From Kingdom to Colony

He had been pacing up and down the drawing-room, now deserted by all save himself and his son. His hands were clasped behind him, his chin was sunk upon his breast, and his brows knit as though from anxious thought.

Jack sat staring into the fire; and both were waiting for the return of either Mary or Aunt Lettice, both of whom had gone to Dorothy's room to give her such attention as she might require.

It was Mary who came to announce that the girl was now better, and that, having taken a sleeping potion administered by Aunt Lettice, she wished to see her father.

The old gentleman left the room with a brisk step; and Mary's eyes followed him nervously as she went over and seated herself by her husband.

They were silent for a time, both of them watching the flames that arched from the logs over the fiery valleys and miniature cliffs made by the burnt and charred wood, until Jack asked suddenly, "Why do you not tell me now, sweetheart?"

Mary well knew what he meant; but she waited a moment, thinking how best she might reveal the sad and terrible matter she had to disclose.

"Mary," – he now spoke a little impatiently, and as though to rouse her from her abstraction – "tell me what all this means."

She stole a hand into his, and then repeated to him all that Dorothy had told her.

He listened with fast-growing anger; and then, coupled with his first outburst of rage against the hated redcoat, were reproaches for his wife, that she had not sooner informed him of the trouble.

"He would never have left the house alive, had I known it before," he cried savagely. "As it is, I'll ride after him as soon as day comes, and call him to an accounting for his villany, – the dastardly scoundrel! And Mary – oh, my wife, how could you keep it from me till now?"

Her heart sank at this, the first note of reproof or displeasure his voice had ever held for her.

"You must remember, Jack," she pleaded, "how sorely I was distressed to know what to do, for I had given my promise to Dot, and could not break it. And you must know as well that it was not until this very evening that I learned of the matter."

"True," he admitted. "But" – persistently – "there was the ruby ring, when the child was first taken ill; how could you keep that from me?"

He spoke reproachfully, but his voice was growing softer, and his anger was now gone, for Mary was sobbing, her head against his breast. And this was as strange to him as his harsh words had been to her.

"I'll never – never keep any matter from you again," she protested brokenly. "I promise it, Jack, for now I see it was very wrong."

"There – there, sweetheart," he said soothingly, as he stroked her bright hair, – "'t is all well for us now, and will ever be, if you but keep to what you say. But Dot – poor little Dot!" And his anger came again.

"Oh, that villain, that cursed villain, – but he shall reckon with me for this outrage! And 't is well for that scoundrel Weeks that he's been made to flee the town for his seditious sentiments and preachings."

"But," Mary explained, "Dot said he was forced to do it, at peril of his life; that he – the Englishman – held a pistol to his head and swore he'd shoot him if he refused."

"Pah," said Jack, contemptuously, "he'd never have dared go so far as that. Master Weeks is but a poor coward." Then he asked quickly, "Think you, Mary, that Dot is telling our father aught of the matter now?"

"I cannot say," was his wife's irresolute answer. "I fear so, and yet I cannot but hope so, as well, – for how can another ever tell him?"

"Aye," groaned the young man; "it will come nigh to killing him."

But Dorothy had not told her father anything. No sooner had he come to her bedside than her eyes filled with a contented light, and slipping her hand within his close clasp, she fell tranquilly asleep, too stunned and numbed by physical weakness and contending emotions, – her senses too dulled from the effects of Aunt Lettice's draught – to find words wherein to pour out her heart to him.

He left her sleeping quietly, and returned to those below; and soon thereafter the seizure came, and he fell back in his chair, speechless, with closed eyes and inert limbs.

It was Mary and Aunt Lettice who ministered to him, with the help of his son and the faithful Tyntie, who was summoned from Dorothy's room, where she had been sent to watch the sleeping girl.

Leet was too old and slow of movement to be entrusted with the summoning of Dr. Paine; and Trent, who slept in one of the outer buildings, was aroused and despatched forthwith, with orders to use all possible speed, as they feared the master was already dead or dying.

