Kitabı oku: «From Kingdom to Colony», sayfa 15

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.

The sky was filled with broken banks of ragged clouds that sent great tattered streamers across the zenith, entangling the glittering stars that seemed struggling to push them away, as if they were smothering draperies, from before their silvery faces.

Over in the east a faint spot of dusky red was showing in a cloud-rift. It was the rising moon, seeming to battle, like the stars, with the black hosts seeking to envelop it. It fought bravely, like a valiant soldier, and emerging triumphantly at last, threw a bar of dull red, like a pathway, across the sullen floor of the ocean.

This reached from the shore, out over the water, far away, to end in the heavy shadows looming against the horizon like the walls of the City of Death, whose angel keeper was even now unbarring the gates for the call that should bring the soul of Joseph Devereux within their misty portals.

Dwellers by the sea have a belief that the souls of those who are called, go ever with the turning of the tide. It was now only an hour, or less, to that; and Dorothy was waiting with a trembling heart for the ebb of the sea to carry her father away to the world of shadows.

He lay motionless, as though his soul were already departed, save for that same heavy breathing.

There was no change in this. It was as regular in its hoarse panting as the swinging of the pendulum in the clock outside the door, – the old clock that had seen both joy and sorrow passing before it through many generations, and had seemed to look with friendliness upon every eye – blue, black, gray, or brown – uplifted to its great face, – eyes that had long since been closed, some of them not even having time to grow dim with age or be moistened by tears of grief.

"Gone – gone – going," it sighed in Dorothy's ears, until she covered them with her hands to shut out the sound, and with it the moaning of the surf.

"Dot, my little girl!" A faint voice broke the stillness as the heavy breathing was hushed.

She flew to the bedside and knelt there, while she pressed her warm mouth against the nerveless hand, whose chill seemed to strike her very heart. Her father felt the quivering of her lips, and tried to lift his other hand to her head.

She knew this without seeing it, and moving yet closer to him, she laid her face over his heart, her head fitting into the hollow of his arm as she clasped his hand with her small fingers.

"Dot, my baby – oh, my little girl!"

The words came with all his old strength of voice, and she felt that he was weeping.

Startled at this outbreak, and alarmed for fear of some injury it might do him, all the girl's grief became swallowed up in the new energy that now surged through her.

"Hush!" she said soothingly, placing her face against his own. "Hush, dear! Never mind me; I shall be well enough. I know – I know," choking back a sob that rose in her throat like a stinging blow, "that all is for the best, 'that He doeth all things well.'"

"Yes, yes," her father murmured drowsily, as though calmed by her words and caresses. "Aye, my child, 'though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' God is on the other side, waiting – waiting – for me."

His eyelids had fallen again, and the closing words came in a faint whisper. He was now breathing heavily as before, and was seemingly unconscious; and Dorothy felt that he had come back for a moment from out the dark shadows gathering to shut them apart, so that he might speak to her once more in the voice she loved so dearly.

She did not stir, but remained kneeling by the bed, his arm around her, and his hand clasping her fingers with marvellous firmness.

She could feel and hear the feeble beating of the loving heart that had ever held her so tenderly. Throbbing against her cheek, its pulses seemed to keep rhythm with the mournful booming of the surf on the shore.

Suddenly, like a mighty ocean of falling waters, there came, to overwhelm her unnatural calm, the thought of what her world would be when that true, loyal heart was stilled, – when she could only lay her cheek against the earth that shut it away from her.

A giant hand seemed clutching at her throat; the grief, rising in mighty bursts, could find no vent in tears, and a gasping cry sprang from her lips, causing her to stir unconsciously within his arm.

His grasp tightened upon her hand, and her acutely listening ears heard him whisper brokenly, "'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end.'"

The words brought to her a strange comfort. And now his feeble hand caressed her head in a wandering, fluttering way, and she felt as in her baby days when he used to rock her to sleep; for his failing voice began to croon the old hymn he so often sang to her then.

She crept still closer to him. She was quieted for the moment, and filled with an awe as if angels were all about them. Her wild grief was hushed, – the agony of clutching pain in her throat dissolved itself in silent tears, and the sound of the surf now seemed a peaceful, soothing voice.

She felt as though she were going with her father along the way through the dark valley, – even to the very gates of jasper and pearl that would give him entrance to the City of Light, then to close, leaving her without.

Fainter, yet fainter grew his voice, at length dying away altogether. She heard her name breathed softly, just as he used to speak it when she, a little maid, was nestling in his arms, and he wished to assure himself of her being asleep.

"Yes," she whispered.

