she seemed to fumble under the pillow for something.
"What is it, dear?" Mary asked, hastening to the side of the bed.
Dorothy drew from beneath the pillow a heavy ring of yellow gold, with
a great ruby imbedded in it, like a drop of glowing wine.
"There it is," she whispered, putting the ring into Mary's hand. "It
is his ring,--only he gave it to me. Hide it,--hide it, Mary. Never
let any one see--any one know. I want to tell you all about it, but I
am so tired now, so tired, and--" The girl fell back with closed eyes,
and in a moment she appeared to be asleep.
After standing a few minutes with her eyes fixed upon the unconscious
face, Mary opened her hand and looked at the ring.
It was a man's ring, and one she recalled at once as having seen before.
It had been upon the shapely brown hand lifted to remove the hat from a
young man's head, that summer day, at the Sachem's Cave.
There came to her a sudden rush of misgiving, as she asked herself the
meaning of it all. What had this hated Britisher's ring to do with
Dorothy's illness and with her ravings? What was all this about Master
Weeks, and signing the register?
She determined to tell her husband of what she had heard and seen, and
let his judgment decide what was to be done.
And yet when he returned, and with him his father and Aunt Lettice and
'Bitha, all of them sad-faced and alarmed over Dorothy's sudden
sickness, something seemed to hold back the words Mary had intended to
speak. And so she said nothing to her husband, but hid the ring away,
resolved that for the present, at least, she would hold her own counsel.
After all--so she tried to reason--it might be nothing more than that
the young Britisher had given Dorothy the ring.
And yet that the girl should accept such a gift from him surprised and
grieved her, knowing as she did that had there been any lovemaking
between the two, it would surely bring greater trouble than she dared
now to consider.
Mary was one who always shrank from doing aught to cause discord; and
so, albeit with a mind filled with anxiety, she decided to keep silence.
Dorothy's ailment proved to be an attack of brain fever, and it was
many weeks before she recovered. And when she was pronounced well
again, she went about the old house, such a pale-faced, listless shadow
of her former self that her brother watched her with troubled eyes,
while her father was well-nigh beside himself with anxiety.
But as often as they spoke to her of their misgivings she answered that
she was entirely well, and would soon be quite as before.
She appeared to have forgotten about the ring, and Mary waited for her
to mention it, wondering after a time that she did not.
At last, late in January, the hated soldiers were ordered away from the
Neck; and great was the rejoicing amongst the townspeople, whose open
demonstrations evinced their delight at being freed from the petty
tyranny of their unwelcome visitors.
It was John Devereux who brought the news, as the other members of the
family sat late one afternoon about the big fireplace in the
drawing-room.
Aunt Lettice and Mary were busy with some matter of sewing, and 'Bitha,
with an unusually grave face, was seated between them on a low stool.
A half-finished sampler was on her knee, and the firelight quivered
along the bright needle resting where she had left off when it became
too dark for her to work.
Dorothy was at the spinet, drawing low music from the keys, and playing
as if her thoughts were far away.
Her father had just come from out of doors, and now sat in his big
armchair, with his hands near the blaze, for the cold had increased
with the setting of the sun.
It had gone down half an hour before, leaving a great crimson gash in
the western sky, above which ran a bank of smoky gray clouds, where the
evening star was beginning to blink.
It had been a day of thawing. The sun had started the icy rime to
running from the trees and shrubs, and melted the snow upon the roofs,
while the white covering of the land was burned away here and there,
until it seemed to be out at knees and elbows, where showed the brown
and dirty green of the soil.
But an intense cold had come with the darkness, turning the melted snow
to crystal, and hanging glittering pendants from everything.
"I wish Cousin Dot was all well, the way she used to be," sighed small
'Bitha, sitting with her rosy face so rumpled by the pressure of the
little supporting palms as to remind one of the cherubs seen upon
ancient tombstones.
She spoke in a voice too low for any one to hear save those nearest
her; and Mary gave a warning "Hush," as she glanced at the abstracted
face of her father-in-law, who was gazing intently at the flames
leaping from the logs.
"She 'll not hear what I say," the child went on, now with a touch of
impatience. "She often does n't hear me when I speak to her. Many
times I ask her something over and over again, when she is looking
straight at me; and then she will act as if she'd been asleep, and ask
me what I've been saying."
"Your cousin was very ill, you must remember, 'Bitha," her grandame
explained; "and it takes her a long time to recover, and be like
herself again."
But the child shook her blonde head with an air of profound wisdom.
"I think it is only that bad medicine of Dr. Paine's," she said. "When
I am ill, I shall ask Tyntie to fetch me a medicine man, such as the
Indians have. I should like to see him dance and beat his drum."
"I should think we have had enough of the sound of beating drums,
'Bitha," replied Mary, speaking so sharply as to arouse her
father-in-law into looking toward her.
Here John Devereux, just returned from the town, came in and announced
the withdrawal of the British soldiers from the town and Neck.
"When will they go?" his wife asked eagerly.
"A shipload of them has already sailed,--it left the harbor before
sunset; and some of the dragoons are about starting. It did my heart
good to see the red-backs taking the road to Salem. We are well quit
of them; and when they are gone we can easily manage all the ships they
send into the harbor to annoy us or spy upon us."
He laughed with a mingling of indignation and contempt; but his manner
changed quickly as he glanced toward his sister.
"Dot!" he cried, "what is it, child?" And he sprang to her.
She had turned about when he came into the room, and was now lying back
against the spinet, her head on the music-rack,--lying there
speechless, motionless; for the girl--and for the first time in her
life--had fainted.
CHAPTER XXIV
An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured out
her secret sorrow.
The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below,
albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the
strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it
came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge,
and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands.
The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made
the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the
candles.
"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the
silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.
"No--no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so
miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary--if only
I might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.
Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to
unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's
illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent
itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she
were a little girl.
Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending
with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of
its own passion.
Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.
"Dorothy," she whispered--"dear little Dot!"
"Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible.
"When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust
me any longer?"
"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with
something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost
convulsively.
"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss
the troubled face.
There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and
the sputtering of the sap from the logs.