From Kingdom to Colony
lengths her childish impulsiveness might have spurred her, had it not
been for the keen looks bent upon her by the officers at the other side
of the room.
Washington seemed to be conscious of this, for his eyes took a curious
expression as he said, looking down into the girl's earnest face, "I am
tempted to ask, little one, what great subject makes your eyes so
solemn."
He spoke more than half jestingly, and it was apparent that he judged
her to be much younger than her actual years, because of her diminutive
stature and childish appearance.
"I was wishing, sir, that you would give me something to remember you
by," was her frank answer; "that is,"--hesitating a little--"I was
wishing I could have something to keep all my life."
She stopped, scarcely knowing how to express herself, while Mary stared
at her with manifest disapproval.
"I understand, my child," Washington said, now looking at her more
gravely.
He paused, and seemed to be considering the matter. Then he laid his
hand lightly upon the girl's shoulder, much in the way a father would
have done.
"I shall take pleasure, little one, in giving you something by which to
remember me."
Resuming his seat by the table, he took up the packet he was examining
when they interrupted him a few minutes before.
He now opened it hastily, and a number of papers dropped out.
One of these he picked up, and tore from it a strip, which he looked at
carefully, as though to be certain it was clear of writing; then,
dipping a quill into the ink, he wrote a few words upon it.
"Take this, my child," he said, extending it to her, "and should you
ever be in need of any service within my power to render, you have but
to send this slip of paper, to remind me that I have promised to assist
you."
Dorothy stood speechless, well-nigh bewildered, her eyes fixed upon his
face, now alight with an aspect almost paternal.
She said nothing, did not even thank him; but taking the paper, she
pressed her lips to the hand that proffered it, and then, turning
quickly, sped from the room.
"We are most honored, sir--you are very kind," said Mary, who felt it
incumbent upon her to express their gratitude in more formal fashion
than Dorothy had adopted.
Washington was looking at the door through which the girl had
disappeared, but now he turned and bowed courteously.
"Much of the obligation is my own," he replied with courtly gallantry.
Then his manner changed as he said: "Your sister is a sweet little
maid,--it is most sad that she should have lost her father. He was, as
is his son, a worthy and stanch patriot. These are troublous times,
Mistress Devereux, and one so young and charming as she may come to
feel the need of a protector; although, from all I have seen of her
brother--your husband--it might well be supposed my own poor services
would never be called into use."
"I thank you, sir; and I am sure Dorothy does the same--and both of us
with all our hearts." And Mary ventured to extend her hand.
Washington arose from his chair, and his large, strong fingers closed
about her own slender ones in a firm clasp, which she felt still
tingling in their tips when she found Dorothy waiting for her at the
head of the stairs.
"Oh, Mary," she burst out, looking as though something were amiss, "I
am glad you are come. I've been so affrighted."
Then, as they started down the stairs, she told how a
dreadful-appearing man had come out of the tap-room, and stood glaring
at her, as he demanded fiercely to know her business.
"I was so scared that I could not speak, and I did not dare go back
into the room. I am sure the man was full of drink."
"Where is he? I see no one." And Mary craned her neck to look over
the rail into the hall below.
"He went back into the taproom when he found I would not answer him."
They had now reached the foot of the staircase; and as though waiting
for the clicking of their high heels on the oaken floor, the taproom
door opened suddenly, and a great hulking fellow, with a red face,
topped by a wild shock of black hair, came staggering against them.
Both girls cried out, and started to fly up the stairs. But they were
reassured by the advent of Mistress Trask, who chanced to be coming
down the hall, and who spoke sharply to the man, bidding him have a
care how he ran into ladies.
"'T is only Farmer Gilbert," she said, turning to her frightened
guests, and seeming surprised to find them in that part of the house.
"There's no cause to be alarmed, my pretties."
Mary glanced with disgust at the drunkard, who was now attempting a
maudlin apology. But she said nothing, either to him or to the
landlady, and went her way with Dorothy.
No sooner had they closed the door of their own apartments than they
hurried to the light and examined the precious slip of paper.
It read: "A solemn promise given to Mistress Dorothy Devereux, of
Marblehead. G. Washington."
"Oh, Dot," Mary exclaimed, "I never thought,--we have told him an
untruth!"
Dorothy was still looking at the paper, but at Mary's alarming words
she raised her eyes in wonder.
"You are not Mistress Dorothy Devereux, but Mistress--"
"Sh-h!" cried Dot, putting her hand quickly over Mary's lips. Then
they looked at one another and laughed, but uneasily.
CHAPTER XXIX
Neither of the girls found much rest during the night, owing to the
strangeness of their surroundings and the exciting experiences that had
come to them. In addition to this, their wakefulness was increased by
the noise of the gale outside.
The rain had ceased, but the wind at times attained such violence as to
rattle the casements like the jarring of a cannonade. Then its force
would lessen, and it would moan about the gables and down the chimneys
with a sound as though the patriots already fallen might be lamenting
the long-continued siege of Boston.
