CHAPTER XXIX
Neither of the girls found much rest during the night, owing to thestrangeness of their surroundings and the exciting experiences that hadcome to them. In addition to this, their wakefulness was increased bythe noise of the gale outside.
The rain had ceased, but the wind at times attained such violence as torattle the casements like the jarring of a cannonade. Then its forcewould lessen, and it would moan about the gables and down the chimneyswith a sound as though the patriots already fallen might be lamentingthe long-continued siege of Boston.
With these deeper tones there would come loud shrieks, like thelaughter of fiends, as if the Prince of Darkness and his legions weremaking merry over the impending downfall of goodly customs, uprooted byslaughter and bloodshed.
During the earlier part of the night there was some unusually loudtalking outside, seeming to indicate a new excitement.
This caused the girls fresh alarm; but the matter was explained by thelandlady, when she brought their breakfast in the morning.
A redcoat had been caught in the cornfield back of the house, and lateron, his horse was found fastened in the woods near by.
When brought, as he was at once, before the Commander-in-Chief, theprisoner had denied indignantly the imputation of being a spy. Yet hehad refused stubbornly to explain the reason for his being outside hisown lines, and so close to the spot where a conference was being heldbetween Washington and his officers.
He wore the British uniform, but this was concealed by an ordinaryriding-cloak, and on his head was a civilian's hat.
"So," said the landlady, after telling the story, "if he be no spy, 'twill be a hard matter for him to prove it, with everything lookin' soblack. An', oh, mistress, he's as handsome as a picter, an' don't lookto 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 aspy be always hanged."
"Is it not dreadful--and will they hang him?" Mary asked with ashudder, staring into the face of the voluble landlady, who was nowarranging the dishes upon the table.
"So the talk goes 'mongst the men. They had much ado with FarmerGilbert, 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 newcarpet, 'stead o' wearin' out the strip I wove with my own hands, outo' rags."
Dorothy, who sat facing Mary, her elbows on the table, and her chinresting in her small palms, now drew the landlady's attention byinquiring if she knew the prisoner's name.
"Yes,--I did get to hear it when General Washington asked him; for, tosay truth, I was listenin' outside the door. He answered up fairenough, an' spoke it like there was naught to be ashamed of in thematter, neither. 'T was Captain Southorn."
She heard a half-choked gasp from Dorothy's lips, and saw the look thatcame to Mary's face as her eyes turned like a flash toward the youngergirl.
"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 acornet of dragoons."
"Still, it is like to be the same man," the landlady said ratherinsistingly, as though hoping that such was the fact. "Cornets growquick to be captains in these woful days, if they be but brave, whichsurely 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 readher thoughts.
But now they both looked at Mistress Trask, whose voice had lost itsspeculative tone, and was filled with intense earnestness.
"Oh, mistress," she was saying, still addressing Mary, "mayhap he bethe same man ye've known. An' if this be so, I do beg ye to try whatprayin' the favor of his pardon from Washington will do. 'T is a fouldeath--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, 'thoughColonel 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 'bidehere 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, andwith an expression in her eyes such as Mary never saw there before.
"Oh, do, mistress!" the landlady exclaimed eagerly, looking at the girlwith admiration. "Pray do, an' God will bless ye for it."
But Mary protested, although weakly, and feeling that she had butlittle hope of success.
"No, Dot,--no," she said. "You must not,--it would never do. And thenit might not be the same one, after all."
But her own belief contradicted her words, and sounded in her voiceeven as she uttered them. She was certain it was he who had appearedto be watching them when they came from Aunt Penine; and he haddoubtless followed them to the tavern.
Dorothy made no reply until she drained a glass of milk the landladyfilled for her; then she arose from the table.
"I am going," she said, as calmly as before. "Please," seeing thatMary was about to renew her objections, "say no more about it. I amgoing--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 forme to do."
"Let her go, mistress," urged the landlady; "surely there be naught tofear for her." Then she said confidently, as Dorothy passed throughthe door and out into the hall: "She be that young an' tender that noone would harm her,--least of all, General Washington. No doubt she'llbe 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 thegirl's solemn duty to do as she had proposed.
And so she sat silent, with clasped hands, musing over all thesethings, while Mistress Trask removed the dishes. And while she wasdoing this, the landlady told for the first time--the excitement havingdriven it from her mind--how Johnnie Strings had appeared at an earlyhour, and bade her say that he was forced to go across country to carrya despatch, but would return by noon, to escort the two girls toDorchester.
