CHAPTER XXIV

An hour later, when left in her own room with Mary, Dorothy poured out

her secret sorrow.

The others had yielded to her urging and gone to the tea-table below,

albeit with scant appetites, and with minds much troubled over the

strange weakness that had come over Dot. But Mary remained; and so it

came about that the two were now alone, Dorothy lying upon a lounge,

and Mary beside her, clasping one of her hands.

The room was filled with weird shadows from the wood fire, which made

the only light; for Jack, at his sister's request, had carried away the

candles.

"Are you cold?" Mary asked, feeling Dorothy shiver. And she drew the

silken cover more closely about the girl's shoulders and neck.

"No--no," was the quick reply. "It's not that I'm cold. I'm only so

miserable that I don't know what to do with myself. Oh, Mary--if only

I might die!" And she burst into passionate sobbing.

Mary was greatly startled; but feeling that the time was now come to

unravel the secret she was certain had been the cause of Dorothy's

illness, she waited quietly until the first burst of grief had spent

itself, while she soothed and caressed her sister-in-law as though she

were a little girl.

Presently the sobs became less fierce, then ceased altogether, ending

with a long, quivering sigh, as from a child worn out by the storm of

its own passion.

Mary felt that now was the opportunity for which she had been waiting.

"Dorothy," she whispered--"dear little Dot!"

"Yes." The word came so faintly as scarcely to be audible.

"When are you going to open your heart to me? Don't you love nor trust

me any longer?"

"Oh, Mary, you know I do, and always have." The girl said this with

something of her old impulsiveness, and pressed Mary's hands almost

convulsively.

"Then will you not tell me, dear?" said Mary coaxingly, bending to kiss

the troubled face.

There was silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and

the sputtering of the sap from the logs.

Dorothy drew a long breath, as though she had done away with wavering,

and was now resolved to speak.

"Yes, I will," she answered. "But remember, Mary," and she seemed

filled with fear again, "you can tell no one,--no living person,--not

even Jack. At least not yet. You will promise me this?"

"Has it aught to do with that ring?" asked Mary, before committing

herself.

"What ring?" Dorothy's eyes opened wide, and she spoke sharply.

"Don't you remember the ring you gave me when you were so ill, and told

me to keep for you,--a man's ring, with a ruby set in it?"

"No." She said it vaguely, wonderingly, as if dreaming. Then she

cried in terror, "Oh, Mary, you did not show it to Jack, nor tell him

or my father of the matter?"

"No, my dear," Mary answered with an assuring smile. "I waited until

you were well enough to tell me more, or else tell them yourself."

"Good Mary,--good, true sister." And Dorothy pressed her lips to the

hand she clasped.

"But the matter has given me such a heartache, Dot, for I feared I

might be doing wrong. Surely no one can love you more than your own

father and brother. Why not tell them, as well as me, of--whatever it

is?"

"I will, Mary," Dorothy said resolutely. "I intended to, all the time.

But not yet, not yet. I want to tell you, first of all, and see if you

can think what is best to be done. And," with a little shudder, "I

thought I had lost the ring; and the first day I was able to slip out

of doors, I hunted for it where I got off the horse that night. Oh,

that dreadful night!" She almost cried out the words as the sharpness

of awakened sorrow came to her.

"Come, Dot," Mary urged, "tell me. I'll promise to keep silent until

you bid me speak." She knew they were losing precious time, for her

husband would not be long gone, having promised to return in order that

she might go down for her own supper.

Dorothy hesitated no longer, but, in the fewest possible words,

unburdened her heart, while Mary listened in speechless amazement.

Her indignation and horror grew apace until the story was all told.

Then she cried: "It was a cowardly, unmanly trick,--a traitor's deed!

He is no gentleman, with all his fine pretence of manners."

"Ah--but he is." And Dorothy sighed softly, and in a way to have

opened Mary's eyes, had she been less absorbed by the anger now

controlling her.

