From Kingdom to Colony
Pickett, a valiant soldier, with a stout arm and true heart. They have
had him these three months, a prisoner in Boston, and we have been most
anxious to bring about his exchange. General Washington has now
arranged this through Southorn, who is to return to-morrow to Boston,
and Captain Pickett is to be sent to us. After that, as I have said,
we have no right to dictate Dorothy's movements. Captain Southorn has
told me that he should return to England as soon as may be."
"Then," said Mary in a tone of conviction, and the tears springing to
her eyes, "Dot will go with him."
"Aye, belike," he sighed, "for they love one another truly."
"And you, Jack, do you--can you look at and speak to this man with any
tolerance?" demanded his wife, the asperity of her voice seeming to dry
away the tears.
"I try to do so, for Dot's sake, and for what he is to her. I've found
him to be a gentleman, and a right manly fellow, despite the prank of
which he was guilty."
"Well, I shall hate him the longest day I live!"
Mary could say nothing more, for Mistress Knollys and Hugh now came in
from another room, where they had been together.
Dorothy had passed this room on her way up the stairs, and seeing Hugh,
stopped, while he came forward quickly to meet her.
"Oh, Hugh, but I am truly glad to see you once more!" she exclaimed.
"How long, how very long it seems since you went away!" And there were
tears shining in the eyes she raised to his face.
He clasped both her extended hands, and reminding himself of all he had
heard, strove to hide his true feelings, while his mother, from the
room back of them, watched the two in silence, still seeming to hear
the cry he had uttered only a moment before,--
"Oh, mother, mother, I feel that my heart will break!"
Dorothy could not but observe the paleness of his face, and the traces
as of recent tears showing about the blue eyes; but she attributed
these to other than the real cause,--perhaps to matters arising between
his mother and himself after their long separation.
"I am glad you have missed me sufficiently to make the time seem long
to you, Dot," he replied, well aware, in the bitterness of his own
heart, of how little this had to do with her show of emotion.
"Aye, I have missed you very much," she declared earnestly. "And so
many sad things have happened since!"
"Yes--and so many that are not sad," he added significantly, desiring,
since he might be expected to speak of her marriage, to have it over
with.
A burning blush deepened the color in her cheeks. She drew away the
hands he had been holding all this time, her eyes fell, and she seemed
scarcely to know how to reply.
"I pray God you will be very happy, Dorothy." And his speaking her
full name accentuated the gravity of his voice and manner.
"Thank you, Hugh," she replied, trying to smile: then, with a nervous
laugh, "And when you return to Marblehead and see Polly Chine, I hope I
may say the same to you."
The young man forced a laugh that well-nigh choked him. It had been
hard enough to endure before he saw her. But even when he knew from
her brother of her being forced into a marriage with this Britisher,
his heart refused to relinquish all hope, despite what his friend had
told him of Dorothy's own feeling toward her husband.
But he had still cherished the idea that somehow, in some way, they
might never come together again; that the Britisher, believing Dorothy
to have no love for him, might sail away to England without her, should
the fortune of war spare him to do this.
He also reckoned--hoped, rather--that the girl was so young as to
recover from any sentiment this stranger might have awakened within her
heart.
But now, in the light of what had come about and was soon to be, all
hope was dead for him. The sight of the face and form he had never
loved so well as now,--when she seemed so sweet and so lovable in her
newly acquired womanliness--all this was unnerving him.
With these thoughts whirling through his brain, he stood looking at
her, while he forced such an unnatural laugh as made her glance at him
nervously and draw herself away.
"I'm not like to see the old town for many a long day, I fear," he
managed to say, his voice growing less strained as he saw the wondering
look in her dark eyes; "and as for Polly Chine, you must find one more
suited to my taste before you 've cause to wish me what I now wish you
with all my heart."
With this he turned hastily away, and his mother asked, "You are going
to get ready to start for Cambridge, child?"
"Yes," replied Dorothy, "I must leave at once."
"And can I do aught to help?" the good woman inquired.
Upon being assured that she could not, she cheerily bade the girl make
haste, and to remember that she was expected to return the next day.
"I shall miss the child sorely," she said, as the click of Dorothy's
little heels died away on the floor above.
Hugh said nothing, but sighed heavily, as he stood looking out of the
window with eyes that saw nothing.
His mother went to him and laid a gentle hand upon his broad shoulder.
"Oh, my son, my dear son," she said in a trembling voice, "my old heart
is sore for you. I have hoped for years that--"
He whirled suddenly about.
"Don't mother--don't say any more--not now. Let me fight it out alone,
and try to keep such a bearing as will prevent her from knowing the
truth."
Then the passion in his voice died out, and he caressed her gray hair
with a loving touch.
She drew his face down and kissed him.
"Come," she said, with an effort at cheerfulness,--"come into the other
room and have speech with Mary before you go, else she'll think we've
lost all proper sense of our manners. This is the first time you and
she have met since her marriage."
CHAPTER XXXII
It was evening when the party reached the headquarters at Cambridge.
