From Kingdom to Colony

No pen can describe the emotions of the two listeners as they heard these words, nor could any pencil portray the reflection of these emotions upon their faces.

Southorn's expression was that of thankfulness, mingled with amazement, – doubt, as though he feared the treachery of his own senses, while Dorothy's face became all aglow with delight and triumph at her success.

The young man stepped impetuously toward Washington, and was about to speak, but the latter raised his hand.

"You, sir, as an officer of the King," he said gravely, "know the weight of such a debt as this, and no words of mine can add to the sense of your obligation to her. This being so," and he glanced from one to the other of them, while the suggestion of a smile relieved the sternness of his face, "I will leave you with her for a short time, in order that you may express your gratitude in fitting terms, while I consider what course is best for me to pursue in carrying out the purpose I have in view."

With this he arose from his chair, and bowing to them, withdrew to the inner room, closing the door after him.

For a single moment there was silence between the two he had left alone, and no one could now accuse Dorothy of any lack of color in her cheeks.

"Dorothy – sweetheart, what does all this mean?"

The young man spoke in almost a whisper, looking at her as though she were a vision, a part of some strange dream. His voice faltered, and his eyes moved restlessly as he came toward her, walking slowly and uncertainly.

But Dorothy, her wonted self-possession and courage now fully restored, did not wait for him to come to her. She advanced smilingly, her eyes alight with happiness, and laid both her hands within his.

Then, while they stood face to face, she told him hurriedly of what she had done.

While she was speaking, he looked at her in that same queer way, his eyes wandering over her face and figure, while now and again he pressed her little soft hands, as though to gain through them still greater assurance of the blessed reality.

But when she finished, his eyes ceased their roaming, and became fixed upon her beaming face.

"My darling," he said slowly, "do you realize the full measure of what you have done for me? Do you know that you not only have given me life, but have saved me from that which to a soldier is more terrible than the torments of hell itself, – the disgrace of being hanged as a spy?"

His voice broke, and a spasm of pain shot across his face. Then he exclaimed in a tone filled with self-condemnation, "And this you have done for the man who forced his love upon you, – who married you by a trick – aye, by violence; the man who – "

She drew one hand away from his grasp and put it firmly against his lips.

"Stop!" she commanded, with all her natural imperiousness. "I'll listen to no more talk such as that. Had you not married me in the way you did, 't is not likely you would have wed me at all, for I have come to know that I am no girl to be won by soft speeches, and sighs, and tears."

"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 went around 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 I have loved you from the very first – since the time you opened your eyes when I held your head that day on the rocks. I loved you when you kissed me, the time we met in the wood, and I loved you when we stood before Parson Weeks; and – I'll love you all my life."

He drew her to him with a force almost rough in its fierceness, and covered 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 I left Marblehead. I was hoping until then to receive some little word bidding me come to you, – to come and tell your people the truth, and face 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 that a 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 for my return," he continued, "and was thinking of setting sail for home, when my eyes were blessed with sight of you yesterday, and I was dragged out here by a force I was unable to resist. I hoped to have speech with you somehow, if only that I might implore your forgiveness before I went away."

"And now you know there is naught to forgive," she said, smiling up into his face.

Then she drew herself a little away from him, and taking hold of the collar of his red coat as though to detain him, added softly, "But you'll not go now, will you?"

He laughed exultingly; but his face became sad again as he stroked the ripples of curling hair clustering about her forehead.

"It would seem, sweetheart," he said, "as if that might be the wisest course for me to pursue; for how can I find heart to take up arms against the country and people – aye, against the very kindred – of my own wife?"

A look of sorrowing dread swept all the light from Dorothy's face; but the 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 you see I am not free to go anywhere just at this present. 'Sufficient for the day,' you know, 'is the evil thereof;' and surely we have evil to fear, even yet. But nothing can daunt me now – now that my honor is cleared; and that, too, by such an unlooked-for ray of light from Heaven, and with it the knowledge that you love me, and dared so bravely to save my life."

The door-knob was now rattled with a warning significance, and the two sprang away from each other as General Washington slowly entered the room.

His face bore an odd expression, and one that was pleasant to look upon, as he glanced from Dorothy to her husband. Then his eyes returned to the girl's face, and he asked, with no attempt to conceal a smile, "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 overflowing with gratitude, happiness, hope.

They all seemed struggling for precedence in the words that should come from her lips, and she found herself unable to speak.

Her eyes filled, and she looked up as though imploring him to find in her face all that her lips failed to say. Then she sprang forward, and seizing his hand, pressed it to her lips.

He appeared to understand fully the cause of her silence and agitation, – to know and appreciate the emotions that rendered her dumb; and the lines of his face resumed their accustomed gravity as he withdrew his hand from her clasp and laid it gently upon the curly head so 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 words came to Dorothy as a benediction from him who had so recently passed away.