They carried him at once to his own bed, where he lay unconscious, with no change in his appearance or breathing; and his son, sitting beside him, gazed with agonized eyes upon the white face lying against the pillows, his own face almost as white, and seeming to have aged under this flood of sorrow now opened in their midst.

It was well along toward morning, although yet dark, with the sky cloudless and gemmed with stars, before Dr. Paine arrived.

The first thing the bustling little man did was to bleed his patient, as was then the practice in treating most ailments. Its present efficacy was soon apparent, for it was not long before the labored, irregular breathing became more natural and the old man opened his eyes.

But there was an unusual look in them, – one that never went away. And although after a time he recovered some of his strength, and was able to go about the house, the hale, rugged health and vigorous manhood were gone forever, and Joseph Devereux remained but a shadow of his former self.

His days were all alike, – passed in sitting before the fire downstairs, or else dozing in his own room; and he had neither care nor thought for the matters that had once been of such moment to him.

The others were with him constantly, to guard against possible accident or harm, as well as to do all in their power in smoothing the way for the loved one they felt was soon to leave them. And he, as well as themselves, albeit he never spoke of it, seemed to understand this, – that they, like him, were waiting for the end, when he should be summoned by the voice none can deny.

And thus he remained day after day, spending much of his time with the other members of his family, – listening apparently to all they might say to him or to one another; but sitting with silent lips, and eyes that seemed to grow larger and more wondrous in expression and light, as if already looking into that mysterious world, —

"Beyond the journeyings of the sun,Where streams of living waters run," —

that world whose glories no speech might convey to earthly understanding.

"I can never tell him now," Dorothy said with bitter sorrow, addressing Mary, as the two were alone in the dining-room. It was one of the days when her father had risen for his morning meal, and, after sitting with them awhile, had returned to his room to lie down.

"'T is best not, dear," Mary assented. "Do not burden his heart now, for it would only give him bitter sorrow to brood over. Jack knows the whole matter, and he can do all that is to be done."

"And what is that?" Dorothy asked, speaking a little sharply.

"Call the man to a strict account," was Mary's reply, with anger now showing in her voice.

"No, Mary, no," cried Dorothy, with much of her old spirit. "That must not be, – at least not now." Then more gently, as she observed Mary's look of surprise, "Naught that he nor any one can say or do will mend what has been done; and it is my earnest wish that the matter be let alone, just as it is, for the present. Perhaps the future may show some way out of it." But she spoke as though saying one thing and meaning quite another.

"Will you tell Jack all this?" Mary asked, with an odd look.

"Me?" cried Dorothy, in great alarm. "No, no, Mary; you must do that. I do not wish to have him speak to me of the matter; I could not bear it." And she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the very prospect of such a thing.

Mary's white forehead wrinkled as though from perplexity, while her slender fingers tapped nervously upon the arm of her chair.

She knew not what to make of the girl, – of her words and actions, of her strange and sudden sickness and faintings, of all that had come to her since the advent of this young Britisher.

And within these past few minutes a new anxiety had found its way into her mind, and this prompted her to ask, "Can it be, Dot, that you have permitted this stranger to come between you and your only brother, who loves you best of all in the world?"

But Dorothy evaded the question. "That he does not," she asserted, taking her hands from in front of her face and trying to smile; "'t is you he loves best of all."

Mary flushed a little, but replied with tender earnestness, "But you know, Dot, he and I are one. We both love you next to each other, and we wish to serve you and assure your happiness."

Dorothy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I doubt if I shall ever be happy again, Mary," she said; "and the best way to serve me is to leave me alone and let me go my own way."

She spoke as though wishing to dismiss the matter, and, rising from her chair, walked over to the window and stood looking off over the meadow lands and toward the sea.

It was a cheering, hopeful sight, for the snow was gone, and everything in nature was beginning to show a touch of the coming spring.

Later that same morning they were in Mary's room, the young wife busy with some sewing, while Dorothy, with much of the former color showing in her face, was moving restlessly about.

"Dorothy!"

Mary spoke suddenly, as though impelled by a hasty resolution, and there was a look in her blue eyes that made a fitting accompaniment to her words; but she kept them averted from Dorothy, who had turned and was coming slowly toward her.

