CHAPTER XXIV
An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured outher 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 thestrange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so itcame 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 madethe only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away thecandles.
"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew thesilken 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 somiserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary--if onlyI might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.
Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come tounravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy'sillness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spentitself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though shewere a little girl.
Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, endingwith a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm ofits 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 trustme any longer?"
"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this withsomething of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almostconvulsively.
"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kissthe troubled face.
There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood andthe sputtering of the sap from the logs.
Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with wavering,and was now resolved to speak.
"Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemedfilled with fear again, "you can tell no one,--no living person,--noteven Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?"
"Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committingherself.
"What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply.
"Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and toldme to keep for you,--a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?"
"No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then shecried in terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell himor my father of the matter?"
"No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited untilyou were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself."
"Good Mary,--good, true sister." And Dorothy pressed her lips to thehand she clasped.
"But the matter has given me such a heartache, Dot, for I feared Imight be doing wrong. Surely no one can love you more than your ownfather and brother. Why not tell them, as well as me, of--whatever itis?"
"I will, Mary," Dorothy said resolutely. "I intended to, all the time.But not yet, not yet. I want to tell you, first of all, and see if youcan think what is best to be done. And," with a little shudder, "Ithought I had lost the ring; and the first day I was able to slip outof doors, I hunted for it where I got off the horse that night. Oh,that dreadful night!" She almost cried out the words as the sharpnessof awakened sorrow came to her.
"Come, Dot," Mary urged, "tell me. I'll promise to keep silent untilyou bid me speak." She knew they were losing precious time, for herhusband would not be long gone, having promised to return in order thatshe might go down for her own supper.
Dorothy hesitated no longer, but, in the fewest possible words,unburdened her heart, while Mary listened in speechless amazement.
Her indignation and horror grew apace until the story was all told.Then she cried: "It was a cowardly, unmanly trick,--a traitor's deed!He is no gentleman, with all his fine pretence of manners."
"Ah--but he is." And Dorothy sighed softly, and in a way to haveopened Mary's eyes, had she been less absorbed by the anger nowcontrolling her.
"By birth, mayhap," she admitted, although reluctantly; then addingfiercely, "he surely is not one in his acts."
Then her voice grew gentle again, and the tears seemed to be near, asshe laid her head alongside the curly one upon the pillow.
"Oh, my poor, poor little Dot," she said; "to think of the dreadfulthing you have been carrying in your mind all this time! Small wonderthat you were pale and sad,--it was enough to kill you."
The words brought Dorothy's grief to her once more. Then Mary brokedown as well, and the two wept together, their heads touching eachother on the pillow.
"And now whatever is to be done?" Mary said, as soon as her calmnessreturned,--a calmness filled with indignation and resentment. "Sincethis man is surely your husband, you must needs obey him, I suppose, ifhe insists upon it. And now that he is going away, it would seemnatural for him to come here, despite his promise to wait until he wasasked. And I should say he would be quite sure to demand that you goaway with him. And," almost in terror, "for your father to hear of itfor the first time in such a fashion, and from him!"
"Oh, Mary, don't talk in that way!" cried Dorothy, in affright, andclinging still closer to her.
"But never you fear, Dot," Mary said more encouragingly, "so long asJack is here to look after you. That man will never dare seek to dragyou from your father's house while Jack is about. And besides, thetownspeople would never permit him to leave the place alive, should heattempt such a thing."
"I won't go--I'll never go!" Dorothy exclaimed passionately. "But--"Her voice took a different note, and she stopped.
"But--what?" asked Mary instantly, for she heard her husband'sfootsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.
"I don't want any harm to befall him," was the tremulous answer.
"Oh, Dot," Mary began in dismay, "can it be possible that, after all,you--"
But Dorothy interrupted her.
"Hush!" she whispered, "here comes Jack." Then beseechingly, "Oh,Mary, say once more that you'll not tell him yet."
But her husband was already in the room, and all Mary could do was topress Dorothy's hand.
A little later in the evening all the members of the family were againin the drawing-room. Dorothy, in order to relieve their anxiety, andespecially on her father's account, had joined them; and the girl nowmade greater efforts than ever before to appear like herself.
This was now easier for her, from having shared her burdensome secretwith Mary, who seemed to have taken upon her shoulders a good part ofthe troublesome load.
She carried herself with a much quieter mien than usual, but in a waynot to excite comment, save when her husband said to her as they wereclosing the shutters to keep out the night and make the room still morecosey, "What is it, sweetheart,--are you troubled over Dot?"
"Yes," she replied, thankful that she could answer so truthfully.
