CHAPTER XV
The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the twogirls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the groupin a way to make all their movements visible.
"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come hereto me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house."And Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.
A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which werewell wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" werewaiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.
Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it,in a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.
Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway,dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to theopen sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boatsand report the recent occurrence.
This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing amongthe men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to betold, while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.
So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that hedid not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her lowvoice he turned quickly and came toward her.
There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in hisface as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and thecurling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something shehad never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faintlight giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for hisvoice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shorehis other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that restedso lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closedmore tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes shefelt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heartbeating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she couldhear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he benthis head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingledembarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the worldsee me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot waitanother minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only yousurely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know atonce, is whether my love is returned."
Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,--just behind these rocks; comeand speak to her first."
"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declaredfirmly. "I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent andblessing, if you will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me,Mary--sweetheart; tell me, do you love me well enough to be my wife?"
A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down onhis arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked along moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.
Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lipson hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the fewyards to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.
John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I thoughtshe was here."
"I _am_ here, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; andMary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told herthat her own precious secret was known.
"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, givingher the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that JohnnieStrings had told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks,as indeed the pedler supposed to be the fact.
"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can doit just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house.But before I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked inthe new shed, in the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms aresafe, you had best get him out."
"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.
"I did," was the answer.
"You, Dot--what for?"
"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know.Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will releasehim as soon as you unfasten the door."
"Who is he--do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly ashis sister would have liked.
"He is a redcoat,--one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck,"said Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came uponDot and me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowlingabout the place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, andcaused Dot to put out the signal-lights."
Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignantat Dorothy's apparent lack of what she herself considered to be aproper view of the affair.
"Aha," muttered her lover, his voice full of sharp suspicion. "Didthis man hold much converse with you this morning, Mary?"
"No, very little," she replied uneasily; and Dorothy added with alaugh,--
"I fancy he had a bit more than he enjoyed."
"Johnnie Strings told me of your frightening a Britisher so that henearly tumbled into the sea," John said, speaking in an approving way."And so this is the same fellow, is he? But how comes it, Dot, thatyou found the chance to lock him away?"
"'T is a long story," his sister replied, with a touch of petulance,"and Mary and I must get back to the house. Only,"--and her voicesoftened again--"won't you promise me, Jack, that you will not permithim to be injured? I could never sleep again if I thought I was thecause of any ill befalling him."
She was almost in tears; and knowing this, her brother hastened to say,"There, there, Dot! You've too tender a heart, child. But your mindmay rest easy, for I myself will let the man out as soon as 't isprudent to do so. He shall go his way for this once, but I'll notpromise as to what may befall should he see fit to repeat such a bit ofbusiness."
The moon was rising higher, and its light becoming clearer and moresilvery. The boats were unloaded, and the sailors were pulling themback to the ship, when the girls saw Hugh Knollys coming toward themfrom the beach; and at sight of him they turned to flee.
"I must go to the house with you two, Mary;" and John Devereux laid adetaining hand upon her arm, bidding Dorothy wait a moment.
"No need for that," she said quickly, fearing that Hugh might accompanythem; "we are not afraid."
But John called out to Knollys,--speaking very carefully, for it stillseemed as though each rock or bush might be concealing a spyingenemy--asking him to go to the Black Hole in charge of the men, as hehimself must first hurry to the house, to rejoin them later.
Hugh turned back, and the three took their way through the woods,Dorothy keeping ahead and the others walking closely together justbehind her.
"Mary," John said presently, and his voice was tremulous as a woman's,"I can scarcely believe it."
"Hush!" she whispered warningly.
But pressing her hand, he said, "Dot knows all about it." And helaughed softly, while Mary's cheeks burned, and she was silent.
Then he added: "You see, I have been under such a strain, so filledwith anxious thoughts, that I well-nigh lost my senses when I landed onthe beach, and knew you were near me, and heard your voice. Then,afterwards, I was so shocked by Dot's prank when I came upon her by therocks, that it is just coming to me what the child has done. It was abrave deed; and but for her doing it, who can say what might havehappened--brave little girl!"
The slight figure was too far ahead of their lagging footsteps
to bereached by his words. Indeed they could not see her at all through thegloom of the woods, although they could hear now and again her lightfootfall, or the cracking of a twig as she stepped upon it.
"She thinks you are displeased with her prank," Mary said, "and I'msure she feels very unhappy about it."
"She shall not feel so very long," he replied heartily.
They found her waiting for them at the back door of the house, ready toput the key into the lock. But before she could do this her brotherput his arms about her and kissed her fondly.
"Brave little girl!" he whispered. "'T is you who have saved the armsand powder for the town."
To his amazement she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing andtrembling like a child.
"Why, Dot, whatever is it?" he asked anxiously, lowering his voice soas not to arouse the inmates of the house.
"She is suffering from a reaction, I think," Mary said softly; "but itwill soon pass away."
But Dorothy was of too dauntless a spirit for her brother to be contentwith this explanation; and holding her close in his arms, he went onassuring her that he was not displeased, but that she had done a braveact, and that every one would say the same if the news of it should getabroad.