"Dorothy," she repeated, as the girl drew close to her, "where is that ruby ring?"

Dorothy came to a stop, and every drop of blood seemed to find its way to her face.

"Eh, – ring, – what ring?" She glanced at her hands, and then at Mary's face, still turned partially away from her.

"That ruby ring I gave you back, and advised that you throw it into the fire or into the sea, and with it all thought of the dastardly giver."

Dorothy did not reply, and Mary now looked at her as she said slowly and distinctly, "If you cannot tell, I can. It is over your heart, hanging about your neck on a chain."

The girl gave a gasp, and Mary saw her face paling, only to flush again, while the dark eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Dot," she cried, astonished and angry, "how can you love such a man?"

Dorothy threw herself on her knees and hid her face in Mary's lap, sobbing as if the words had broken a seal set to keep this knowledge from even her own heart.

"I don't know, Mary, but I do – I do love him, and have, for always. And now he has gone – gone away, thinking I hate him, and I may never see him again."

Mary put her arms around the little form, and used all her efforts to soothe the passionate outburst. She could not but feel that she had been wise in thus forcing Dorothy to open her heart, for not only did she know the girl would feel better for having spoken, but she herself had a new and most important fact to guide her own future action.

CHAPTER XXVI

Mary felt that she must lose no time in making her husband as wise as herself with respect to Dorothy's real sentiments, and in having him understand that he could not bring any harm to the young Britisher without making his sister all the more unhappy.

She wondered what Jack would say – as to the effect it would have upon his temper and actions. But she was determined upon this, – that if he showed resentment or anger, she would assert herself in Dorothy's defence, feeling as she did that it was too late to do other than submit to what fate had brought about, and all the more especially, since Dorothy had confessed to loving this man.

"I could almost wish he had been killed outright the morning I made him tumble over the rocks," she said to herself, "or that he had fallen into the sea, never to be seen again." Then, realizing that this was little short of murder, she shrank from such musings, shocked to find herself so wicked.

There came still another burden of sorrow when she imparted the whole truth to her husband.

He listened with a brooding face, only the unusual glitter in his eyes showing how it stirred him. Then, after a long silence, while he appeared to be turning the matter in his mind, he exclaimed, not angrily, but with nothing showing in his voice save bitter self-reproach: "Blind fool that I've been, seeking to keep my little sister a child in thought. And right here, under my very eyes, has she become a woman, both in love and suffering!"

He sprang to his feet and began to pace back and forth, his wife watching him with troubled eyes. Presently he came and looked down into her face.

His own was pale, but it had a set, determined expression, as though the struggle were over, and he had turned his back upon all the hopes he had builded for his beloved sister, – upon what might have been, but now never to be.

"Sweetheart," he said, "there is one other we are bound in honor to take into our confidence, to tell all we know of this sad matter, and that is Hugh Knollys. He is not like to return here this many a day; still it is possible he may, or that I may be sent to the neighborhood of Boston before the summer comes. But whichever way I see him, I shall have to tell him the truth. Poor old Hugh!"

"Why, John!" But Mary's eyes filled with a look bespeaking full knowledge of what he was to say, although she had never suspected it until now.

He told her of all that passed between Hugh and himself that night, so many months ago. And when he finished, she could only sigh, and repeat his own words, "Poor Hugh!"

"Aye, poor Hugh, indeed, for I know the boy's heart well. It will be a dreadful thing for him to face, and with his hands tied, as are my own, against doing aught to the Britisher because his welfare matters so much to Dot."

Then he added almost impatiently: "I wish the child would let me talk with her. She must, before I go away, else I'll speak without her consent. So long as we are situated as now, it may do no harm to let the matter drift along; but if I have to leave home – "

"Oh, Jack, don't speak of such a thing," Mary interrupted. And rising quickly, she laid her hand on his shoulder as though to hold him fast.