"The child is going to be as she should, I am sure," he said, glancingover his shoulder to where his sister was sitting, close beside herfather, her head resting against his shoulder. She was smiling atsomething Aunt Lettice had been telling of 'Bitha, whom she had justbeen putting to bed.
Before Mary could say anything more, a sudden clatter of hoofs outsideannounced the arrival of horsemen, and a minute later the sounding ofthe heavy brass knocker echoed through the hall.
Dorothy and Mary looked at each other in alarm, the same intuitionmaking them fear what this might portend.
"Whatever can it be at this hour!" exclaimed Joseph Devereux, as hisson went to answer the noisy summons. "I hope nothing is wrong in thetown."
There came the sound of men's voices, low at first, but soon growinglouder, and then almost menacing, as the ou
ter door was sharply closed.
"And I say, sirrah,"--it was the voice of John Devereux--"that youcannot see her."
Dorothy sprang from her father's side and sped to the door, which sheflung wide open, and stood, with widening eyes and pale cheeks, uponthe threshold. A moment more, and Mary was alongside her; and then,his face filled with amazement and anger, Joseph Devereux followed them.
Standing with his back against the closed door, was a stalwart youngdragoon, his red uniform making a ruddy gleam in the dimly lit hall ashe angrily confronted the son of the house.
But no sooner did he catch sight of the small figure in the opendoorway than the anger left his face, and he stood before her withuncovered head, paying no more heed to the others than if they had beenpart of the furniture in the hall.
"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," he said,--and his eyes searched her face witha passionate inquiry--"we are ordered away, as you may have heard. Iam leaving the town to-night, and could not go until I had seen youonce more."
The eyes looking up into his were filled with many emotions, butDorothy made no reply.
He waited a moment for her to speak. Then an eager, appealing lookcame to his face, and he asked, "Have you naught to say to me--no wordfor me before I go?"
Joseph Devereux now found his voice.
"Aught to say to ye, sirrah!" he demanded furiously. "What should adaughter o' mine have to say to one of His Majesty's officers, who hasbeen to this house but once before, and then, as now, only by means ofhis own audacity?"
At the sound of this angry voice Dorothy shuddered, and tearing hereyes from those blue ones that had not once left her face, she turnedquickly and clung to her father.
The young man laughed, but not pleasantly, and there was a nervoustwitching of the fingers resting upon the hilt of his sword.
"You are surely aware, sir," he said, "that I have the honor of aslight acquaintance with your daughter. And I fail to see why I shouldbe insulted, simply because I was mistaken in holding it to be butnatural courtesy that I should bid her farewell."
Here his voice broke in a way that was strange to all save Dorothy andMary, as he added: "We leave this place to-morrow, sir, and yourdaughter and myself are never like to meet again; and I had good reasonto wish the privilege of begging her forgiveness for aught I may havedone to cause her annoyance. And if she refused me forgiveness, thenshe might be pleased to wish me a right speedy meeting with a bulletfrom one of her own people's guns."
Joseph Devereux looked sorely puzzled at these strange words, whichseemed to bear some hidden meaning. Then, as he felt the quivering ofthe slight form clinging to him so closely, and heard the tremulous"Oh, father, speak him kindly," his face relaxed and he spoke lessbrusquely than at first.
"Your conduct seems rather cavalier, young sir, but we surely have nowish to seem insulting; and as for any annoyance you may have caused mydaughter, I am ignorant o' such. It is but natural, considering thetimes, that we do not relish receiving into our houses gentry who wearsuch color as is your coat; and yet we are not cut-throats, either indeed or thought. We pray and hope for the good of our country andcause; and for such, and such only, do we think o' the use o' bullets."
During all this time the dragoon's eyes never strayed from the curlyhead pressed against the old man's arm. And now, while her father wasspeaking, Dorothy's face was turned, and the big dark eyes, full ofperplexity and fear, met his own and held them.
Mary had made a sign to her husband, and he followed her into thedrawing-room, where Aunt Lettice was still sitting before the fire, thetrembling fingers betraying her excitement as they flashed the slenderneedles back and forth through the stocking she was knitting.
"What does it all mean, dear?" she inquired, as Mary came and lookeddown into the fire, while she twisted her hands together in a nervousfashion most unusual with her.
"It means," John Devereux answered angrily, but not loud enough toreach the ears of those in the hall, "that there is never any tellingto what length the presuming impudence of these redcoats will go." Heground his teeth savagely as he wondered why he had not taken theintruder by the collar and ejected him before the others came upon thescene; and he was now angry at himself for not having done this.
"Whatever can he wish to say good-by to Dot for?" he muttered hastilyto his wife. "And whatever can he mean about annoying her? Annoy her,indeed! Had he done such a thing, I should have heard of it ere this,and he would not have gone unpunished all these days, to crawl in nowwith a pretence of apology."
