From Kingdom to Colony

"And then I suppose she would go with him."

"Aye;" and Mary sighed again. "I think she will surely wish to do this."

"Well, well, my dear," said Mistress Knollys, speaking more briskly, "that is not like to be right away, as he must await his exchange as a prisoner, and there's no telling when that will come to pass. Let us borrow no trouble until we know the end, which, after all, may be a happy one."

It was the fourth day after this that Mary was gladdened by the sight of her husband riding up in front of Mistress Knollys' door; and with him were Hugh and a dozen other stout fellows on horseback. He explained that they had but a short time to tarry, and were come at Washington's command, to carry Dorothy back with them to Cambridge.

"Hey, you little mischief, see the stir you are guilty of making, – getting half the camp by the ears with your goings on," he said laughingly, and in a way to set at rest all her misgivings, as he took her in his arms.

"But what am I to go to Cambridge for?" she asked rather nervously, still with her arms around his neck, and holding back her head to get a better look at his face, in which a serious expression seemed to be underlying its usual brightness.

"Did I not tell you, – because General Washington sent us to fetch you? But come," he added more gravely, "we must get away at once. Hasten and get yourself ready and I will tell you all as we ride along."

"Had I not better go with her?" asked Mary, when Dot had left them.

Her husband shook his head. "No, it was only Dot we were to bring."

"But for her to go alone, with a lot of men – " Mary began.

He put an arm around her shoulder as he interrupted her remonstrances.

"She goes with her brother, sweetheart, and to meet her husband."

"But she is coming back?" And Mary spoke very anxiously.

"Aye, she'll return sometime to-morrow; but for how long is for herself and the other to decide."

Then he explained: "The British have a man of ours, one Captain Pickett, a valiant soldier, with a stout arm and true heart. They have had him these three months, a prisoner in Boston, and we have been most anxious to bring about his exchange. General Washington has now arranged this through Southorn, who is to return to-morrow to Boston, and Captain Pickett is to be sent to us. After that, as I have said, we have no right to dictate Dorothy's movements. Captain Southorn has told me that he should return to England as soon as may be."

"Then," said Mary in a tone of conviction, and the tears springing to her eyes, "Dot will go with him."

"Aye, belike," he sighed, "for they love one another truly."

"And you, Jack, do you – can you look at and speak to this man with any tolerance?" demanded his wife, the asperity of her voice seeming to dry away the tears.

"I try to do so, for Dot's sake, and for what he is to her. I've found him to be a gentleman, and a right manly fellow, despite the prank of which he was guilty."

"Well, I shall hate him the longest day I live!"

Mary could say nothing more, for Mistress Knollys and Hugh now came in from another room, where they had been together.

Dorothy had passed this room on her way up the stairs, and seeing Hugh, stopped, while he came forward quickly to meet her.

"Oh, Hugh, but I am truly glad to see you once more!" she exclaimed. "How long, how very long it seems since you went away!" And there were tears shining in the eyes she raised to his face.

He clasped both her extended hands, and reminding himself of all he had heard, strove to hide his true feelings, while his mother, from the room back of them, watched the two in silence, still seeming to hear the cry he had uttered only a moment before, —

"Oh, mother, mother, I feel that my heart will break!"

Dorothy could not but observe the paleness of his face, and the traces as of recent tears showing about the blue eyes; but she attributed these to other than the real cause, – perhaps to matters arising between his mother and himself after their long separation.

"I am glad you have missed me sufficiently to make the time seem long to you, Dot," he replied, well aware, in the bitterness of his own heart, of how little this had to do with her show of emotion.

"Aye, I have missed you very much," she declared earnestly. "And so many sad things have happened since!"

"Yes – and so many that are not sad," he added significantly, desiring, since he might be expected to speak of her marriage, to have it over with.

A burning blush deepened the color in her cheeks. She drew away the hands he had been holding all this time, her eyes fell, and she seemed scarcely to know how to reply.

"I pray God you will be very happy, Dorothy." And his speaking her full name accentuated the gravity of his voice and manner.

"Thank you, Hugh," she replied, trying to smile: then, with a nervous laugh, "And when you return to Marblehead and see Polly Chine, I hope I may say the same to you."