Dorothy took her way up the stairs toward the room above. All thegirlishness within her was now dead, and the expression in her paleface was that of a woman--and one whose heart was wrung by bittersorrow.
The door was closed, and in front of it a man was seated. A musket layacross his knees, and his head was sunk on his breast as if he wereburied 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 faceas 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 everylineament 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 tosee--to speak with General Washington, and at once."
"You--you?" he stammered, rising slowly to his feet, and shakinghimself in the effort to collect his scattered wits.
"Yes," she said impatiently. "You are on guard here--he knows you areoutside 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'snot to be disturbed."
"If he is alone," and her tone expressed relief, "so much the betterfor me. I must have speech with him
this very minute."
Doak opened his mouth in remonstrance, but she would not permit him tospeak.
"Do you hear?" she demanded. "I must see him this minute. Go and tellhim so; and tell him it is upon a matter of life and death."
He said nothing more, but, looking more dazed than ever, turned andrapped on the door.
A voice whose deep tones had not yet left Dorothy's ears gavepermission 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 resolutioncame to her face, and before the door could close after thefisherman-soldier, she stepped forward and followed him.
Washington was--as when she intruded upon him before--seated at atable. But now he was writing; and as the two entered the room, helooked up as though annoyed at the interruption.
But Dorothy, pushing Doak aside, advanced with an impetuosity that gaveno opportunity for questioning or reproof, and took away all need ofexplanation 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 haveadopted toward her own father, "and you will surely remember what youpromised."
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 withher the evening before. There was a tender, a welcoming light in hiseyes, as though her coming were a pleasure,--as if it brought relieffrom the contemplation of the grave responsibilities resting upon him.
He arose from his chair, and taking the paper from her hand, laid itupon the table. Then he turned to her again and said smilingly, "Mydear child, the promise was surely of small worth if I could forget itso soon after it was given."
But there was no smile upon the face into which he was looking, and itsearnestness seemed now to bring to him the conviction that the girl hadcome upon no trifling matter.
He bade Doak resume his post outside the door, and to permit no one toenter, howsoever important the business might be. Then, when thefisherman had gone, he invited Dorothy to be seated, and asked her totell him the object of her coming.
He sat down again by the table, but she remained standing, and now cameclose to him, her clasped hands and pleading eyes fully as beseechingas the words in which she framed her petition.
"Oh, sir--I have come to beg that you will not hang the English officerwhom I hear you suspect of being a spy."
Washington started in surprise; a stern light gathered in his eyes, andhe looked as though illy pleased.
Dorothy was quick to see this, and felt that her only hope of successlay in telling him the entire truth.
This she did, confiding in him as freely and fully as though she werehis daughter.
When she ended, he sat for a time as if pondering over her story, andthe request to which it was the sequel. He had not interrupted her byso much as a single word, but his eyes had been fixed upon her facewith an intensity that softened as she went on, in her own impulsiveway, to tell him of her troubles.
Presently he said: "It is truly a sad tangle, my child,--one scarceproper 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-headedyouth with too great severity. Indeed," the grave lines of his facerelaxing a little, "in this case I can see that the young man hadstrong temptation to forget himself, and to do as he did."
He paused and looked at her keenly, as if searching for the answer to aquestion seeking solution in his own mind.
She stood silently waiting, and he continued: "First of all, I mustknow of a certainty as to one matter, in order that I may act withdiscretion. My child," and he took one of her hands in his own, "donot fear to show me your heart. Show it to me as you would to your owndear father, were he, rather than I, asking you. Tell me--do you lovethis man who is really your husband?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, with no sign of hesitancy, as she lifted herhead and looked at him through the tears his words had brought to hereyes, "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 waythat made her heart bound with hope. "Now it may be possible that thiscaptain is not your Cornet Southorn, although I think there is smallroom for doubt in the matter. But, in order to solve the question, Iwill have him brought here. Do you, my child, conceal yourself behindthe curtains of that window; and if he proves to be the officer of whomwe have been speaking, you have but to show yourself to assure me ofthe fact. If not, then remain in hiding; and after putting a fewquestions to him, I will have him taken back to his room."
Doak was despatched to carry out the order, while Dorothy hid herselfin the curtains,--trembling with agitation when the sound of footstepswas heard again outside the door.