A faint afterglow of the brilliant sunset still lingered, but the
roadway leading to the entrance of the house was dusky with the shadows
of coming night, which almost hid the great trees on either side.
The air about was filled with the faint hum of camp life. Occasionally
a voice could be heard, or the neighing of a horse,--figures of men
were discernible here and there, and a sentry was pacing before the
steps of the mansion.
"Here we are, Dot," said her brother; and dismounting, he helped her
from her horse. "Careful, child;" for she had tripped, her
riding-skirt having become entangled about her feet as she followed him
into the open doorway. "I will take you directly to the room prepared
for you, and do you wait there until I return."
She said nothing, but held fast to his arm.
"Come, be brave," he whispered; "there is naught for you to fear." And
he led her within, leaving Hugh Knollys with the other men outside.
The hall was spacious and well lighted. Several officers and privates
were moving about, all of whom stared wonderingly at the unusual sight
of a lady,--although it was not easy to decide whether it was a woman
or child--this dainty little figure in the riding-habit, who was
looking about with unconcealed curiosity.
Far down the hall, to the left, her brother opened a door, showing a
spacious, well-furnished chamber, where a wood fire was blazing,--for
the night was drawing in chilly.
"Now take off your hat, child, and feel at home," he said, kissing her.
"Remember there is naught to fear. It is only that we are wishing to
fix matters for you, little one, so that you'll be happy." And he
kissed her again as she clung to his neck.
"Ah, Jack," she whispered, "you are so good to me!"
"I've never had the wish to be other than good," he replied lovingly.
As soon as she was alone, Dorothy removed her hat, and then, as she
stood by the hearth, watching the leaping flames, smoothed out her
curls.
So engaged, and lost in thought, she did not hear the tapping upon the
door, nor see that it opened softly and a man's figure paused on the
threshold, as if watching the slight form standing by the fire, with
the back turned squarely to him.
"Little one," came in a voice that startled the silence.
She turned like a flash, and although the firelight did not touch his
face, it was not needed to tell her who it was.
He closed the door, and advanced with outstretched arms, laughing with
exultation when she fled to them.
"You are still of the same mind as when we parted?" he said, while he
held her as if never meaning to let her go from him again.
"How can you ask?" And she nestled yet closer to him.
His only answer was to kiss her. Then, bringing a chair to the hearth,
he seated himself, and attempted to draw her upon his knee. But she
frustrated this by perching herself upon the arm of the chair, from
which she looked triumphantly into his face.
"Your hands are cold, little one," he said, holding them against his
cheek.
"We had a long ride," she replied, her eyes drooping before the
intensity of his gaze.
"Aye, so you did; are you tired?"
"No, not at all," was her smiling answer, and her appearance did not
belie the words.
"Hungry?"--with a little laugh, and tightening the clasp of his arm
about her.
"No," again lifting her eyes to his happy face.
"Well, I have been hungry for days, and with a hunger that is now being
happily appeased. But a supper is to be ready for you shortly, and
then you are to see General Washington. Do you understand, sweetheart,
what all this is about?" He was looking down at the small hands
resting in one of his own, and smiling as he noted with a lover's eye
how dainty and white they were.
"Yes," she said, "my brother explained all that to me."
"And you will come with me--now, at once, as soon as I can make my
arrangements?" He spoke hurriedly, nervously.
"To England?" she asked, a very serious look now showing in her dark
eyes.
"Aye, to England," he repeated in a tone whose firmness was
contradicted by his perturbed face.
Disengaging one hand, her arm stole around his neck as she whispered,
"I would go to the ends of the earth with you now."
He held her head away, the better to look into her face, as he said
with a sigh of contentment: "Now I can breathe easy! You see I did not
dare believe you would really come,--you've ever been such a capricious
little rebel."
Presently he asked, as he toyed with her small fingers, "Where got you
all these different rings, little one?" and a note almost of jealousy
sounded in his voice. "Here be many pretty brilliants--I thought maids
in this country never wore such. How comes such a baby as you with a
ring like this?" And he lifted her hand to look at the one which had
attracted his special notice.
"My father gave it to me," she said quietly; "it was my mother's--whom
I never saw."
He pressed his lips to the sparkling circlet. "My little wife, I'll be
mother, father--all things else to you. All of them together could not
love you more truly and sacredly than do I. Ah, my darling, you have
but poor knowledge of the way I love you, and how highly I prize your
esteem. How can you, after the rough wooing to which I treated you?"
Then he whispered, "And where is the ruby ring?"
He felt her head stir uneasily against his shoulder, "Surely you did
not throw it away?" he asked after a moment's waiting.
Dorothy laughed, softly and happily.
"You told me that night at Master Weeks'," she whispered, "that you did
not believe what my lips said, but what my eyes had shown you."
"Aye, so I did, and so I thought when I spoke. But until now I've been
tossed about with such conflicting thoughts as scarce to know what to
think."
"That may be so," she said, sitting erect to look at him. "But,