Washington now addressed himself to Captain Southorn.

"You have in this child a priceless treasure," he said. "God grant that you ne'er forget the fact, nor the debt you owe her."

"I never will – I never can, sir," the young man answered with unmistakable sincerity, as he came and took his wife by the hand. "Of that, sir, you may rest assured," he added, in a voice shaking with strong emotion.

Washington bent his head in approval. "For the present," he continued, "I deem it proper that you remain as before. I purpose stopping here until afternoon, and will then have you taken to Cambridge, unless some unforeseen matter shall arise to alter my plans."

The prisoner bowed in silence; then, as Washington went toward the door to summon Doak, the young man turned to smile hopefully into his wife's eyes.

"Keep a brave heart, sweet one," he whispered, "and trust in my love and 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 they were alone, "and remember that the promise it contains is renewed for the future. In such days as are about us, it is not improbable to reckon upon its being needed again – although scarcely for a like purpose."

He smiled, as his fingers closed upon the small hand within which he placed the eventful slip of paper. "And now go, my daughter," he added, "and may God bless you. Trust in Him, and He will surely watch over your life, and make all well in the end."

CHAPTER XXX

Had Dorothy been less absorbed by anxiety and grief when she was making her way to General Washington's apartments, she would have heard the door of the taproom open softly as she reached the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor.

Farmer Gilbert's head was thrust from the opening, and his fierce eyes watched the slight figure ascend to the landing above and turn in the direction of the rooms occupied by the Commander-in-Chief.

As soon as she was out of sight, he glanced up and down the hall, to make certain no one was near, and slipped cautiously out. Then quickly removing his heavy shoes, he stole, cat-like, up the stairway.

His progress was stayed by the voices of the girl and Doak; and raising his head until his eyes were on a level with the floor, he saw them enter the room together.

"Whatever be she up to?" he muttered. Then hearing footsteps in the hall below, he sped noiselessly up the few remaining steps, and made haste to hide himself in Mistress Trask's linen-press, standing only a short distance away, and which afforded him ample opportunity for watching, as he held the door ajar.

"Aha, my lady spy," he whispered to himself, "I'll keep my eye on ye – an' my ears, too. Ye can't fool Jason Gilbert, 'though ye may fool some as thinks they know more as I."

He saw Doak fetch the British prisoner, and noted the length of time the young man remained in the room whither the girl had gone.

"Aye – him outside, last night, an' she on the inside," his maudlin thoughts ran on. "They thought to hev it all their own way, – to tell the Britishers the names o' the officers that were here, an' all that was goin' on. An' now here be General Washington himself, I'll be bound, lettin' her coax him to save t' other spy from hangin', when they both ought to be strung up together. I wish now I'd not set up a hello that brought the men out o' the inn, but had jest given him a crack o'er the head myself, to settle the matter, an' so hev none o' this triflin', with her tryin' to pull the wool over the General's eyes. But I guess he'll know 'em for the pair o' d – d British spies they be."

His lips moved in unworded mutterings, his eyes intent upon Doak – now sitting by the closed door – or else glancing about the hall to see if any one were approaching his place of concealment.

When Doak was again summoned within the room, Gilbert thought to improve the chance for making his escape; but seeing that the door was open a few inches, he concluded to wait. Then he saw the fisherman come out with the prisoner, and he uttered a low curse when the young man turned to meet the girl's eyes before the door closed behind him.

Before the sound of their footsteps died away down the hall, Farmer Gilbert left his hiding-place and hastened below, sitting down on the steps to replace his shoes, as one of the women servants came along.

"Got a pebble, or summat, in my shoe," he explained, raising his head; for the girl had stopped, and was staring at him curiously.

"Did ye have to take off both shoes to find it?" she asked pertly.

He did not answer, and she passed on to the tap-room, whither he followed her.

Less than an hour after this, as Mary and Dorothy were in their little parlor, talking over the recent happenings, the landlady came to announce that General Washington desired to see them at once.

They observed, as they passed along the hall, that some fresh excitement seemed to prevail, for they could see that the taproom was filled with men, many of whom were talking animatedly.

The door of Washington's room stood open, and they saw him in earnest conversation with two other officers, who withdrew as the girls entered.

He welcomed them kindly, although seeming preoccupied, – as if pressed by some new matter which disturbed him.

"A messenger has brought information that a body of the enemy is coming in this direction," he said, speaking quite hurriedly. "It is therefore prudent that we go our ways with all proper speed, and I wish to urge your own immediate departure. I regret that our routes lie in different directions; but I will send the man Doak to escort you, as it appears he is well known to your family."