The young man forced a laugh that well-nigh choked him. It had been hard enough to endure before he saw her. But even when he knew from her brother of her being forced into a marriage with this Britisher, his heart refused to relinquish all hope, despite what his friend had told him of Dorothy's own feeling toward her husband.

But he had still cherished the idea that somehow, in some way, they might never come together again; that the Britisher, believing Dorothy to have no love for him, might sail away to England without her, should the fortune of war spare him to do this.

He also reckoned – hoped, rather – that the girl was so young as to recover from any sentiment this stranger might have awakened within her heart.

But now, in the light of what had come about and was soon to be, all hope was dead for him. The sight of the face and form he had never loved so well as now, – when she seemed so sweet and so lovable in her newly acquired womanliness – all this was unnerving him.

With these thoughts whirling through his brain, he stood looking at her, while he forced such an unnatural laugh as made her glance at him nervously and draw herself away.

"I'm not like to see the old town for many a long day, I fear," he managed to say, his voice growing less strained as he saw the wondering look in her dark eyes; "and as for Polly Chine, you must find one more suited to my taste before you 've cause to wish me what I now wish you with all my heart."

With this he turned hastily away, and his mother asked, "You are going to get ready to start for Cambridge, child?"

"Yes," replied Dorothy, "I must leave at once."

"And can I do aught to help?" the good woman inquired.

Upon being assured that she could not, she cheerily bade the girl make haste, and to remember that she was expected to return the next day.

"I shall miss the child sorely," she said, as the click of Dorothy's little heels died away on the floor above.

Hugh said nothing, but sighed heavily, as he stood looking out of the window with eyes that saw nothing.

His mother went to him and laid a gentle hand upon his broad shoulder.

"Oh, my son, my dear son," she said in a trembling voice, "my old heart is sore for you. I have hoped for years that – "

He whirled suddenly about.

"Don't mother – don't say any more – not now. Let me fight it out alone, and try to keep such a bearing as will prevent her from knowing the truth."

Then the passion in his voice died out, and he caressed her gray hair with a loving touch.

She drew his face down and kissed him.

"Come," she said, with an effort at cheerfulness, – "come into the other room and have speech with Mary before you go, else she'll think we've lost all proper sense of our manners. This is the first time you and she have met since her marriage."

CHAPTER XXXII

It was evening when the party reached the headquarters at Cambridge.

A faint afterglow of the brilliant sunset still lingered, but the roadway leading to the entrance of the house was dusky with the shadows of coming night, which almost hid the great trees on either side.

The air about was filled with the faint hum of camp life. Occasionally a voice could be heard, or the neighing of a horse, – figures of men were discernible here and there, and a sentry was pacing before the steps of the mansion.

"Here we are, Dot," said her brother; and dismounting, he helped her from her horse. "Careful, child;" for she had tripped, her riding-skirt having become entangled about her feet as she followed him into the open doorway. "I will take you directly to the room prepared for you, and do you wait there until I return."

She said nothing, but held fast to his arm.

"Come, be brave," he whispered; "there is naught for you to fear." And he led her within, leaving Hugh Knollys with the other men outside.

The hall was spacious and well lighted. Several officers and privates were moving about, all of whom stared wonderingly at the unusual sight of a lady, – although it was not easy to decide whether it was a woman or child – this dainty little figure in the riding-habit, who was looking about with unconcealed curiosity.

Far down the hall, to the left, her brother opened a door, showing a spacious, well-furnished chamber, where a wood fire was blazing, – for the night was drawing in chilly.

"Now take off your hat, child, and feel at home," he said, kissing her. "Remember there is naught to fear. It is only that we are wishing to fix matters for you, little one, so that you'll be happy." And he kissed her again as she clung to his neck.

"Ah, Jack," she whispered, "you are so good to me!"

"I've never had the wish to be other than good," he replied lovingly.

As soon as she was alone, Dorothy removed her hat, and then, as she stood by the hearth, watching the leaping flames, smoothed out her curls.

So engaged, and lost in thought, she did not hear the tapping upon the door, nor see that it opened softly and a man's figure paused on the threshold, as if watching the slight form standing by the fire, with the back turned squarely to him.