"Why not, sweetheart?" he said, compelled to smile at her anxiety. "We know what we have to face in these distracting times; we knew it when we married. Matters grow worse with every week, each day almost. But we must be brave, my darling, and you will best hold me to my duty by keeping a stout heart, no matter whether I go or stay. And go I am pretty sure to, the same as every other man in the town, for we may look, any day, for a battle somewhere about Boston."

Mary clung to him shudderingly, but was silent.

Hugh Knollys had been all this time at Cambridge, where troops were mustering from every part of the land; and many men from Marblehead were there or in the neighborhood.

They had heard from him but once, and then through Johnnie Strings, who, after this last trip – now over a month since – had returned to Cambridge with a very indefinite notion as to when he would come back to the old town.

The pedler also reported having seen Aunt Penine, who was quartered near Boston, at the house of some royalist relatives of her brother's wife, – he himself having left his home in Lynn and taken up arms for the King.

Mistress Knollys was also away, for she had closed her homestead and gone to stop with an only sister living at Dorchester, – doing this for safety, and before the soldiers left the Neck.

A decided feeling of impending war was now sharpened and well defined, and all were waiting for the actual clash of arms.

Late in February, His Majesty's ship "Lively," mounting twenty guns, arrived in the harbor and came to anchor off the fort; and her officers proceeded to make themselves fully as obnoxious as had the hated soldiers.

They diligently searched all incoming vessels that could by any pretext be suspected; and where they found anything in the nature of military stores, these were confiscated.

One vessel, carrying a chest of arms destined for the town, was, although anchored close to the "Lively," boarded one night by a party of intrepid young men under the lead of one Samuel R. Trevett, who succeeded in removing the arms, which they concealed on shore.

Later on in the month a body of troops landed one Sunday morning on Homans' Beach; and after loading their guns, the soldiers took up their march through the town.

The alarm drums were beaten at the door of every church to warn the worshippers, and it was not long before the hitherto quiet streets were thronged with an excited crowd of indignant citizens, gathered in active defence of their rights.

They suspected the object of the enemy to be the seizure of several pieces of artillery secreted at Salem. But in this – or whatever was their purpose – they were baffled, meeting with such determined opposition as to be forced to march back to the shore and re-embark, with no more disastrous result to either side than the usual number of bloody faces and bruised fists, such as had distinguished the sojourn of the regulars upon the Neck.

Aside from these two events, the days in the old town passed much as before, despite the ever-increasing certainty of war, – this leading the townsfolk to go armed night and day, and to keep close watch from the outlooks for any sudden descent the enemy might seek to make.

The last vestige of snow was gone from the shaded nooks amid the trees on the hills, – the land, swept dry and clear of all signs of winter, was waiting for the sun to warm the brown earth into life; and in the hollows of the woods, the tender shoots of the first wild flowers were already showing, where the winds had brushed away the fallen leaves of the year before.

It was the twenty-first of April, and the expected battle had come at last, for Lexington was two days old. The news was brought into town before the morning of the twentieth, and had resulted in the sudden departure of many of the younger men for the immediate scene of action.

Among these was John Devereux; and Mary was to accompany her husband to the town, in order that she might be with him until the very last moment.

The parting between father and son was full of solemnity, for each felt it to be the last time they would meet on earth.

"God bless and keep you, my dear boy," said Joseph Devereux, showing more of his natural vigor than for many weeks past, as he fixed his large eyes upon the handsome young face, pale, but filled with resolution and high purpose. "God bless and keep you in the struggle in which I know you will do your part unflinchingly. Never be guilty of aught in the future, as you have never in the past, to stain the good name you bear."

Fearing that which he deemed a reflection upon his manhood, the young man did not reply in words, but threw his arms about his father's neck in a way he had not done since boyhood; and the old man alone knew how something wet still lay upon his withered cheek after his son had left him.

The last person to whom Jack said farewell was his sister. She had stolen away to her own room, and there he found her weeping.

"Little Dot," he said in a choking voice, opening his arms to her as he paused just across the threshold.

She looked up, and with a low cry – half of pain, half joy – fled to him; and with this the shadow, almost estrangement, that had come between them was swept away forever.