"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, whereyou should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll gotogether and release your prisoner."
All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over hisheart, quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as shesaid with a hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am makingfor Mary,--a big boy crying in your arms!"
"You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was openingthe door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man."
"And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queriedMary Broughton, with dignified coquetry.
"Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already.And now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, heleaned over and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followedDorothy into the house.
No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously throughthe pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs.
The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of eachoverlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reachingexpanse of the sea.
Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, roomswere in the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those ofJoseph Devereux were far to the front, and looked out directly upon thegrounds and wooded land that ran down to the beach, where the waterstretched away to the horizon.
They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with themoonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they neededno candle.
As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat totell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, whilethe solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal.
"You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to sodisconcert Mary that she said uneasily,--
"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."
At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl'sneck.
"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knewlong ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged hercloser, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"
Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.
Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturnedface upon which the moonbeams were resting.
"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far morethan before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."
"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she wascrying once more.
"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, cryingtwice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."
"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see himthis minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what Ido or say."
"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherlyfashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. Andnow," she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, thisvery minute. I want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."
With this she began tugging at the fastenings of the unfamiliargarments; and Dorothy, despite her tears, commenced to laugh, but in anervous, unnatural way.
"Never mind," she said; "I will do all that, Mary, for I understand itbetter than you. And," straightening herself, "I'll stop crying. Inever knew I could be such a fool."
Long after Mary was sleeping, Dorothy was still lying awake listeningfor her brother's return. She knew she would hear him, for his roomwas just across the hall, opposite her own.
As she nestled among the lavender-scented pillows, visions would keepcoming to her of the handsome face she had seen that morning, and againthat very night. The purple-hued eyes, edged so thickly with swartcurling lashes, seemed to be looking into her own, as when she held hiswounded head pillowed against her knee, while his voice yet thrilled inher ears as had never any man's before.
And then came the realization that this man was her country's avowedenemy,--a hated Britisher!
Her conscience smote her as she thought of the trick she had playedhim, recalling how trustingly he had entered the dark shed, and howsilent he had been at first, when she slammed the door and shot thewooden bar across. Then how fiercely he had seemed to fling his broadshoulders against the door of his prison, making her fear that he wouldbe able to come forth and visit his wrath upon the audacious youngrebel who had served him such a trick.
But she could find some comfort in thinking of how she had stolen back,and called him by name, at which the blows became stilled; and of howshe had then told him to have no fear for his safety, as in a shorttime he would be released, to go where he pleased.
Mary, did she but know all these thoughts, would be angry, and call herunfaithful to the cause. And Jack, and her father--what would herfather say to her?
She had never in her life feared him. But now a quaking dread besether as to what the morrow might bring from him of censure anddispleasure. And at this she began to cry again--softly, but bitterly.
Whether the girl knew it or not, her nerves had by this time becomestrained to the uttermost; and sleep, the blessed healer that comes soreadily to the young and healthful, was beginning to woo her away fromall her troubles, when a slight noise startled her into new wakefulness.
Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heardhim say something to their father, who was passing on toward his ownapartments.
Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some woolslippers and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stolesoftly across the passage to her brother's room.
The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small handsto shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came toanswer her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, andthe rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, hedrew her within the room and closed the door.
"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely makeyourself ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavysilver candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsomeface, now looking all the darker from contrast with his snowylinen--for he was in his shirt-sleeves.
He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her handsfrom before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child--whatis troubling you?"
"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." Andtwo great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the roundedcheeks, whose bloo
m was paler than he had ever seen it.
"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he askedgently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she didnot speak. "I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you intears; it hurts me."
"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don'twant to hurt you."
He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he saidsoftly: "Is it that you are jealous of me, or of--Mary? Is it that youthink I cannot love her and love you as well?"
"No, no! Oh, no! It is n't that, Jack. I know you love me, and willalways, as long as I live--just as I love you. I am happy to have Maryfor my own sister; but I--I--" And she broke down again.
"Now see here, little girl," he said, stroking the round white arm herfallen-back sleeve left bare; "don't fret in your heart about to-night,or whatever you may have done. It is never any use to worry over whatis past and gone. 'T is not a maidenly act, Dot, for a girl to arrayherself in men's garments, and you must never do it again. But we mustall admit that 't was a lucky thing you did it this night; and the helpyou rendered us far more than makes up for your own thoughtlessness.So you need fear no blame on account of it."
"Does father know?" she asked nervously.
"Not as yet; but I will tell him the whole story of your bravery, sohe'll not misjudge you."
She raised her face and kissed him; then after a little hesitation sheasked shyly, "And the Britisher I locked in the shed,--did you releasehim, as you said you would?"
Jack smiled down into the upturned face. "He was gone when Hugh and Igot there; and the bar was wrenched off, sockets and all."
"He is strong," Dorothy said, a light coming to her eyes that herbrother did not see; and she laughed softly.
"Well, had he the strength of Samson, he'd best take heed to himselfhow he comes prowling about my father's premises at unseemly hours."
He spoke with angry emphasis; and Dorothy was glad the two had not met.
From Kingdom to Colony Page 16