"Little one," came in a voice that startled the silence.

She turned like a flash, and although the firelight did not touch his face, it was not needed to tell her who it was.

He closed the door, and advanced with outstretched arms, laughing with exultation when she fled to them.

"You are still of the same mind as when we parted?" he said, while he held her as if never meaning to let her go from him again.

"How can you ask?" And she nestled yet closer to him.

His only answer was to kiss her. Then, bringing a chair to the hearth, he seated himself, and attempted to draw her upon his knee. But she frustrated this by perching herself upon the arm of the chair, from which she looked triumphantly into his face.

"Your hands are cold, little one," he said, holding them against his cheek.

"We had a long ride," she replied, her eyes drooping before the intensity of his gaze.

"Aye, so you did; are you tired?"

"No, not at all," was her smiling answer, and her appearance did not belie the words.

"Hungry?" – with a little laugh, and tightening the clasp of his arm about her.

"No," again lifting her eyes to his happy face.

"Well, I have been hungry for days, and with a hunger that is now being happily appeased. But a supper is to be ready for you shortly, and then you are to see General Washington. Do you understand, sweetheart, what all this is about?" He was looking down at the small hands resting in one of his own, and smiling as he noted with a lover's eye how dainty and white they were.

"Yes," she said, "my brother explained all that to me."

"And you will come with me – now, at once, as soon as I can make my arrangements?" He spoke hurriedly, nervously.

"To England?" she asked, a very serious look now showing in her dark eyes.

"Aye, to England," he repeated in a tone whose firmness was contradicted by his perturbed face.

Disengaging one hand, her arm stole around his neck as she whispered, "I would go to the ends of the earth with you now."

He held her head away, the better to look into her face, as he said with a sigh of contentment: "Now I can breathe easy! You see I did not dare believe you would really come, – you've ever been such a capricious little rebel."

Presently he asked, as he toyed with her small fingers, "Where got you all these different rings, little one?" and a note almost of jealousy sounded in his voice. "Here be many pretty brilliants – I thought maids in this country never wore such. How comes such a baby as you with a ring like this?" And he lifted her hand to look at the one which had attracted his special notice.

"My father gave it to me," she said quietly; "it was my mother's – whom I never saw."

He pressed his lips to the sparkling circlet. "My little wife, I'll be mother, father – all things else to you. All of them together could not love you more truly and sacredly than do I. Ah, my darling, you have but poor knowledge of the way I love you, and how highly I prize your esteem. How can you, after the rough wooing to which I treated you?"

Then he whispered, "And where is the ruby ring?"

He felt her head stir uneasily against his shoulder, "Surely you did not throw it away?" he asked after a moment's waiting.

Dorothy laughed, softly and happily.

"You told me that night at Master Weeks'," she whispered, "that you did not believe what my lips said, but what my eyes had shown you."

"Aye, so I did, and so I thought when I spoke. But until now I've been tossed about with such conflicting thoughts as scarce to know what to think."

"That may be so," she said, sitting erect to look at him. "But, believing what you read in my eyes then and before, think you I would throw away the ring?"

"Then where is it?" he asked again, smiling at her earnestness.

For answer she raised her hands to her neck, and undoing the fastening of a gold chain, drew it, with the ring strung upon it, from where they had rested, and laid them both in his hand.

His fingers closed quickly over them as he exclaimed, "Was there ever such a true little sweetheart?"

Then lifting her into his lap, he said, "You have never yet said to me in words that you really love me. Tell me so now – say it!"

"Think you that you have need for words?" A bit of her old wilfulness was now showing in her laughing eyes.

"Nay – truly no need, after what you have done for me, and have said you would go home with me. But there's a wish to hear such words, little one, and to hear you speak my name – which, now that I think of it, I verily believe you do not even know."

She nodded smilingly, but did not answer.

"What is it?" he asked coaxingly, as he would have spoken to a child.

"Ah – I know it." And she laughed teasingly.

"Then say it," he commanded with mock fierceness. "Say it this minute, or I'll – "

But her soft palm was against his lips, cutting short his threat.

"It is – Kyrle," she said demurely.