Seeing the consternation in the girls' faces, he added reassuringly: "There is no cause for alarm, for you have ample time to put a safe distance between yourselves and the approaching British. I think it probable they will halt for a time here, at the tavern, for this seems to be their objective point."

"Do you think there is like to be a battle?" Mary inquired nervously.

Washington smiled at her fears.

"No," he answered. "It is but a moderate-sized force – probably reconnoitring. We shall, I trust, have the enemy well out of Boston erelong, without the risk or slaughter of a battle."

Then he added: "But we are losing valuable time, and I have something more pleasant than battles to speak about. I take it, Mistress Devereux," – and he turned to Mary, – "that your little sister here has made you aware of what passed between us but an hour ago?"

"Yes, sir." And Mary stole a side glance at Dorothy, wondering that the girl should appear so self-possessed.

"Captain Southorn will go with me to Cambridge," he continued, "where his ultimate disposition will be decided upon."

Dorothy started; but looking at Washington, she saw a smile in the kindly glance bent upon her troubled face.

"He will also meet Lieutenant Devereux there, and this I deem a desirable thing for all concerned. So take heart, Mistress Dorothy, and trust that all will end happily."

He looked at his watch, and then held out a hand to each of them.

"Get you under way for Dorchester at once," he said, "and you shall hear something from me within the week."

With this he led them to the door and bade them God speed, warning them once more to make haste in leaving the inn.

When they had put on their riding-hats, and gathered up their few belongings, the two girls left their room in company with Mistress Trask, who, between the excitement of seeing her distinguished guests depart, and the unusual exercise attending the concealment of her choicest viands from the approaching enemy, was well-nigh speechless.

Emerging from the narrow passage leading to the main hall of the inn, they encountered a small knot of men looking curiously at Captain Southorn and the two soldiers guarding him, who were standing at the foot of the staircase, apart from the others, and were apparently waiting for orders, while outside the open door several other men were gathered, in charge of a dozen or more horses.

As Mary's glance fell upon the young Englishman, she flushed a little, and holding her chin a bit higher than before, turned her eyes in another direction – but not until he saw the angry flash in them.

A faint smile touched his lips as he lifted his hat, and then an eager look came to his eyes as he saw the small figure following close behind her, whose steps seemed to falter as she neared him.

Just then there was a call from above stairs; and as one of the guards ascended hastily to answer it, Captain Southorn said something in a low tone to the other one – quite a young man – standing beside him.

He listened, and then shook his head, but hesitatingly, as he glanced toward Dorothy, who was looking wistfully at his prisoner.

Good Mistress Trask had chanced to overhear what the Britisher said; and speaking to the young soldier, she exclaimed testily: "Fiddlesticks, Tommy Macklin! Why not let him speak a word to the young lady, when he asks ye so polite-like? What harm can come of it? They be old acquaintances."

Tommy seemed to waver; but being a good-hearted young fellow, as well as standing somewhat in awe of the landlady, who was a distant relative, he made no farther objection, and nodded his consent.

Southorn gave Mistress Trask a grateful smile, and stepping quickly to where Dorothy was standing, took her hand and led her a few steps away from the others, as he asked in a low voice, "Do you know what is to be done with me, sweetheart?"

"Only that you are to go to Cambridge," was the hurried reply.

"I knew that much myself," he said smilingly. "But what is the meaning of all this sudden stir?"

"They say the – British are marching toward the inn," she whispered, her mind troubled by the fear that she had no right to give him this information.

He drew a quick breath; and she readily divined the thoughts that caused him to frown, and bite his lips.

"General Washington said you would meet my brother at Cambridge, and that it was best to – best for – that it was important for you to see him," she added stammeringly, while her color deepened.

The scowl left his face, and he smiled at her in a way to make her eyes seek the floor.

"Aha! did he, indeed? Well then, no doubt it is best that I am going to Cambridge, and as soon as may be. But," with some anxiety, "what think you this brother of yours will say to me, or will a bullet be all he will have for my hearing?"

"No, indeed no!" Dorothy exclaimed. "Jack would never show you unkindness, for he knows – he well knows, because I told him – "

"Do you mean to say," he asked quickly, cutting short her words, "that your brother has known all this time the blessed truth that I learned only this very morning?"

"He only knew of it just before he left home in the summer," she whispered. "I had to tell him."

"Why?"

"I was afraid you and he might meet, and I was fearful that – " The voice died away, and Dorothy's head drooped.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, "I understand. You must have been sadly torn betwixt your love and what you thought to be your duty. It makes me realize more keenly what a brute I have made of myself. But trust me – only trust and believe in my honor and true love, and I will try all my life to make amends for the suffering I have caused you."