"It seems to me there was little show of crawling in the way he came,"said Mary, with the ghost of a smile, and speaking only because herhusband seemed to be expecting her to say something. Her brain was ina tumult as she wondered what would be the end of all this, and whatwould--what could poor Dorothy do for her own peace of mind and that ofher father?
She feared that, should a sudden knowledge of the truth come to him, itmight be his death-blow; and she made no doubt that if her hot-headedhusband knew it, the young dragoon would scarcely be permitted to leavethe house unscathed, if indeed he were not killed outright. And thenshe thought of a duel,--of its chances, and of her husband not beingthe one to survive.
At this a low cry escaped from her lips before she could prevent it;and her husband stepped closer to her side.
"It is nothing--nothing," she said brokenly, in response to his anxiousquestioning. "I was but thinking."
"Thinking of what, sweetheart?"
"If any harm should befall you," she answered.
"Why, what harm, think you, should come to me?" And he took her hands,holding them close, while he tried to look into her averted eyes.
"I--don't know," she said evasively. "These are such dreadful timesthat have come to us, that no one can tell what is like to happen.Oh," with a sudden impetuous burst, more suited to Dorothy than to herown calm self, "I wish there had never been such a nation as theEnglish!"
When Joseph Devereux had done speaking, the young man turned his eyesfrom the pale face in which he seemed to have been searching for somehint or suggestion as to what he should now say.
That his quest was fruitless,--that he found nothing, no fleetingglance or expression, to indicate the girl's present feeling towardhim, was apparent from the look of keen disappointment, well-nighdespair, that now settled upon his own face, making it almost ghastlyin the uncertain light.
But despite all this, his self-control did not leave him; and after onemore glance into the dark eyes--fixed and set, as though there was nolife animating them--he drew himself erect, and made an odd gesturewith his right hand, flinging it out as if forever thrusting aside allfurther thought of her. Then, without looking at her again, headdressed her father.
"It was not to discuss such matters that I ventured to force my wayinto this house, sir," he said with a dignified courtesy hardly to belooked for in one of his years. "It was only that I could not--or feltthat I should not--go away without holding speech with MistressDorothy. It would seem that she has naught to say to me, and so I haveonly to beg her pardon, and take my leave. And, sir, I entreat thesame pardon from you and the other members of your household for anyinconvenience I may have caused you and them."
He bowed to the old gentleman, and turned slowly away. But before hehad taken many steps toward the outer door, Dorothy's voice arrestedhim, and he turned quickly about.
"Stay--wait a moment." And leaving her father's side, she went towardthe young man.
"Believe me," she said, speaking very low and very gently, as shepaused while yet a few steps away from him, "I wish you well, not harm."
"Do you still hold to what you told me?" he asked quickly, paying noheed to her words.
His voice did not reach her father's ears; and the young man's eyessearched her face as though his fate depended upon what he might readthere.
"Yes!" The answer was as low-pitched as his question, but firm andfearless. And he saw the fingers of both little hands clenchthemselves i
n the folds of her gown, while the lace kerchief crossedover her bosom seemed to pulsate with the angry throbbing of her heart.
"And you will never forgive me?" He spoke now in a louder tone, butwith the same pleading look in his pale face.
Dorothy's eyes met his own fairly and steadily, but she said nothing.
He waited a second, and then bending quickly, he clasped both her handsand carried them to his lips.
"God help me," he said hoarsely, as he released them,--"God help bothof us!"
With this he turned away, and opening the door, went out into thedarkness.
Dorothy stood perfectly still, with her father staring perplexedly intoher white face. It had all passed too quickly for him tointerfere,--to speak, even, had he been so minded.
At the sound of the closing door John Devereux came again into thehall; and now the noise of horses' hoofs was heard, dying away outside.
"Dot--my child, what is it?" her father exclaimed, his heart stirred bya presentiment of some ill he could not define. And he moved towardthe mute figure standing like a statue in the centre of the wide hall.
But John was there before him; and as he passed his arm around her, shestarted, and a dry, gasping breath broke from her lips,--one that mighthave been a sob, had there been any sign of tears in the wild eyes thatseemed to hold no sight as they were turned to her brother's face.
"Dot--little sister," he cried, "tell me--what is the matter?"
And Mary, now close beside them, added quickly, "Tell him, Dot,--tellhim now."
"Tell," Dorothy repeated mechanically, her voice sounding strained andhusky. "Tell--tell him yourself, Mary. Tell him that--" And shefell, a dead weight, against her brother's breast.
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