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

assumed 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 passionately. "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."

He stopped and looked at her beseechingly. But she would not raise her

eyes, and stood pushing at the spray of asters with the tip of her

little buckled shoe, while she asked, "Think you I only find pleasure

in going about the country to lock folk up?"

She spoke with perfect seriousness; and yet there was that in her look

and manner to make his heart give a great bound.

"I think of nothing, care for nothing," he replied, almost impatiently,

"save that you are the sweetest little girl I ever met."

Something in his voice made Dorothy glance up at his face, and she saw

his eyes bent upon her lips with a look that startled her into a fear

of what he might have in his mind to do. So, drawing herself up, she

said with all the dignity she could muster, "Such speech may perchance

be an English custom, sir; but 't is not such as gentlemen in our

country think proper to address to a girl they may chance upon, as you

have me."

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," and he seemed to dwell lovingly upon her

name, "I crave your pardon. I meant no lightness nor disrespect. And

if I have lost my head, and with it my manners, you have but to look

into your mirror, and you'll surely see why."

Dorothy knew not how to reply to this bold speech, and the look that

came with it. They made her angry, and yet she knew that the flush

upon her cheeks did not come from anger alone, but that a certain

undefinable pleasure had much to do with it. Then came the

consciousness that she had no right to be where she was, and the fear

of danger coming from it. And this was sufficient to make her say with

some impatience: "'T is idle to stand here prating in such fashion.

Please release my hands, and let me go. I should be well on my way

home by now."

He bent his head suddenly, and without a word kissed her hands. And

the burning touch of his lips made her pulses thrill and her heart beat

with what she knew to be delight,--exultation.

Then, like a rushing flood, reason assailed her conscience, that she

should permit a hated redcoat--one whom she ought to detest--to kiss

her hands, and not feel enraged at his boldness. And so, filled with

indignation, she pulled one hand away, and raising it quickly, gave his

face a ringing slap.

He started back and placed a hand to his cheek, now showing a more

flaming color than her own, and for a moment his eyes were alight with

an angry glitter. But he said nothing, and bowing low before her,

stood away from the path.

Dorothy picked up her basket, and without glancing toward him passed

along on her way. But her eyes were brimming with tears, which were

soon trickling down her burning cheeks.

What had she done, and what could she do, in this new, strange matter,

of which she might not speak to her father? How was she to act toward

him from whom she had never yet withheld her confidence?

And still how could she speak to any one--even him--of what was giving

birth to thoughts and feelings such as she had never dreamed of before?

With all this--and in spite of it--came the question as to what the

redcoat would think of her now,--a maiden who went about at night

masquerading in masculine garb, and who slapped His Majesty's officers

in the face?

There came to her a woful sense of shame,--yes, of degradation, such as

her young life had never imagined could exist, and seeming to overwhelm

her with its possible results.

She was startled by a sudden footfall close behind her, and without

looking back, she quickened her pace into a run. But now a strong arm

was thrown about her waist, holding her fast; and she caught a fiery

gleam of the scarlet coat against which her head was pressed by the

hand that, although it trembled a little, prisoned her cheek with

gentle firmness.

Then a mouth was bent close to her ear, so close that its quick breath

fanned the tiny curling locks about her temples, and a voice whispered:

"Sweetheart, forgive me--for God's love, forgive me! I cannot let you

go in this way; for see, you are weeping. Surely this pretence of

anger is unjust,--unjust to you and to me!"

Before she could speak, the voice went on, "Little rebel, sweet little

rebel, will you not surrender to--a vanquished victor?" And with this,

a kiss was pressed upon her lips.

At first Dorothy had been too startled to speak,--too frightened and

dumb from the tumult his caressing voice had aroused within her. But

the touch of his lips awakened her like a blow.

"How dare you?" she cried, struggling from his arms. "Oh, how I wish I

had never seen you!"

"You can scarce expect me to feel likewise," he said calmly, smiling

into her stormy little face, "for I--"

"Never speak to me again!" she interrupted, still more hotly. And

then, as the tears of anger choked her voice, she turned from him and

fled away down the path.

For a time she heard him in pursuit; and this made her run all the

swifter, until at last, reaching the Salem road, she glanced back as

she mounted the low stone wall, and saw that he had stopped where the

timber ended, and stood watching her. Then without turning to look

again, she went quickly across the sunlit meadow-land.