Washington and his suite were now descending the stairs, and Tommy Macklin hastened to place himself closer to his prisoner as the other soldier joined him.

Then Southorn turned to Dorothy and said: "It is evident that we are about to leave. Tell me quickly as to your own movements, – you surely are not going to stop here?"

"Oh no; Mary and I are to set out right away for Dorchester, and Fisherman Doak is to see us safely housed with Mistress Knollys."

"You will go at once," he insisted, "and not delay a second?"

She nodded smilingly, and their eyes spoke the farewell their lips were forbidden to utter.

Mary had been standing all this time alongside Mistress Trask, her face studiously averted from the two at whom nearly all the others were staring wonderingly.

She now came forward, and without looking at Captain Southorn, joined Dorothy; and in company with the landlady they passed through the door into the midday sunlight flooding the world outside.

Washington and those with him were the first to leave, – their departure being witnessed by every one at the inn.

The two girls were now standing side by side in the doorway; and Captain Southorn, on horseback, with a mounted guard on either side of him, smiled again as his glance fell on Mary's spirited face, and at the thought it awakened of that morning at the Sachem's Cave.

"They be goin' to take the spy to Cambridge, to hang him," muttered Farmer Gilbert to Mistress Trask, his restless eyes roving from the sweet young face in the doorway to that of the young man sitting upon the horse.

"No such thing," said the landlady, with an indignant sniff. "He is a prisoner, but there's no further talk o' hangin'."

"Who says so?" and the farmer's scowling brows grew blacker.

"The young ladies say so, an' they both know him – knew him long ago."

"Aye, that I'll be bound, as to one of 'em, at any rate," he growled, eying Dorothy savagely. The girl's face was telling her secret, while she stood watching her husband turn for a parting smile as he rode off with the others.

"Where do she live?" Gilbert asked suddenly, jerking his thumb toward the doorway, in front of which Doak was now standing with the horses.

"Down at Marblehead, when they be at home; both of 'em live there," the landlady answered. "But they be stoppin' at Dorchester now, with friends, an' there's where they're bound for." With this she turned away, her manner showing that she desired no further parley with him.

The man stood for a few moments, as if reflecting upon what he had heard. Then, with one more glance at the two girls, he turned slowly about, and took his way to the stables of the inn.

CHAPTER XXXI

Doak and his charges had gone but a short distance when the sound of hoofs behind them caused all three to turn, wondering who might be approaching.

It was a man, evidently an American by his appearance; and as they looked back at him, he seemed to check the hitherto brisk gait of his horse.

Dorothy was the first to recognize him.

"Oh, Mary, 't is that dreadful man who frightened us!"

"Frightened ye?" echoed Doak, interrogatively. "How was that, mistress?"

When Mary explained what had taken place the night before, he glanced back again, and saw that the distance between them was rapidly increasing, for the man in the rear was letting his horse walk, while he sat swinging loosely in the saddle.

"There be naught to fear now," he said, in a way to reassure the two girls. "He's not like to think o' tryin' any frightenin' game with me. An' he rides like he had too much store o' liquor aboard to be thinkin' of aught but keepin' firm hold on his craft." Then, when he had looked again, "He be fallin' way behind, so there's no call for bein' fright'ed, either one o' ye."

They soon lost sight of the stranger, and without further happening arrived safely at their destination, to receive a motherly welcome from Mistress Knollys, who had been most anxious concerning them, knowing how the roads were infested with stragglers from both armies.

She insisted upon Doak alighting to take some refreshment; and he, nothing loath, did so, while she wrote a letter to her son for the fisherman to carry back to Cambridge.

Dorothy and Mary also improved the opportunity to write to Jack, Dot even venturing to enclose a little missive for Captain Southorn, which she begged her brother to deliver.

It was her first love letter, although so demure and prim in its wording as scarcely to deserve that name. But a loyal affection breathed through it, praying him to hope, and to trust in Washington's friendship for them.

Mistress Knollys listened with widening eyes to Mary's account of their interview with the great man, – for she invested him with all the power of His Gracious Majesty, and regarded him with more awe than ever she had King George himself.

She laughed outright over the description of their having been caught in his apartments, and asked to see the paper he had given Dorothy, touching it as something most sacred.

Dorothy had gone above stairs, leaving Mary and the good woman together in the living-room, where the afternoon sunshine poured across the floor in broad slants from the two windows opening upon the garden at the rear of the house.

Presently Mistress Knollys said, "It would seem, my dear, to be the very best outcome for Dorothy's matter, the way things have befallen."

"Yes," Mary assented with a sigh, "so it does."

"And yet," added the old lady, "I fear it will be hard for the little maid, with a brother and husband fighting against one another."

"Ah, but you forget, dear Mistress Knollys, that he told her he thought of setting sail for his home in England."