The fisherman entered with the prisoner, and Dorothy, looking throughthe slightly parted drapery, saw the olive face and purple-blue eyes ofthe man she loved.
His long boots were splashed with the mire of the highway, his uniformshowed traces of the struggle of the night before, and his curly hairwas dishevelled.
More than this, his haggard face and dark-circled eyes gave proof of asleepless and anxious night.
But as he came into the room he drew himself erect, and metunflinchingly the stern eyes of the man in whose hands lay his fate.
The door had no sooner closed upon Doak's retreating figure thanDorothy stepped from behind the curtains.
The young man gave a violent start, and the arms that had been foldedacross his chest fell to his sides, as he uttered her name,--at thesame time taking a step toward her. Then he came to a standstill, andpassed his hand over his eyes, as if to clear them of something thatimpeded his vision.
And there was reason for this, as Dorothy did not speak, and stoodmotionless, her hands clasped in front of her, while she looked at himwith an expression he seemed unable to define.
Washington's face had grown less severe as he noted all this; and whilethe two still remained gazing at one another, his voice broke thesilence.
"The cause of your presence in this neighborhood, Captain Southorn,which your gallantry forbade you to explain, even in the face of anignominious death, has been revealed to me by one whose truth andfidelity no human being should know better than yourself. She has toldme that which leads me to take upon myself the responsibility ofclearing you from the very grave suspicions aroused by your action oflast night, and of holding you simply as a prisoner of war. For allthis, you have Mistress Dorothy to thank--for your life and yourrestored honor."
No pen can describe the emotions of the two listeners as they heardthese words, nor could any pencil portray the reflection of theseemotions upon their faces.
Southorn's expression was that of thankfulness, mingled withamazement,--doubt, as though he feared the treachery of his own senses,while Dorothy's face became all aglow with delight and triumph at hersuccess.
The young man stepped impetuously toward Washington, and was about tospeak, but the latter raised his hand.
"You, sir, as an officer of the King," he said gravely, "know theweight of such a debt as this, and no words of mine can add to thesense of your obligation to her. This being so," and he glanced fromone to the other of them, while the suggestion of a smile relieved thesternness of his face, "I will leave you with her for a short time, inorder that you may express your gratitude in fitting terms, while Iconsider what course is best for me to pursue in carrying out thepurpose I have in view."
With this he arose from his chair, and bowing to them, withdrew to theinner room, closing the door after him.
For a single moment there was silence between the two he had leftalone, and no one could now accuse Dorothy of any lack of color in hercheeks.
"Dorothy--sweetheart, what does all this mean?"
The young man spoke in almost a whisper, looking at her
as though shewere a vision, a part of some strange dream. His voice faltered, andhis eyes moved restlessly as he came toward her, walking slowly anduncertainly.
But Dorothy, her wonted self-possession and courage now fully restored,did not wait for him to come to her. She advanced smilingly, her eyesalight with happiness, and laid both her hands within his.
Then, while they stood face to face, she told him hurriedly of what shehad done.
While she was speaking, he looked at her in that same queer way, hiseyes wandering over her face and figure, while now and again he pressedher little soft hands, as though to gain through them still greaterassurance of the blessed reality.
But when she finished, his eyes ceased their roaming, and became fixedupon her beaming face.
"My darling," he said slowly, "do you realize the full measure of whatyou have done for me? Do you know that you not only have given melife, but have saved me from that which to a soldier is more terriblethan the torments of hell itself,--the disgrace of being hanged as aspy?"
His voice broke, and a spasm of pain shot across his face. Then heexclaimed in a tone filled with self-condemnation, "And this you havedone for the man who forced his love upon you,--who married you by atrick--aye, by violence; the man who--"
She drew one hand away from his grasp and put it firmly against hislips.
"Stop!" she commanded, with all her natural imperiousness. "I'lllisten to no more talk such as that. Had you not married me in the wayyou did, 't is not likely you would have wed me at all, for I have cometo know that I am no girl to be won by soft speeches, and sighs, andtears."
"What!" he cried, not believing his ears. "Can it be possible--"
He had no need to finish the question, for her arms stole up and wentaround his neck, and her blushing face was hidden over his heart.
"My love--my wife--can it be that you love me at last?"
"At last!" She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "I believe Ihave loved you from the very first--since the time you opened your eyeswhen I held your head that day on the rocks. I loved you when youkissed me, the time we met in the wood, and I loved you when we stoodbefore Parson Weeks; and--I'll love you all my life."