"By birth, mayhap," she admitted, although reluctantly; then adding

fiercely, "he surely is not one in his acts."

Then her voice grew gentle again, and the tears seemed to be near, as

she laid her head alongside the curly one upon the pillow.

"Oh, my poor, poor little Dot," she said; "to think of the dreadful

thing you have been carrying in your mind all this time! Small wonder

that you were pale and sad,--it was enough to kill you."

The words brought Dorothy's grief to her once more. Then Mary broke

down as well, and the two wept together, their heads touching each

other on the pillow.

"And now whatever is to be done?" Mary said, as soon as her calmness

returned,--a calmness filled with indignation and resentment. "Since

this man is surely your husband, you must needs obey him, I suppose, if

he insists upon it. And now that he is going away, it would seem

natural for him to come here, despite his promise to wait until he was

asked. And I should say he would be quite sure to demand that you go

away with him. And," almost in terror, "for your father to hear of it

for the first time in such a fashion, and from him!"

"Oh, Mary, don't talk in that way!" cried Dorothy, in affright, and

clinging still closer to her.

"But never you fear, Dot," Mary said more encouragingly, "so long as

Jack is here to look after you. That man will never dare seek to drag

you from your father's house while Jack is about. And besides, the

townspeople would never permit him to leave the place alive, should he

attempt such a thing."

"I won't go--I'll never go!" Dorothy exclaimed passionately. "But--"

Her voice took a different note, and she stopped.

"But--what?" asked Mary instantly, for she heard her husband's

footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.

"I don't want any harm to befall him," was the tremulous answer.

"Oh, Dot," Mary began in dismay, "can it be possible that, after all,

you--"

But Dorothy interrupted her.

"Hush!" she whispered, "here comes Jack." Then beseechingly, "Oh,

Mary, say once more that you'll not tell him yet."

But her husband was already in the room, and all Mary could do was to

press Dorothy's hand.

A little later in the evening all the members of the family were again

in the drawing-room. Dorothy, in order to relieve their anxiety, and

especially on her father's account, had joined them; and the girl now

made greater efforts than ever before to appear like herself.

This was now easier for her, from having shared her burdensome secret

with Mary, who seemed to have taken upon her shoulders a good part of

the troublesome load.

She carried herself with a much quieter mien than usual, but in a way

not to excite comment, save when her husband said to her as they were

closing the shutters to keep out the night and make the room still more

cosey, "What is it, sweetheart,--are you troubled over Dot?"

"Yes," she replied, thankful that she could answer so truthfully.

"The child is going to be as she should, I am sure," he said, glancing

over his shoulder to where his sister was sitting, close beside her

father, her head resting against his shoulder. She was smiling at

something Aunt Lettice had been telling of 'Bitha, whom she had just

been putting to bed.

Before Mary could say anything more, a sudden clatter of hoofs outside

announced the arrival of horsemen, and a minute later the sounding of

the heavy brass knocker echoed through the hall.

Dorothy and Mary looked at each other in alarm, the same intuition

making them fear what this might portend.

"Whatever can it be at this hour!" exclaimed Joseph Devereux, as his

son went to answer the noisy summons. "I hope nothing is wrong in the

town."

There came the sound of men's voices, low at first, but soon growing

louder, and then almost menacing, as the outer door was sharply closed.

"And I say, sirrah,"--it was the voice of John Devereux--"that you

cannot see her."

Dorothy sprang from her father's side and sped to the door, which she

flung wide open, and stood, with widening eyes and pale cheeks, upon

the threshold. A moment more, and Mary was alongside her; and then,

his face filled with amazement and anger, Joseph Devereux followed them.

Standing with his back against the closed door, was a stalwart young

dragoon, his red uniform making a ruddy gleam in the dimly lit hall as

he angrily confronted the son of the house.

But no sooner did he catch sight of the small figure in the open

doorway than the anger left his face, and he stood before her with

uncovered head, paying no more heed to the others than if they had been

part of the furniture in the hall.