"My baby, 't is growing dark, blackly dark, little one. Ye'd better get to bed."

She made no answer – she could not, but listened breathlessly.

"My baby – my baby Dot. God keep my baby!"

The words were scarcely spoken, but came like long sighs, to mingle and die away with the night wind moaning outside the window. And it was as if the surf caught them, and repeated them to the watching stars.

"God – keep – my – baby!"

The room was still – still as the great loving heart under her cheek. And the tide was on the ebb.

CHAPTER XXVII

The summer days found Glover's regiment stationed, a portion at Cambridge, and the remainder on the high grounds of Roxbury, where were also all the other Massachusetts troops, as well as some of those from Connecticut.

John Devereux, being on duty at Cambridge, had approved of his wife accepting Mistress Knollys' invitation to stop with her in Dorchester. Her brother-in-law had been killed at Bunker Hill, and his devoted wife, broken-hearted, died soon thereafter, thus leaving Mistress Knollys entirely alone.

Mary insisted upon Dorothy accompanying her, for the girl had become greatly changed since her father's death, and Mary, as well as Aunt Lettice, deemed it wise to try the diverting effect of new scenes and associations. Then, too, Dorothy had always been a prime favorite with Mistress Knollys, and returned sincerely the good lady's motherly affection.

Thus it was that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were left alone at the Devereux farm, whose flocks and stores had already been much depleted by generous contributions sent up to the patriot army about Boston.

Mary saw her husband at rare intervals, when it was possible for him to snatch a few hours from his post of duty; but Hugh never came.

Mary could readily divine the reason for this, and so could Mistress Knollys, albeit the subject was never mentioned between them: for soon after their arrival, Mary, with Dorothy's consent, had told her of all that related to the young Englishman.

At first the old lady was filled with righteous indignation. But when she came to understand and realize how it was with Dorothy's own feelings, she accepted the result with the philosophy that was a part of her sweet nature, – even smiling to herself when she thought of the young man's rare audacity.

She had, despite her white hairs, a spice of romance yet left in her heart. And perhaps the memory of her own elopement, in the face of her parents' prohibition, went far toward softening her feeling in favor of the daring offender.

But she shook her head sadly as she thought of her own boy, the secret of whose heart she had long suspected, although he had not given her his confidence; and her eyes moistened as she realized the downfall of the cherished castle she had been building for him, with this girl – of her own choosing – for his wife.

Late one September day, Johnnie Strings brought word to Dorothy that Aunt Penine lay at death's door, and was craving to see her.

It was decided that she had better accede to her aunt's request, and that Mary should go with her; and so, in pursuance of arrangements made by the pedler, they started on horseback the following morning, with that wary individual as escort, and rode directly to a certain tavern just inside the American lines, and known as "The Gray Horse Inn," where they procured a conveyance to carry them the remainder of the journey.

Strings himself did not deem it wise to venture nearer than this to Boston, as he was expected to hold himself in readiness at the inn to receive some papers to be delivered to the Commander-in-Chief at Cambridge.

It was late in the afternoon when the two girls, after having seen Aunt Penine and made peace with her, hurried down the street toward the place where their carriage was awaiting them.

The day was gray, with clouds gathering slowly, when they had set out on foot from this point for their visit to Aunt Penine, their driver having considered it better that he should wait for them near the house of an acquaintance, whose true sentiments were known to only a few of his countrymen. And now, as they returned, a strong east-wind was making mournful soughings in the trees, and a downpour of rain seemed imminent from the solidly massed clouds overhead.

As they came down the steps of the house, Mary noticed a man across the street, lounging under the elms, as though awaiting some one. His tall figure was well wrapped in a riding-cloak, whose folds he held in a way to conceal his lower features, while his hat, slouched over his forehead, made it still more difficult to obtain a clear view of his face.

"Look at that man over there," she said nervously, clutching Dorothy's arm.

"Yes, I see," Dorothy replied with no show of interest, as they started down the street. "What of him?"

She was paying little heed to anything about her, for the meeting with Aunt Penine had aroused to new and acute paining the sense of her own great loss.

This, thanks to the diversion afforded by her new surroundings, had begun to be a little dulled; for when one is young it is no easy matter for any sorrow, however heavy, to utterly crush out all the light and hope.

Then, too, it had seemed to Dorothy a most marvellous thing to see Aunt Penine so softened and repentant. And this of itself served to increase the homesick longing the very sight of her had brought to the girl, – a craving for the happy days of the dear old home, when a united family gathered under its roof, with no war-clouds darkening their hearts.

"I am sure he is the same man I noticed walking after us when we came; and if so, why has he been standing there all this time?"