He drew her to him with a force almost rough in its fierceness, andcovered her face with kisses.
"God be praised for those words!" he exclaimed. Then he sighed deeply.
"I have been such a miserable dog, sweetheart, ever since the night Ileft Marblehead. I was hoping until then to receive some little wordbidding me come to you,--to come and tell your people the truth, andface their opinion and anger, such as I deserved for what I had done.But after I left you that night, I lost all hope, and prayed only thata bullet might set me free from my self-reproaches and misery."
"Oh--you wicked--" Dorothy began; but he silenced her with a kiss.
"I have just received tidings of my father's illness, and his wish formy return," he continued, "and was thinking of setting sail for home,when my eyes were blessed with sight of you yesterday, and I wasdragged out here by a force I was unable to resist. I hoped to havespeech with you somehow, if only that I might implore your forgivenessbefore I went away."
"And now you know there is naught to forgive," she said, smiling upinto his face.
Then she drew herself a little away from him, and taking hold of thecollar of his red coat as though to detain him, added softly, "Butyou'll not go now, will you?"
He laughed exultingly; but his face became sad again as he stroked theripples of curling hair clustering about her forehead.
"It would seem, sweetheart," he said, "as if that might be the wisestcourse for me to pursue; for how can I find heart to take up armsagainst the country and people--aye, against the very kindred--of myown wife?"
A look of sorrowing dread swept all the light from Dorothy's face; butthe brightness returned somewhat as he said more cheerily: "Well, well,my little one, it is waste of time to talk of such matters now, for yousee I am not free to go anywhere just at this present. 'Sufficient forthe day,' you know, 'is the evil thereof;' and surely we have evil tofear, even yet. But nothing can daunt me now--now that my honor iscleared; and that, too, by such an unlooked-for ray of light fromHeaven, and with it the knowledge that you love me, and dared sobravely to save my life."
The door-knob was now rattled with a warning significance, and the twosprang away from each other as General Washington slowly entered theroom.
His face bore an odd expression, and one that was pleasant to lookupon, as he glanced from Dorothy to her husband. Then his eyesreturned to the girl's face, and he asked, with no attempt to conceal asmile, "Well, my child, is all settled to your satisfaction,and"--after a second's pause--"liking?"
She tried to answer him, but could not. Her heart was too overflowingwith gratitude, happiness, hope.
They all seemed struggling for precedence in the words that should comefrom her lips, and she found herself unable to speak.
Her eyes filled, and she looked up as though imploring him to find inher face all that her lips failed to say. Then she sprang forward, andseizing his hand, pressed it to her lips.
He appeared to understand fully the cause of her silence andagitation,--to know and appreciate the emotions that rendered her dumb;and the lines of his face resumed their accustomed gravity as hewithdrew his hand from her clasp and laid it gently upon the curly headso far beneath his own majestic height.
"God bless you, my daughter, and keep you--always!"
No father could have spoken more tenderly to his child; and the wordscame to Dorothy as a benediction from him who had so recently passedaway.
Washington now addressed himself to Captain Southorn.
"You have in this child a priceless treasure," he said. "God grantthat you ne'er forget the fact, nor the debt you owe her."
"I never will--I never can, sir," the young man answered withunmistakable sincerity, as he came and took his wife by the hand. "Ofthat, sir, you may rest assured," he added, in a voice shaking withstrong emotion.
Washington bent his head in approval. "For the present," he continued,"I deem it proper that you remain as before. I purpose stopping hereuntil afternoon, and will then have you taken to Cambridge, unless someunforeseen matter shall arise to alter my plans."
The prisoner bowed in silence; then, as Washington went toward the doorto summon Doak, the young man turned to smile hopefully into his wife'seyes.
"Keep a brave heart, sweet one," he whispered, "and trust in my loveand truth. Naught can ever part us now."
A minute later the door closed after the fisherman and his charge.
"Keep the paper, child," Washington said to Dorothy, as soon as theywere alone, "and remember that the promise it contains is renewed forthe future. In such days as are about us, it is not improbable toreckon upon its being needed again--although scarcely for a likepurpose."
He smiled, as his fingers closed upon the small hand within which heplaced the eventful slip of paper. "And now go, my daughter," headded, "and may God bless you. Trust in Him, and He will surely watchover your life, and make all well in the end."
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