With these deeper tones there would come loud shrieks, like the
laughter of fiends, as if the Prince of Darkness and his legions were
making merry over the impending downfall of goodly customs, uprooted by
slaughter and bloodshed.
During the earlier part of the night there was some unusually loud
talking outside, seeming to indicate a new excitement.
This caused the girls fresh alarm; but the matter was explained by the
landlady, when she brought their breakfast in the morning.
A redcoat had been caught in the cornfield back of the house, and later
on, his horse was found fastened in the woods near by.
When brought, as he was at once, before the Commander-in-Chief, the
prisoner had denied indignantly the imputation of being a spy. Yet he
had refused stubbornly to explain the reason for his being outside his
own lines, and so close to the spot where a conference was being held
between Washington and his officers.
He wore the British uniform, but this was concealed by an ordinary
riding-cloak, and on his head was a civilian's hat.
"So," said the landlady, after telling the story, "if he be no spy, 't
will be a hard matter for him to prove it, with everything lookin' so
black. An', oh, mistress, he's as handsome as a picter, an' don't look
to be twenty-five. It do seem a mortal pity that he must hang."
"Hang!" repeated Dorothy, with horror. "Why must he hang?"
"Why, surely ye know, mistress," the woman explained, "in war-times a
spy be always hanged."
"Is it not dreadful--and will they hang him?" Mary asked with a
shudder, staring into the face of the voluble landlady, who was now
arranging the dishes upon the table.
"So the talk goes 'mongst the men. They had much ado with Farmer
Gilbert, who was for takin' the young man an' hangin' him there an'
then. But he had to be brought afore General Washington himself. An'
now he's locked up in one o' the upper rooms, with Tommy Macklin pacin'
up an' down afore the door, like he was measurin' the hall for a new
carpet, 'stead o' wearin' out the strip I wove with my own hands, out
o' rags."
Dorothy, who sat facing Mary, her elbows on the table, and her chin
resting in her small palms, now drew the landlady's attention by
inquiring if she knew the prisoner's name.
"Yes,--I did get to hear it when General Washington asked him; for, to
say truth, I was listenin' outside the door. He answered up fair
enough, an' spoke it like there was naught to be ashamed of in the
matter, neither. 'T was Captain Southorn."
She heard a half-choked gasp from Dorothy's lips, and saw the look that
came to Mary's face as her eyes turned like a flash toward the younger
girl.
"Is it possible he can be known to ye?" she asked quickly.
"Yes,--I think we met him once," Mary answered falteringly. "That is,
we met a young man of the same name. But he was not a captain--only a
cornet of dragoons."
"Still, it is like to be the same man," the landlady said rather
insistingly, as though hoping that such was the fact. "Cornets grow
quick to be captains in these woful days, if they be but brave, which
surely this young man is, unless his looks belie him."
Neither of the girls had paid any attention to her, but sat motionless,
each with her eyes riveted upon the other's face, as if seeking to read
her thoughts.
But now they both looked at Mistress Trask, whose voice had lost its
speculative tone, and was filled with intense earnestness.
"Oh, mistress," she was saying, still addressing Mary, "mayhap he be
the same man ye've known. An' if this be so, I do beg ye to try what
prayin' the favor of his pardon from Washington will do. 'T is a foul
death--to be hanged; an' such as he ought surely to die in their beds,
unless they come to die in battle. The General be still here, 'though
Colonel Glover an' many o' the other officers left early this mornin'.
If they should take the young man out an' hang him, I'd never 'bide
here another day. Will ye not go, mistress, an' try to save his life?"
Before Mary could reply, Dorothy spoke up.
"I will go," she said quietly, taking her elbows from the table, and
with an expression in her eyes such as Mary never saw there before.
"Oh, do, mistress!" the landlady exclaimed eagerly, looking at the girl
with admiration. "Pray do, an' God will bless ye for it."
But Mary protested, although weakly, and feeling that she had but
little hope of success.
"No, Dot,--no," she said. "You must not,--it would never do. And then
it might not be the same one, after all."
But her own belief contradicted her words, and sounded in her voice
even as she uttered them. She was certain it was he who had appeared
to be watching them when they came from Aunt Penine; and he had
doubtless followed them to the tavern.
Dorothy made no reply until she drained a glass of milk the landlady
filled for her; then she arose from the table.
"I am going," she said, as calmly as before. "Please," seeing that
Mary was about to renew her objections, "say no more about it. I am
going--and I prefer to go alone."
But Mary could not restrain herself.
"Oh Dot," she asked tremulously, "do you dare do such a thing?"
"Yes, I dare do it, because I must,--because there is nothing else for
me to do."
"Let her go, mistress," urged the landlady; "surely there be naught to
fear for her." Then she said confidently, as Dorothy passed through
the door and out into the hall: "She be that young an' tender that no
one would harm her,--least of all, General Washington. No doubt she'll
be just the one to touch his heart with her pleadin' for the young man.
No one would have the heart to say no to her, she be so little an'
sweet."
Mary felt her own helplessness to turn Dorothy from her purpose.
Indeed she did not dare to say, even to herself, that it was not the
girl's solemn duty to do as she had proposed.