Mary now spoke excitedly, and as though alarmed, glancing now and then over her shoulder at the cause of her fears.

"He is probably attending to his own affairs, and giving no thought to ours," Dorothy answered, without looking in the stranger's direction. "If not, what then? It will be daylight for two hours to come, and in five minutes we will be where the man is waiting for us."

Mary said nothing more, but ventured to steal a parting glance as they turned the corner of the street; and she was much disconcerted to see the man still appearing to follow them.

They soon reached their destination and found the vehicle waiting. A minute more and they were seated, the driver gathered the reins, and his horses set off at a pace bespeaking their impatience to return to their stalls at the Gray Horse Inn.

The rain held back until they drew up in front of the entrance. Indeed it seemed as if the storm had waited for the girls to reach shelter, for no sooner were they inside the house than it let go with a sudden burst, doubtless setting in for an "all-nighter," as Johnnie Strings averred when he met them at the door.

It was impossible for them to continue their journey on horseback that night, and the landlord refused to send the carriage to Dorchester, by reason of all his horses being needed early the following morning to carry some supplies to the outposts. And so, yielding to the inevitable, Mary and Dorothy decided to pass the night at the inn, letting Johnnie Strings, who cared nothing for the storm, go on and explain matters to Mistress Knollys.

The Gray Horse Inn was an old building, whose precise age none could tell. The street whereon it stood was little more than a lane, leading off the main thoroughfare to Boston; and a person outside could easily glance through the lower windows, when these were unshuttered, as no shrubbery veiled them. Inside it was cheery and well-kept, and its rambling style of construction afforded accommodation for a surprising number of guests.

Back of the building extended a cornfield, which ended in a tract of woodland, while upon its townward side was a sturdy growth of oak and nut trees, encircling the cornfield, and running quite to the line of the woods beyond.

Mistress Trask, the landlady, gave the two girls a small parlor, communicating with a sleeping-room; and here their supper was served.

As the buxom dame brought in the well-filled tray, a loud, aggressive voice came through the open door, evidently from the taproom, where a fire blazing on the hearth – although the night was barely cold – tempted the wayfarers to congregate.

"An' I tell ye," said the unseen speaker, "that Boston is the heart an' mouth o' the colonies. The wind that blows from Boston will set every weathercock from New Hampshire to Georgia."

A silence followed, suggestive of no one caring to dispute the assertion.

Mistress Trask, noting Mary's expression of annoyance and her glance toward the door, made haste to close it. Then she explained, as she began setting the food upon the table: "That's only farmer Gilbert. He's a decent enough body when sober, but once he gets a bit o' liquor under his waistcoat, it seems to fly straight to his brains and addle 'em. And then he do seem fairly grieving for a fisticuff with all creation."

"I surely trust he will make no such disturbance while we are in the house," Mary said uneasily.

"Never ye have any fear, dearie," replied the good woman. She was an old acquaintance of Johnnie Strings, and he had duly impressed her as to the high standing of the guests he left in her charge.

"Never ye fear," she repeated. "The sight of a real lady is sure to be a check on his tongue an' manners; an' I'll see to it that he knows who be in this room. 'T is true sorry I am to have to put ye on this lower floor; but ye see, we've strict orders to keep the whole o' the upper floor for some gentry who will be here by late evening."

Then bending her head quickly, she whispered with great impressiveness, "Who, think ye, we expect?"

"I have no idea," was Mary's indifferent answer. She had scarcely heard the question, for wondering what it might be that Dorothy was thinking about as she stood by the window, from which she had drawn away the curtain.

Certain it was that the girl could distinguish nothing in the pitchy darkness outside, even if she could see through the rain-dashed panes, that looked as if encrusted with glass beads.

Mistress Trask's information – whispered, like her question, as if she feared the furniture might hear her words – caused Mary to sit very erect, with kindling eyes and indrawn breath.

"Hush-h," warned the landlady, with a broad smile of delight at the surprise she had aroused. "Hush-h; we was ordered on no account to let it get out."

"Dot, did you hear what she said?" Mary asked, when the two, left to themselves, sat down to the tempting supper.

Dorothy shook her head, wondering the while at Mary's agitation.

"She said," and Mary lowered her own voice, "that the Commander-in-Chief is to arrive here soon, and that he will stop here all night, as there is to be a meeting of some sort with many of his principal officers."

"General Washington!" A new light came to Dorothy's face, kindling a rush of color in her cheeks, and sending a glitter from her eyes that routed all their sad abstraction.

Mary nodded.

"I wish we could see him," said Dorothy. "Oh – I must get a peep at him."