"Sweet Mistress Dorothy," he said,--and his eyes searched her face with

a passionate inquiry--"we are ordered away, as you may have heard. I

am leaving the town to-night, and could not go until I had seen you

once more."

The eyes looking up into his were filled with many emotions, but

Dorothy made no reply.

He waited a moment for her to speak. Then an eager, appealing look

came to his face, and he asked, "Have you naught to say to me--no word

for me before I go?"

Joseph Devereux now found his voice.

"Aught to say to ye, sirrah!" he demanded furiously. "What should a

daughter o' mine have to say to one of His Majesty's officers, who has

been to this house but once before, and then, as now, only by means of

his own audacity?"

At the sound of this angry voice Dorothy shuddered, and tearing her

eyes from those blue ones that had not once left her face, she turned

quickly and clung to her father.

The young man laughed, but not pleasantly, and there was a nervous

twitching of the fingers resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"You are surely aware, sir," he said, "that I have the honor of a

slight acquaintance with your daughter. And I fail to see why I should

be insulted, simply because I was mistaken in holding it to be but

natural courtesy that I should bid her farewell."

Here his voice broke in a way that was strange to all save Dorothy and

Mary, as he added: "We leave this place to-morrow, sir, and your

daughter and myself are never like to meet again; and I had good reason

to wish the privilege of begging her forgiveness for aught I may have

done to cause her annoyance. And if she refused me forgiveness, then

she might be pleased to wish me a right speedy meeting with a bullet

from one of her own people's guns."

Joseph Devereux looked sorely puzzled at these strange words, which

seemed to bear some hidden meaning. Then, as he felt the quivering of

the slight form clinging to him so closely, and heard the tremulous

"Oh, father, speak him kindly," his face relaxed and he spoke less

brusquely than at first.

"Your conduct seems rather cavalier, young sir, but we surely have no

wish to seem insulting; and as for any annoyance you may have caused my

daughter, I am ignorant o' such. It is but natural, considering the

times, that we do not relish receiving into our houses gentry who wear

such color as is your coat; and yet we are not cut-throats, either in

deed or thought. We pray and hope for the good of our country and

cause; and for such, and such only, do we think o' the use o' bullets."

During all this time the dragoon's eyes never strayed from the curly

head pressed against the old man's arm. And now, while her father was

speaking, Dorothy's face was turned, and the big dark eyes, full of

perplexity and fear, met his own and held them.

Mary had made a sign to her husband, and he followed her into the

drawing-room, where Aunt Lettice was still sitting before the fire, the

trembling fingers betraying her excitement as they flashed the slender

needles back and forth through the stocking she was knitting.

"What does it all mean, dear?" she inquired, as Mary came and looked

down into the fire, while she twisted her hands together in a nervous

fashion most unusual with her.

"It means," John Devereux answered angrily, but not loud enough to

reach the ears of those in the hall, "that there is never any telling

to what length the presuming impudence of these redcoats will go." He

ground his teeth savagely as he wondered why he had not taken the

intruder by the collar and ejected him before the others came upon the

scene; and he was now angry at himself for not having done this.

"Whatever can he wish to say good-by to Dot for?" he muttered hastily

to his wife. "And whatever can he mean about annoying her? Annoy her,

indeed! Had he done such a thing, I should have heard of it ere this,

and he would not have gone unpunished all these days, to crawl in now

with a pretence of apology."

"It seems to me there was little show of crawling in the way he came,"

said Mary, with the ghost of a smile, and speaking only because her

husband seemed to be expecting her to say something. Her brain was in

a tumult as she wondered what would be the end of all this, and what

would--what could poor Dorothy do for her own peace of mind and that of

her father?

She feared that, should a sudden knowledge of the truth come to him, it

might be his death-blow; and she made no doubt that if her hot-headed

husband knew it, the young dragoon would scarcely be permitted to leave

the house unscathed, if indeed he were not killed outright. And then

she thought of a duel,--of its chances, and of her husband not being

the one to survive.