"Aye, so it is, and I never thought it could sound so sweet. Now say the rest of it – there's a good child. Ah, little one," he exclaimed with sudden passion, "I can scarcely yet believe all this is true. Lay all doubt at rest forever by telling me you love me!"

The laughter was gone from her eyes, and a solemn light came into them.

"Kyrle Southorn, I love you – I do love you!"

They now heard voices and steps outside the door, and Dorothy sprang to her feet, while Captain Southorn arose hastily from the chair and set it back in place.

It was John Devereux who entered, followed by a soldier.

"Well, good people," he said cheerily, giving the young Britisher a glance of swift scrutiny, and then looking smilingly at Dorothy, "there is a supper waiting for this small sister of mine; and, Dot, you must come with me – and that speedily, as I am famishing."

He advanced and drew her hand within his arm; then turning with more dignity of manner to the Englishman, he added, "After we have supped, Captain Southorn, I will look for you in your room, as General Washington will then be ready to receive us."

Southorn bowed gravely. Then, with a sudden boyish impulsiveness, he extended his hand.

"May I not first hear from your own lips," he asked earnestly, "that you wish me well?"

Jack clasped the hand as frankly as it had been offered, and Dorothy's heart beat happily, as she saw the two dearest on earth to her looking with friendly eyes upon one another.

CHAPTER XXXIII

An hour later the three stood before the door of Washington's private office; and in response to John Devereux's knock, the voice that was now so familiar to Dorothy bade them enter.

As they came into the room, Washington advanced toward Dorothy with his hand held out in greeting, and his eyes were filled with kindness as they looked into the charming face regarding him half fearfully.

"Welcome," he said, – "welcome, little Mistress Southorn."

At the sound of that name, heard now for the first time, a rush of color suffused Dorothy's cheeks, while the two younger men smiled, albeit each with a different meaning.

The one was triumphantly happy, but Jack's smile was touched with bitterness, and a sudden contraction, almost painful, caught his throat for a second.

"I trust that my orders were properly carried out for your comfort," continued Washington, still addressing Dorothy, as he motioned them all to be seated.

She courtesied, and managed to make a fitting reply. But she felt quite uncomfortable, and somewhat alarmed, to find her small self an object of so much consideration.

The Commander-in-Chief now seated himself, and turned a graver face to the young Englishman.

"May I ask, Captain Southorn, if the plans of which you told Lieutenant Devereux and myself are to be carried out?"

The young man bowed respectfully.

"I am most happy, sir, to assure you that they are, and at the speediest possible moment after I return to Boston."

Washington was silent a moment, and his eyes turned to Lieutenant Devereux, who, seemingly regardless of all else, was watching his sister.

"And you, Lieutenant, do you give your consent to all this?"

"Yes, sir." But the young man sighed.

"And now, little Mistress Southorn," Washington said, smiling once more, "tell me, have you consented to leave America and go with your husband?"

"Yes, sir," she replied almost sadly, and stealing a look at her brother's downcast face.

"It would seem, then, that the matter is settled as it should be, and to the satisfaction of all parties," Washington said heartily. "And I wish God's blessing upon both of you young people, and shall hope, Mistress Dorothy, that your heart will not be entirely weaned from your own land."

"That can never be, sir," she exclaimed with sudden spirit, and glancing almost defiantly at her husband, who only smiled in return.

"Aye, child – so? I am truly glad to hear it." Then rising from his chair, he said: "And now I must ask you to excuse me, as I have matters of importance awaiting my attention, and regret greatly that I cannot spare more time thus pleasantly. You will escort your sister back to Dorchester in the morning, Lieutenant?"

"Aye, sir, with your permission."

"You have it; and you had better take the same number of men you had yesterday. Return as speedily as possible, as there are signs of – "

He checked himself abruptly, but swept away any suggestion of discourtesy by saying, as he held out his hand to the young Englishman, "I'll bid you good-night, Captain Southorn; you see that it is natural now to think of you as a friend."

"It is an honor to me, sir, to hear you say as much," the other replied, as he took the extended hand and bowed low over it. "And I beg to thank you for all your kindness to me and to – my wife."