"We will certainly try to see him," Mary agreed, adding eagerly, "And oh, Dot – mayhap Jack will be of them."

"And perhaps Hugh," Dorothy said impulsively. Then quickly, as she saw the sudden change in Mary's face, "Whatever is the matter with Hugh Knollys, I wonder? He has not been to see his mother since we went to stop with her; and I have noticed that whenever his name is mentioned, you and Jack – and even his mother – look oddly. Has he done anything amiss?"

"Nothing, indeed, that I know of." And Mary lifted her cup of tea so that it hid her eyes for the moment.

"I have wished so often that he would come – I should like to see him once more. How long – how very long it seems since he left us last fall!" Dorothy sighed; and Mary knew it was not for Hugh, but because of all that had happened since his going.

CHAPTER XXVIII

"Oh, Mary, which one of them do you suppose is he?" whispered Dorothy, as the two girls hung over the balustrade of the upper hall, watching the figures entering through the outer door, all of them so muffled in storm-cloaks as to look precisely alike, save as to height.

The landlord, with much obsequious bustling, had hastened forward to meet them. His wife was beside him, and she had just summoned a servant to assist in taking the wet wrappings from the new arrivals as she stood courtesying before them.

"The rooms be aired, lighted, and fires made, as ordered, sir," Trask was saying.

In one hand he held aloft a clumsy brass candlestick holding three lighted candles, while the other hand was placed over his heart, as if that member needed to be repressed under the well-filled proportions of his ample waistcoat; and he was bowing with great servility before a figure whose stature far exceeded that of the other new-comers, but whose face, hidden by his hat, could not be seen by the eager onlookers at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, Dot, they are coming straight up here," Mary gasped; and both girls sprang back in dismay at sight of the procession beginning to file up the stairway, preceded by the landlord, who now carried a candlestick in either hand.

Scarcely knowing what they were doing, and intent solely upon concealing themselves, they darted through the doorway of the nearest room, which was lighted only by a cheery wood fire.

"They will surely see us as they go by," whispered Mary, for, once inside, they saw that the door by which they had entered was in the extreme corner of the room, rendering the entire interior visible to a passer-by.

"Let us shut the door," Dorothy suggested.

But Mary said quickly, "No, that will never do. The landlord may have left it open, and would notice it being closed."

It had not occurred to them that all this was probably on account of the room being one of those assigned to the new guests, for Mary had given but slight heed to what Mistress Trask said as to the entire upper floor being taken, and Dorothy had heard naught of the matter beyond what Mary told her.

"Here is another room," said the younger girl joyfully, for her alert eyes had spied a half-closed door communicating with an inner and dark apartment.

It took them only a moment to gain this place of refuge and shut the door; then, standing close to it, they listened for any sound to indicate the passage of the procession down the hall, and so leave them an opportunity to return unobserved to their own apartments.

"I wish we had never done so foolish a thing," Mary said in a low voice. She was breathing rapidly, and trembling from agitation.

"So do I – as it is," was Dorothy's hurried answer. "But if I only could have seen him, so as to know him, I should not care."

The next minute they were awakened to new dismay by the sound of heavy footsteps entering the outer room. Then they heard the landlord say, "This is the room, your Excellency; I trust it be such as to suit you."

A calm, full-toned voice replied: "Thank you, landlord; everything seems quite as it should be. The other gentlemen will be here shortly; show them up at once, when they arrive."

"Yes, sir – certainly, sir," Trask replied. "This is the bedroom, sir." And the sound of his heavy feet approaching the door caused still greater terror to the trembling girls.

The latch was actually lifted, when the other voice arrested any farther movement by saying with a note of impatience: "Yes, yes – very well, landlord. We should like supper as speedily as it can be served, and as there will be many of us, we will have it downstairs."

Trask seemed now to take his leave, for they heard the outer door close. Then the same voice, mellow and dignified as at first, came to them again.

"No doubt, Dalton, they have been detained by the storm."

"Faith, sir, 't is little such a man as Glover cares for water," replied another voice, more jovial and evidently younger; "although, to be sure, he may prefer the water to be salt, being more used to that flavor."

Mary pulled Dorothy by the arm.

"We must walk straight out of here," she whispered, "this very minute. There is nothing else for us to do."

"Well, – go on." The words came brokenly from the younger girl's lips, for her heart was beating in a way to make her actually dizzy.

Then, as Mary hesitated, Dorothy's sturdy self-reliance returned; and pushing the door wide open, she passed in front of her sister-in-law and stepped forth into the presence of four officers, wearing the uniform of the Continental army.

