From Kingdom to Colony Part 51

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 s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.cious, 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.