At this a low cry escaped from her lips before she could prevent it;

and her husband stepped closer to her side.

"It is nothing--nothing," she said brokenly, in response to his anxious

questioning. "I was but thinking."

"Thinking of what, sweetheart?"

"If any harm should befall you," she answered.

"Why, what harm, think you, should come to me?" And he took her hands,

holding them close, while he tried to look into her averted eyes.

"I--don't know," she said evasively. "These are such dreadful times

that have come to us, that no one can tell what is like to happen.

Oh," with a sudden impetuous burst, more suited to Dorothy than to her

own calm self, "I wish there had never been such a nation as the

English!"

When Joseph Devereux had done speaking, the young man turned his eyes

from the pale face in which he seemed to have been searching for some

hint or suggestion as to what he should now say.

That his quest was fruitless,--that he found nothing, no fleeting

glance or expression, to indicate the girl's present feeling toward

him, was apparent from the look of keen disappointment, well-nigh

despair, that now settled upon his own face, making it almost ghastly

in the uncertain light.

But despite all this, his self-control did not leave him; and after one

more glance into the dark eyes--fixed and set, as though there was no

life animating them--he drew himself erect, and made an odd gesture

with his right hand, flinging it out as if forever thrusting aside all

further thought of her. Then, without looking at her again, he

addressed her father.

"It was not to discuss such matters that I ventured to force my way

into this house, sir," he said with a dignified courtesy hardly to be

looked for in one of his years. "It was only that I could not--or felt

that I should not--go away without holding speech with Mistress

Dorothy. It would seem that she has naught to say to me, and so I have

only to beg her pardon, and take my leave. And, sir, I entreat the

same pardon from you and the other members of your household for any

inconvenience I may have caused you and them."

He bowed to the old gentleman, and turned slowly away. But before he

had taken many steps toward the outer door, Dorothy's voice arrested

him, and he turned quickly about.

"Stay--wait a moment." And leaving her father's side, she went toward

the young man.

"Believe me," she said, speaking very low and very gently, as she

paused while yet a few steps away from him, "I wish you well, not harm."

"Do you still hold to what you told me?" he asked quickly, paying no

heed to her words.

His voice did not reach her father's ears; and the young man's eyes

searched her face as though his fate depended upon what he might read

there.

"Yes!" The answer was as low-pitched as his question, but firm and

fearless. And he saw the fingers of both little hands clench

themselves in the folds of her gown, while the lace kerchief crossed

over her bosom seemed to pulsate with the angry throbbing of her heart.

"And you will never forgive me?" He spoke now in a louder tone, but

with the same pleading look in his pale face.

Dorothy's eyes met his own fairly and steadily, but she said nothing.

He waited a second, and then bending quickly, he clasped both her hands

and carried them to his lips.

"God help me," he said hoarsely, as he released them,--"God help both

of us!"

With this he turned away, and opening the door, went out into the

darkness.

Dorothy stood perfectly still, with her father staring perplexedly into

her white face. It had all passed too quickly for him to

interfere,--to speak, even, had he been so minded.

At the sound of the closing door John Devereux came again into the

hall; and now the noise of horses' hoofs was heard, dying away outside.

"Dot--my child, what is it?" her father exclaimed, his heart stirred by

a presentiment of some ill he could not define. And he moved toward

the mute figure standing like a statue in the centre of the wide hall.

But John was there before him; and as he passed his arm around her, she

started, and a dry, gasping breath broke from her lips,--one that might

have been a sob, had there been any sign of tears in the wild eyes that

seemed to hold no sight as they were turned to her brother's face.

"Dot--little sister," he cried, "tell me--what is the matter?"

And Mary, now close beside them, added quickly, "Tell him, Dot,--tell

him now."

"Tell," Dorothy repeated mechanically, her voice sounding strained and

husky. "Tell--tell him yourself, Mary. Tell him that--" And she

fell, a dead weight, against her brother's breast.