Dorothy now courtesied to Washington, and was about to leave the room, when he stretched out a detaining hand.

"Stay a moment, child. I am not likely to see you again before you depart, and therefore it is good-by as well as good-night. You will see that I have endeavored to do what was best for you, although I must admit" – and he glanced smilingly at Jack – "it was no great task for me to bring your brother to see matters as I did. And now may God bless you, and keep your heart the brave, true one I shall always remember."

She was unable to speak, and could only lift her eyes to the face of this great man, who, notwithstanding the weight of anxiety and responsibility pressing upon him, had been the one to smooth away the troubles which had threatened to mar her young life, and who had now brought about the desire of her heart.

But his kindly look at length gave her courage, and she managed to say, although chokingly, "I can never find words in which to thank you, sir."

He bowed as the three left the room, and no word was spoken while they took their way down the hall to Dorothy's apartment.

Jack opened the door and motioned the others to enter.

"I must leave you now," he said, "and go to see Hugh Knollys. He is not feeling just right to-night."

"Why, is he ill? I wondered that he was not at supper with us." Dorothy spoke quickly, her voice trembled, and her brother saw that she was weeping.

He followed them into the room and closed the door. Then he turned to Dot, and taking her by the hand, asked tenderly, "What is troubling you, my dear child?"

She gave a great sob and threw herself upon his breast.

"'T is because of what he just said – as we left him. It made me realize that I am soon to go away across the sea from you – from all of you," she exclaimed passionately. "Oh – how can I bear it!"

"'T is somewhat late, little sister, to think of that," her brother replied, caressing her curly head with the loving touch she had known ever since the childhood days. Then bending his lips close to her ear, he whispered, "See – you are making him unhappy."

At this she glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who had walked to the hearth, and stood looking into the fire.

"Come, little girl, cheer up," said Jack, "for to-night, at least. You are to have a little visit with him before he returns to his quarters. And before to-morrow noon he will be on the road to Boston."

With a long, sobbing sigh, she released him; then, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, she said with a wan smile, "It is hard – cruelly hard, to have one's heart so torn in opposite ways."

He knew her meaning, and thought, as he went away, how small was their own grief compared with that of poor Hugh, who, utterly unmanned, had immured himself in his quarters.

Dorothy stole to the hearth, where stood the silent figure of her husband; and as he still did not speak, she ventured to reach out and steal a timid hand within the one hanging by his side.

His fingers instantly prisoned it in a close clasp, and so they remained for a time looking silently into the fire. Presently he sighed, and drawing the chain and ruby ring from his pocket, said very gently, "Will you wear this ring, sweetheart, until such time as I can get one more suitable?"

"Aye – but I'd sooner not wear any other," she replied, looking wistfully at him, – awed and troubled by this new manner of his.

"Would you?" And he smiled as he fastened the chain about her neck. "Then I shall be obliged to have the half of it taken away, in order to make a proper fit for that small finger. But you must let me put on a plain gold band, as well, so that all may be in proper form."

She caught his hand and laid it against her cheek, while the light of the burning wood caught in the ruby ring, making it gleam like a ruddier fire against the folds of her dark-green habit.

"Why are you so unhappy?" she asked.

"That I am not, sweet little wife," he answered, drawing her to him, "save when I see you unhappy."

"But I am not unhappy," she protested, adding brokenly, "except that – that – "

"Except that you cherish a warm love for kindred and home, and one it would be most unnatural for you to be lacking," he interrupted. "But never fear, little one," – and he stroked her hair much as her brother had done – "you will not be unhappy with me, if you love me; and that you say you do, and so I know it for a truth – thank God. This war cannot last very long, and I've lost all heart to care whether King or colony win. To tell the truth," – and he laughed as he bent over to kiss her – "I fear my heart has turned traitor enough to love best the cause of her I love. So it is as well that I send in my resignation, which is certain to be accepted; and we'll go straight to my dear old home among the Devonshire hills, and be happily out of the way of the strife. And when it is over, we can often cross the sea to your own home, and perhaps your brother and his wife – if I can ever make my peace with her – will also come to us. And so, sweetheart, you see the parting is not forever – nor for very long."