From Kingdom to Colony
And so she sat silent, with clasped hands, musing over all these
things, while Mistress Trask removed the dishes. And while she was
doing this, the landlady told for the first time--the excitement having
driven it from her mind--how Johnnie Strings had appeared at an early
hour, and bade her say that he was forced to go across country to carry
a despatch, but would return by noon, to escort the two girls to
Dorchester.
Dorothy took her way up the stairs toward the room above. All the
girlishness within her was now dead, and the expression in her pale
face was that of a woman--and one whose heart was wrung by bitter
sorrow.
The door was closed, and in front of it a man was seated. A musket lay
across his knees, and his head was sunk on his breast as if he were
buried in his own meditations. But as Dorothy drew near, he looked up,
and she saw that it was none other than Fisherman Doak.
"Mistress Dorothy!" he gasped, staring open-mouthed at her white face
as though doubtful of her being a reality.
"Yes," she said quickly, "and I am glad it is you, Doak."
"Sweet little mistress," he exclaimed, amazement showing in every
lineament of his honest visage, "in Heaven's name, whatever be ye doin'
here?"
"Never mind, Doak," she answered, "what I am doing here. I wish to
see--to speak with General Washington, and at once."
"You--you?" he stammered, rising slowly to his feet, and shaking
himself in the effort to collect his scattered wits.
"Yes," she said impatiently. "You are on guard here--he knows you are
outside his door?"
"Why, yes, mistress--o' course. I'm to be here in case he needs aught,
as well as to keep folk out. He be alone, an' has ordered thet he's
not to be disturbed."
"If he is alone," and her tone expressed relief, "so much the better
for me. I must have speech with him this very minute."
Doak opened his mouth in remonstrance, but she would not permit him to
speak.
"Do you hear?" she demanded. "I must see him this minute. Go and tell
him so; and tell him it is upon a matter of life and death."
He said nothing more, but, looking more dazed than ever, turned and
rapped on the door.
A voice whose deep tones had not yet left Dorothy's ears gave
permission to enter, and Doak, after bidding her to stop where she was,
went into the room.
For a second Dorothy stood hesitating. Then a look of fixed resolution
came to her face, and before the door could close after the
fisherman-soldier, she stepped forward and followed him.
Washington was--as when she intruded upon him before--seated at a
table. But now he was writing; and as the two entered the room, he
looked up as though annoyed at the interruption.
But Dorothy, pushing Doak aside, advanced with an impetuosity that gave
no opportunity for questioning or reproof, and took away all need of
explanation from the astonished guardian of the great man's privacy.
"You gave me this, sir--last night," she said, holding out the paper,
and speaking in the same fearless, trusting manner she would have
adopted toward her own father, "and you will surely remember what you
promised."
As she came forward, Washington, seeing who it was, laid down his pen,
and his face took the expression it had borne when he was talking with
her the evening before. There was a tender, a welcoming light in his
eyes, as though her coming were a pleasure,--as if it brought relief
from the contemplation of the grave responsibilities resting upon him.
He arose from his chair, and taking the paper from her hand, laid it
upon the table. Then he turned to her again and said smilingly, "My
dear child, the promise was surely of small worth if I could forget it
so soon after it was given."
But there was no smile upon the face into which he was looking, and its
earnestness seemed now to bring to him the conviction that the girl had
come upon no trifling matter.
He bade Doak resume his post outside the door, and to permit no one to
enter, howsoever important the business might be. Then, when the
fisherman had gone, he invited Dorothy to be seated, and asked her to
tell him the object of her coming.
He sat down again by the table, but she remained standing, and now came
close to him, her clasped hands and pleading eyes fully as beseeching
as the words in which she framed her petition.
"Oh, sir--I have come to beg that you will not hang the English officer
whom I hear you suspect of being a spy."
Washington started in surprise; a stern light gathered in his eyes, and
he looked as though illy pleased.
Dorothy was quick to see this, and felt that her only hope of success
lay in telling him the entire truth.
This she did, confiding in him as freely and fully as though she were
his daughter.
When she ended, he sat for a time as if pondering over her story, and
the request to which it was the sequel. He had not interrupted her by
so much as a single word, but his eyes had been fixed upon her face
with an intensity that softened as she went on, in her own impulsive
way, to tell him of her troubles.
Presently he said: "It is truly a sad tangle, my child,--one scarce
proper to think any gentleman would seek to bring into your young life.
But I am not yet old enough to hold that we should judge hot-headed
youth with too great severity. Indeed," the grave lines of his face
relaxing a little, "in this case I can see that the young man had
strong temptation to forget himself, and to do as he did."
He paused and looked at her keenly, as if searching for the answer to a
question seeking solution in his own mind.