Her breath came sobbingly; and mingled with her terror was a feeling

she could not define, but which told her that life would never be the

same for her again. She still felt the clasp of his arms about her,

the burning of his lips upon her hands,--their pressure upon her mouth.

His voice still came caressingly to her ears, and the wind seemed to be

his breath over her hair.

It was not long before she saw Pashar coming to meet her; and drawing

the hood about her face, she bade him go for the basket she had left in

the wood. Then, without waiting for him to return with it, she

hastened directly to her father's house.

She reached her own room without having encountered any of the

household, and throwing off her cloak went to the glass. There,

resting her elbows on the low, broad shelf, and dropping her soft round

chin into her small palms, she seemed to be studying what the mirror

showed to her,--studying it with as much interest as though she now saw

the reflection of her features for the first time.

"You are a wicked, treacherous girl," she said aloud, addressing the

charming face staring back at her with great solemn eyes, "a perfect

little traitor." Then--but now to herself--"Moll said his heart turned

toward me as the flowers to the sun. And if this be true, why is it

not also truth that sorrow is to come with it?" She shivered, and

pressed her hands over her eyes.

"Cousin Dot!" called a small voice outside the locked door.

"Yes, 'Bitha." Dorothy started guiltily, and made haste to dash some

water over her glowing face and tell-tale eyes.

"Aunt Lettice says the meal is ready," came the announcement from

without; "and Hugh Knollys is below with Uncle Joseph."

Dorothy felt thankful for this, as a guest at dinner would serve the

better to divert attention from herself; and making a hasty toilette,

she descended to the dining-room.

She found them all at the table, with Hugh at her father's right hand,

and directly opposite her own place. The young man arose as she

entered the room, and responded with his usual heartiness to the

greeting she tendered him. But with it all he gave her so odd a look

as to make her wonder if he saw aught amiss in her appearance.

The two men resumed their talk of public matters and the town's doings,

and were soon so absorbed that Dorothy was able to remain as silent as

she could have wished.

It had been resolved not to import, either directly or indirectly, any

goods from Great Britain or Ireland after the first of the coming

December. And in case the tyrannical decrees of the mother country

should not be repealed by the 10th of the following September, it was

agreed that no commodities whatever should be exported to Great

Britain, Ireland, or the British West Indies.

This would bring about an embarrassing state of affairs for both the

men who were now discussing the matter, as they, like many others in

the town, had derived a considerable income from such exporting.

"But we'll stand shoulder to shoulder, Hugh," said Joseph Devereux,

firmly, "if so be we forfeit every penny, until the oppressors give us

fair dealings or we drive every redcoat from our soil. I will kill

every cow and sheep--aye, and every horse as well, and cut down every

stick o' timber on my land, for the keeping of us and our friends fed

and warmed, but that I will maintain the stand I've pledged myself to

keep."

"Let us hope, sir, that the redcoats will not first seize your cattle,"

said Hugh, his eyes fixed gravely upon the abstracted young face

opposite him. "I met Trent as I was riding along the pastures, and he

told me the sheep had escaped through a broken place in the fence of

the ten-acre lot, and he had a chase after them to Riverhead Beach. He

said he met a party of soldiers there, and they deliberately took one

of the sheep from under his very nose, and carried it off with them to

the Neck. And when he remonstrated with them, they only laughed at

him, and told him to send the bill to the King for the dinner they

would have."

The old man's eyes flashed with anger as he listened to this.

"It is an outrage!" he exclaimed when Hugh had finished,--"to steal

stock under our very eyes. I must see Trent about the matter, and the

cattle must be kept nigh the house."

"Why not take them by boatloads over to the islands till the redcoats

be gone, as has been done before, for pasturage?" The suggestion came

from Aunt Lettice, and was made rather timidly.

"You were never cut out for a farmer's wife, Lettice, my dear," her

brother-in-law replied, a good-humored smile now breaking over his

face, "else you'd remember there is no pasturage there at this time o'

year. And I doubt if they'd be so safe on the islands as here, for

Trent and the men would have to go each day with fodder for them, and

the soldiers' spying eyes would be sure to note the coming and going o'

the boats. No," he added with decision, "I shall have the flocks kept

penned, nigh the house; and I shall make complaint o' this matter to

the Governor. As for the rest," and he smiled grimly, "I take it our

guns can protect ourselves and our property."