From Kingdom to Colony Part 27

but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An'

here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor granddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her.

An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."

Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she can for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had that moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for anything.

She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only she be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."

The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.

As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of things I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you another time."

"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old nurse."

"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that fashion, I'll go straight home again."

The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher was here yesterday to see me."

"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath; for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.

"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it afterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She did not want to tell me, either; but I made her."

"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what she said, Ruth."

The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her restless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She told me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one could change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with a scarlet color."

"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes looked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon the pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still more impressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside.

But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said that naught could change it,--that his heart was set to ye as the flowers to the sunshine,--that ye held him to wind about your little finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow, would come to ye with it."

Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thought her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. For a moment--only a moment--she felt frightened and almost helpless, even turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outer room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.

Then her own dauntless spirit a.s.serted itself once more, and she laughed with joyous disbelief.

"Nonsense, Ruth,--nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."

"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping her wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time will bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some herbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night, an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to Lynn to 'bide."

"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you fret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and get well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and Mary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."

Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my lamb, if ye married the right man."

Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,--did Moll tell you where he was?"

"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd best keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had to open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,--keep all the redcoats away from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to the true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys--he be most fit for ye."

Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he is almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to any one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry Hugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."

"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and her lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make a jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.

"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and so don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly head threateningly.

CHAPTER XX

Pashar had not yet appeared, but Dorothy set forth upon her return with no thought of danger or delay.

It was now high noon, and the sun making itself felt disagreeably, she pushed back the hood of her red cloak as she entered the wood, the cool wind coming refreshingly about her bared head while she walked slowly along with downcast eyes, musing over this last prophecy of Moll Pitcher.

"Aha, Little Red Ridinghood, have you been, or are you going, to see your grandmother?"

Dorothy's heart throbbed tumultuously for an instant. Then she felt cold and half sick, as she looked up and saw coming from under the trees the gleam of a scarlet coat, topped by a shapely head and olive face, whose dark-blue eyes were bent laughingly upon her.

She stopped, startled and hesitating, not knowing what to do, while Cornet Southorn came toward her along the path, his hat swinging from one hand, the other holding a spray of purple asters.

This he now raised to his forehead, saluting her in military fashion, as he said with a touch of good-humored mockery, "Your servant, fair mistress,--and will you accept my poor escort, to guard you from the wolf who is waiting to eat Little Red Ridinghood?"

A smile now began to dawn about the corners of the girl's mouth; but she made an effort to keep it back, while she replied with an attempt at severity, "There are no wolves about here, sir, to guard against, save only such as wear coats of the color you have on."

"If my coat makes me anything so fearsome in your eyes, I will discard it forever." He had dropped his tone of playfulness, and now came a step closer, looking down into her face in a way to make her feel uneasy, and yet not entirely displeased.

"I have no liking," she said, in the same bantering manner he had a.s.sumed at first, "for those who so readily change the color of the coat they are in honor bound to wear."

"It was not an easy thing to contemplate until I met you," he replied bluntly, and looking at her as if hoping for some approval of his confession.

This he failed to obtain, for Dorothy only smiled incredulously as she asked, "Is it kind, think you, to credit me with so pernicious an influence over His Majesty's officers?"

"I credit you only with all that is sweetest and best in a woman," he said with quick impulsiveness. And coming still nearer to her, he dropped the flowers and seized one of her hands, while the basket fell to the ground between them.

"'T is small matter what you may or may not credit me with," she answered, with a petulant toss of her head. "Leave go my hand this minute, sir! See, you have made me drop my basket; let me pick it up, and go my way."

A sudden, curious glance now flashed from his eyes, and looking sharply into her face, he said, "I thought that perhaps you would like me to go with you, so that you might shut me up again in your father's sheep-house."

Dorothy ceased her efforts to withdraw her hands--for he now held both of them--from his clasp, and stared up at him in affright.

"Who told you I did?" she gasped. "Who said so?"

The young man threw back his head and laughed exultingly.

"Aha,--and so it was really you, you sweet little rebel! I was almost certain of it, the morning I spoke to your father of the matter, and saw the look that came into your eyes."

"You are hateful!" she cried, her fear now giving place to anger. "Let me go, I say,--let go my hands at once!" Her eyes were filled with hot tears, and her cheeks were burning.

"Never, while you ask me in such fashion." And he tightened his clasp still more. "Listen to me!" he exclaimed pa.s.sionately. "I have been eating my heart out for dreary weeks because I could see no chance to have speech with you. I felt that I could kill the men I've seen riding with you about the country. And now that I have this opportunity, I mean to make the most of it, for who can say when another will come to me?"

His words were drying her tears, as might a scorching wind; and she stood mute, with drooping head.

"Don't be angry with me for what I have said," he entreated, "nor because I found it was you who played that trick upon me. That prank of yours is the happiest thing I have to remember. You might lock me up there every day, and I would only bless you for being close enough to me to do it."