He held her tight against his breast, and let her weep silently for a time, before he said very gently, "Dot, my little girl, I must speak to you on a certain matter before I go away."

She raised her head and kissed him; and this he took as permission to tell her what was upon his mind.

"Dot, I cannot go from you without having everything between us the same as has been all our lives, until these past few sad months."

At this she clung all the closer to him.

"You were badly treated, little one," he continued, "shamefully treated; and it was a great grief to me that you did not come and trust your brother to the end of telling him the whole matter at the very first. But 't is all past now, and words are of no worth. Only this I must know from your own lips, – if you love this man who has forced himself to be your husband, and if you love him sufficiently to leave us all, should he so bid you?"

"That he will never do," Dorothy answered, her voice full of sad conviction. "He has gone, thinking I hate him."

"And why did you send him away with such a notion as that?"

"Oh, Jack," the girl cried piteously, "cannot you see – can you not understand? I could not go and leave you all. I dared not tell at the time all that had happened – I did not know what to do."

"And you love not the cause he fights for, though you love the man himself?" And a faint smile touched his lips.

"That is it, Jack," she answered, relieved at being understood. "You have spoken my own feelings. I could not leave father; had I done so, think of what would have come to me now."

"Poor father, 't is well he will never need to know. Well, Dot," and he tried to speak cheerily, "although 't is a sad tangle now, perhaps time will straighten it somewhat; and all we can do is to wait and hope."

"And you'll never say aught to – him, should you two meet?" Dorothy asked wistfully, a burning color deepening in her cheeks.

"Should he and I meet," the young man said with a scowl, "it is not likely to be in a fashion that will permit discourse of any sort." Then he regretted his words, for his sister shivered and hid her face over his heart.

"Come, Dot," – and now he spoke more calmly, while he caressed the curly head lying against his breast – "try to keep a brave heart. You have done no wrong, little one, and we are all in God's hands. Pray you to Him for your brother while he is from home; and pray as well that all these sad matters will come right in the end."

He pressed a kiss upon her tearful face, and was gone.

Arriving in the town, he found his companions ready to depart; and before sunset he was upon the road to Boston, leaving his wife to stop for a day with Mistress Horton.

The following evening it was apparent that the end was coming fast to Joseph Devereux.

Dorothy was alone with the stricken man, Aunt Lettice, who took 'Bitha with her, having gone into the town early that afternoon, to make some purchases, intending to return later with Mary.

Dr. Paine had told them how the end would probably come; and it was as he had said. He himself was away toward Boston, where his services were most needed, and there was no other physician for Dorothy to summon, even had she felt it necessary.

But she well knew the uselessness of this. No human skill could prolong the life of him who had been stricken down late in the afternoon, and now lay unconscious, breathing heavily, like a strong swimmer breasting heavy seas. And what sea beats so relentlessly as do the black waters of Death?

Dorothy had stolen for a moment to the window, scarcely able to endure to sit longer by the bed, listening to those gasping breaths that wrung her heart with the passionate sense of impotence to help, or even ease, the dying man.

Curled up in the broad window-seat, her face turned from the dimly lighted room to the fast-falling night outside, the past, and its contrast with the present, seemed to unroll before her with a vividness of detail such as we are told comes to one who is drowning.

All that was happy seemed to lie behind her; all the cheer and comfort of the old home were gone, never to return – no more than would her father's protecting love.

And he – her father – was now drawing nigh to the day that knows no darkness, no dawning; while for her the night shadows of the bitter parting were closing about, dark and cold.

The incoming tide was almost at the full, and the surf sounded like a moaning voice from the sea. It was to the young girl's tortured imagination a warning voice, bidding her heed that the fashion of this world must pass away, and with it the souls of its children, who, like merry little ones gathering flowers in fair fields, unheeding, unthinking, grow grave only as the day draws on. It told her that they grow wise – sad, perhaps – as the sun sinks; and that when the darkness falls they lie down to sleep, with tired brains and heavy hearts, all their buoyancy gone with the day's brightness. They have come to know its bitter lesson of weary struggle, of sore disappointment and heart-breaks.