Three of them were wandering about the room, as though awaiting the orders of the fourth, – a very tall man, of massive frame, seated by a table.

He was examining a sealed packet, and seemed about to open it under the light of the candles, but looked up quickly as the childish figure came and stood directly in front of him. Then, as his large gray-blue eyes glanced at the taller one, he arose to his feet, with the unopened packet in his hand.

The other officers had come to a standstill, as though rooted, in various parts of the room, and stood staring open-mouthed at the fair intruders, – a very evident admiration soon taking the place of their amazement.

Their commander now addressed the two girls, looking down from his great height upon the faces wherein embarrassment and veneration seemed hopelessly mingled.

"Well, ladies," he demanded, – his words and manner, albeit perfectly respectful and courteous, tinged with sternness – "what is the meaning of this?"

They both knew themselves to be in the presence of the great man whom they had desired so much to look upon, and they could see nothing in the room but the impressive figure now facing them with such an air of dignity and command.

There was about him the very atmosphere of self-nobility, self-reliance; and with it that supreme control which, being the ruler of his own nature, enabled him to govern all the more surely those about him. The steady gaze of the unusually large eyes, every line of the firm mouth and chin, bespoke a well-disciplined mind, and the keen intuitions of a born leader of men.

Mary was dumb from mortification, not unmixed with actual fear, for she could see no easy way of extricating themselves from their dilemma; but Dorothy plucked up heart of grace, and answered, as she dropped a little courtesy, "It is only that we wanted to see you, sir."

There was a spontaneous laugh from the three officers; but Washington checked it by turning to them with a frown.

And yet there was a faint smile touching the corners of his own lips, relaxing their severity, as he looked down at the girl and asked, in the quizzing tone he might have used toward a child, "Well, little one, now that you have seen me, what will you?"

"That you will pardon us, sir," Mary answered instantly, as she moved forward to Dorothy's side. Washington bent his head graciously to her. But his smiling eyes went back to the younger girl's face, although his words were now in reply to Mary.

"There is surely little to pardon. Rather let me thank you that I am held in such esteem, and thought deserving of so much consideration." Then he added with a glance that embraced them both, "May I know your names?"

"This is my sister, Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead; and I am Mary Broughton Devereux, wife of the officer of that name in Colonel Glover's regiment, now stationed at Cambridge."

Her composure had fully returned, and she spoke with perfect freedom – indeed with a touch of pride – as she looked up fearlessly into Washington's face.

"Aye;" and now his look and voice showed naught but cordiality. "I am happy, ladies, to make your acquaintance. I happen to know your husband, Mistress Devereux, for my present headquarters at Cambridge are in the house formerly occupied by Colonel Glover and his officers.³ I had also a slight acquaintance with your father-in-law."

"Oh, sir – you say that you knew my father?"

The lines of his face relaxed still more as he regarded the little figure standing before him, her hands clasped impulsively, and the great dark eyes, now glittering with tears, raised in a worshipful gaze more eagerly questioning than was even the sweet voice.

"Aye, child, I knew him. We met at the house of your townsman, Colonel Lee."

"He is – perhaps you do not know – my father died this spring." And crystal drops welled from the big eyes and hung suspended on the curling lashes.

"Aye, my dear child," and a note of the tenderest sympathy came to the deep voice, "so I heard at the time. God grant we may all be as well prepared as was your good father, when the end shall come."

There was a pause, filled by the crackling of the fire, whose gleams made a bright sparkle of the drops on Dorothy's swart lashes before she could wipe them away. The other officers were now exchanging significant glances, and looking at the girl with much interest.

The silence was broken by Mary, who was secretly burning to escape. She had waited until she met Washington's eyes; then, as he glanced at her, she made a deep courtesy and said, "And now, sir, if you please, we will retire to our own apartments below stairs."

"Wait but a moment," he replied. His eyes had gone back to Dorothy, who was standing with clasped hands, looking into the fire, and forgetful of all else than the sorrow his words had awakened within her heart. "Are you abiding under this roof, Mistress Devereux?"

"Only for this one night, sir," Mary answered. "We are stopping at Dorchester, with our old friend Mistress Knollys, and have been toward Boston to see a dying relative. We were returning from there when the storm overtook us, and are obliged to remain here until to-morrow. We shall set out again in the morning, sir."

"Not alone, surely?" he said with a slight frown. "It is scarce prudent for you two young ladies to be travelling these roads, at such a time as this, without escort."

"We had an escort, sir, but he went on to Dorchester, to assure Mistress Knollys of our safety. He will return in the morning, or else send some one for us."