From Kingdom to Colony Part 46

"Oh Dot," she asked tremulously, "do you dare do such a thing?"

"Yes, I dare do it, because I must,--because there is nothing else for me to do."

"Let her go, mistress," urged the landlady; "surely there be naught to fear for her." Then she said confidently, as Dorothy pa.s.sed through the door and out into the hall: "She be that young an' tender that no one would harm her,--least of all, General Washington. No doubt she'll be just the one to touch his heart with her pleadin' for the young man.

No one would have the heart to say no to her, she be so little an'

sweet."

Mary felt her own helplessness to turn Dorothy from her purpose.

Indeed she did not dare to say, even to herself, that it was not the girl's solemn duty to do as she had proposed.

And so she sat silent, with clasped hands, musing over all these things, while Mistress Trask removed the dishes. And while she was doing this, the landlady told for the first time--the excitement having driven it from her mind--how Johnnie Strings had appeared at an early hour, and bade her say that he was forced to go across country to carry a despatch, but would return by noon, to escort the two girls to Dorchester.

Dorothy took her way up the stairs toward the room above. All the girlishness within her was now dead, and the expression in her pale face was that of a woman--and one whose heart was wrung by bitter sorrow.

The door was closed, and in front of it a man was seated. A musket lay across his knees, and his head was sunk on his breast as if he were buried in his own meditations. But as Dorothy drew near, he looked up, and she saw that it was none other than Fisherman Doak.

"Mistress Dorothy!" he gasped, staring open-mouthed at her white face as though doubtful of her being a reality.

"Yes," she said quickly, "and I am glad it is you, Doak."

"Sweet little mistress," he exclaimed, amazement showing in every lineament of his honest visage, "in Heaven's name, whatever be ye doin'

here?"

"Never mind, Doak," she answered, "what I am doing here. I wish to see--to speak with General Washington, and at once."

"You--you?" he stammered, rising slowly to his feet, and shaking himself in the effort to collect his scattered wits.

"Yes," she said impatiently. "You are on guard here--he knows you are outside his door?"

"Why, yes, mistress--o' course. I'm to be here in case he needs aught, as well as to keep folk out. He be alone, an' has ordered thet he's not to be disturbed."

"If he is alone," and her tone expressed relief, "so much the better for me. I must have speech with him this very minute."

Doak opened his mouth in remonstrance, but she would not permit him to speak.

"Do you hear?" she demanded. "I must see him this minute. Go and tell him so; and tell him it is upon a matter of life and death."

He said nothing more, but, looking more dazed than ever, turned and rapped on the door.

A voice whose deep tones had not yet left Dorothy's ears gave permission to enter, and Doak, after bidding her to stop where she was, went into the room.

For a second Dorothy stood hesitating. Then a look of fixed resolution came to her face, and before the door could close after the fisherman-soldier, she stepped forward and followed him.

Washington was--as when she intruded upon him before--seated at a table. But now he was writing; and as the two entered the room, he looked up as though annoyed at the interruption.

But Dorothy, pushing Doak aside, advanced with an impetuosity that gave no opportunity for questioning or reproof, and took away all need of explanation from the astonished guardian of the great man's privacy.

"You gave me this, sir--last night," she said, holding out the paper, and speaking in the same fearless, trusting manner she would have adopted toward her own father, "and you will surely remember what you promised."

As she came forward, Washington, seeing who it was, laid down his pen, and his face took the expression it had borne when he was talking with her the evening before. There was a tender, a welcoming light in his eyes, as though her coming were a pleasure,--as if it brought relief from the contemplation of the grave responsibilities resting upon him.

He arose from his chair, and taking the paper from her hand, laid it upon the table. Then he turned to her again and said smilingly, "My dear child, the promise was surely of small worth if I could forget it so soon after it was given."

But there was no smile upon the face into which he was looking, and its earnestness seemed now to bring to him the conviction that the girl had come upon no trifling matter.

He bade Doak resume his post outside the door, and to permit no one to enter, howsoever important the business might be. Then, when the fisherman had gone, he invited Dorothy to be seated, and asked her to tell him the object of her coming.

He sat down again by the table, but she remained standing, and now came close to him, her clasped hands and pleading eyes fully as beseeching as the words in which she framed her pet.i.tion.

"Oh, sir--I have come to beg that you will not hang the English officer whom I hear you suspect of being a spy."

Washington started in surprise; a stern light gathered in his eyes, and he looked as though illy pleased.

Dorothy was quick to see this, and felt that her only hope of success lay in telling him the entire truth.

This she did, confiding in him as freely and fully as though she were his daughter.

When she ended, he sat for a time as if pondering over her story, and the request to which it was the sequel. He had not interrupted her by so much as a single word, but his eyes had been fixed upon her face with an intensity that softened as she went on, in her own impulsive way, to tell him of her troubles.

Presently he said: "It is truly a sad tangle, my child,--one scarce proper to think any gentleman would seek to bring into your young life.

But I am not yet old enough to hold that we should judge hot-headed youth with too great severity. Indeed," the grave lines of his face relaxing a little, "in this case I can see that the young man had strong temptation to forget himself, and to do as he did."

He paused and looked at her keenly, as if searching for the answer to a question seeking solution in his own mind.

She stood silently waiting, and he continued: "First of all, I must know of a certainty as to one matter, in order that I may act with discretion. My child," and he took one of her hands in his own, "do not fear to show me your heart. Show it to me as you would to your own dear father, were he, rather than I, asking you. Tell me--do you love this man who is really your husband?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, with no sign of hesitancy, as she lifted her head and looked at him through the tears his words had brought to her eyes, "I do love him."

Washington smiled, as if relieved of a perplexing problem.

"This brings about a very different order of affairs," he said in a way that made her heart bound with hope. "Now it may be possible that this captain is not your Cornet Southorn, although I think there is small room for doubt in the matter. But, in order to solve the question, I will have him brought here. Do you, my child, conceal yourself behind the curtains of that window; and if he proves to be the officer of whom we have been speaking, you have but to show yourself to a.s.sure me of the fact. If not, then remain in hiding; and after putting a few questions to him, I will have him taken back to his room."

Doak was despatched to carry out the order, while Dorothy hid herself in the curtains,--trembling with agitation when the sound of footsteps was heard again outside the door.

The fisherman entered with the prisoner, and Dorothy, looking through the slightly parted drapery, saw the olive face and purple-blue eyes of the man she loved.

His long boots were splashed with the mire of the highway, his uniform showed traces of the struggle of the night before, and his curly hair was dishevelled.

More than this, his haggard face and dark-circled eyes gave proof of a sleepless and anxious night.

But as he came into the room he drew himself erect, and met unflinchingly the stern eyes of the man in whose hands lay his fate.

The door had no sooner closed upon Doak's retreating figure than Dorothy stepped from behind the curtains.

The young man gave a violent start, and the arms that had been folded across his chest fell to his sides, as he uttered her name,--at the same time taking a step toward her. Then he came to a standstill, and pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes, as if to clear them of something that impeded his vision.

And there was reason for this, as Dorothy did not speak, and stood motionless, her hands clasped in front of her, while she looked at him with an expression he seemed unable to define.