She stood silently waiting, and he continued: "First of all, I must
know of a certainty as to one matter, in order that I may act with
discretion. My child," and he took one of her hands in his own, "do
not fear to show me your heart. Show it to me as you would to your own
dear father, were he, rather than I, asking you. Tell me--do you love
this man who is really your husband?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, with no sign of hesitancy, as she lifted her
head and looked at him through the tears his words had brought to her
eyes, "I do love him."
Washington smiled, as if relieved of a perplexing problem.
"This brings about a very different order of affairs," he said in a way
that made her heart bound with hope. "Now it may be possible that this
captain is not your Cornet Southorn, although I think there is small
room for doubt in the matter. But, in order to solve the question, I
will have him brought here. Do you, my child, conceal yourself behind
the curtains of that window; and if he proves to be the officer of whom
we have been speaking, you have but to show yourself to assure me of
the fact. If not, then remain in hiding; and after putting a few
questions to him, I will have him taken back to his room."
Doak was despatched to carry out the order, while Dorothy hid herself
in the curtains,--trembling with agitation when the sound of footsteps
was heard again outside the door.
The fisherman entered with the prisoner, and Dorothy, looking through
the slightly parted drapery, saw the olive face and purple-blue eyes of
the man she loved.
His long boots were splashed with the mire of the highway, his uniform
showed traces of the struggle of the night before, and his curly hair
was dishevelled.
More than this, his haggard face and dark-circled eyes gave proof of a
sleepless and anxious night.
But as he came into the room he drew himself erect, and met
unflinchingly the stern eyes of the man in whose hands lay his fate.
The door had no sooner closed upon Doak's retreating figure than
Dorothy stepped from behind the curtains.
The young man gave a violent start, and the arms that had been folded
across his chest fell to his sides, as he uttered her name,--at the
same time taking a step toward her. Then he came to a standstill, and
passed his hand over his eyes, as if to clear them of something that
impeded his vision.
And there was reason for this, as Dorothy did not speak, and stood
motionless, her hands clasped in front of her, while she looked at him
with an expression he seemed unable to define.
Washington's face had grown less severe as he noted all this; and while
the two still remained gazing at one another, his voice broke the
silence.
"The cause of your presence in this neighborhood, Captain Southorn,
which your gallantry forbade you to explain, even in the face of an
ignominious death, has been revealed to me by one whose truth and
fidelity no human being should know better than yourself. She has told
me that which leads me to take upon myself the responsibility of
clearing you from the very grave suspicions aroused by your action of
last night, and of holding you simply as a prisoner of war. For all
this, you have Mistress Dorothy to thank--for your life and your
restored honor."
No pen can describe the emotions of the two listeners as they heard
these words, nor could any pencil portray the reflection of these
emotions upon their faces.
Southorn's expression was that of thankfulness, mingled with
amazement,--doubt, as though he feared the treachery of his own senses,
while Dorothy's face became all aglow with delight and triumph at her
success.
The young man stepped impetuously toward Washington, and was about to
speak, but the latter raised his hand.
"You, sir, as an officer of the King," he said gravely, "know the
weight of such a debt as this, and no words of mine can add to the
sense of your obligation to her. This being so," and he glanced from
one to the other of them, while the suggestion of a smile relieved the
sternness of his face, "I will leave you with her for a short time, in
order that you may express your gratitude in fitting terms, while I
consider what course is best for me to pursue in carrying out the
purpose I have in view."
With this he arose from his chair, and bowing to them, withdrew to the
inner room, closing the door after him.
For a single moment there was silence between the two he had left
alone, and no one could now accuse Dorothy of any lack of color in her
cheeks.
"Dorothy--sweetheart, what does all this mean?"
The young man spoke in almost a whisper, looking at her as though she
were a vision, a part of some strange dream. His voice faltered, and
his eyes moved restlessly as he came toward her, walking slowly and
uncertainly.
But Dorothy, her wonted self-possession and courage now fully restored,
did not wait for him to come to her. She advanced smilingly, her eyes
alight with happiness, and laid both her hands within his.
Then, while they stood face to face, she told him hurriedly of what she
had done.
While she was speaking, he looked at her in that same queer way, his
eyes wandering over her face and figure, while now and again he pressed
her little soft hands, as though to gain through them still greater
assurance of the blessed reality.
But when she finished, his eyes ceased their roaming, and became fixed
upon her beaming face.
"My darling," he said slowly, "do you realize the full measure of what
you have done for me? Do you know that you not only have given me
life, but have saved me from that which to a soldier is more terrible
than the torments of hell itself,--the disgrace of being hanged as a
spy?"
His voice broke, and a spasm of pain shot across his face. Then he
exclaimed in a tone filled with self-condemnation, "And this you have
done for the man who forced his love upon you,--who married you by a
trick--aye, by violence; the man who--"
She drew one hand away from his grasp and put it firmly against his
lips.
"Stop!" she commanded, with all her natural imperiousness. "I'll
listen to no more talk such as that. Had you not married me in the way