CHAPTER XXXI

Doak and his charges had gone but a short distance when the sound of

hoofs behind them caused all three to turn, wondering who might be

approaching.

It was a man, evidently an American by his appearance; and as they

looked back at him, he seemed to check the hitherto brisk gait of his

horse.

Dorothy was the first to recognize him.

"Oh, Mary, 't is that dreadful man who frightened us!"

"Frightened ye?" echoed Doak, interrogatively. "How was that,

mistress?"

When Mary explained what had taken place the night before, he glanced

back again, and saw that the distance between them was rapidly

increasing, for the man in the rear was letting his horse walk, while

he sat swinging loosely in the saddle.

"There be naught to fear now," he said, in a way to reassure the two

girls. "He's not like to think o' tryin' any frightenin' game with me.

An' he rides like he had too much store o' liquor aboard to be thinkin'

of aught but keepin' firm hold on his craft." Then, when he had looked

again, "He be fallin' way behind, so there's no call for bein'

fright'ed, either one o' ye."

They soon lost sight of the stranger, and without further happening

arrived safely at their destination, to receive a motherly welcome from

Mistress Knollys, who had been most anxious concerning them, knowing

how the roads were infested with stragglers from both armies.

She insisted upon Doak alighting to take some refreshment; and he,

nothing loath, did so, while she wrote a letter to her son for the

fisherman to carry back to Cambridge.

Dorothy and Mary also improved the opportunity to write to Jack, Dot

even venturing to enclose a little missive for Captain Southorn, which

she begged her brother to deliver.

It was her first love letter, although so demure and prim in its

wording as scarcely to deserve that name. But a loyal affection

breathed through it, praying him to hope, and to trust in Washington's

friendship for them.

Mistress Knollys listened with widening eyes to Mary's account of their

interview with the great man,--for she invested him with all the power

of His Gracious Majesty, and regarded him with more awe than ever she

had King George himself.

She laughed outright over the description of their having been caught

in his apartments, and asked to see the paper he had given Dorothy,

touching it as something most sacred.

Dorothy had gone above stairs, leaving Mary and the good woman together

in the living-room, where the afternoon sunshine poured across the

floor in broad slants from the two windows opening upon the garden at

the rear of the house.

Presently Mistress Knollys said, "It would seem, my dear, to be the

very best outcome for Dorothy's matter, the way things have befallen."

"Yes," Mary assented with a sigh, "so it does."

"And yet," added the old lady, "I fear it will be hard for the little

maid, with a brother and husband fighting against one another."

"Ah, but you forget, dear Mistress Knollys, that he told her he thought

of setting sail for his home in England."

"And then I suppose she would go with him."

"Aye;" and Mary sighed again. "I think she will surely wish to do

this."

"Well, well, my dear," said Mistress Knollys, speaking more briskly,

"that is not like to be right away, as he must await his exchange as a

prisoner, and there's no telling when that will come to pass. Let us

borrow no trouble until we know the end, which, after all, may be a

happy one."

It was the fourth day after this that Mary was gladdened by the sight

of her husband riding up in front of Mistress Knollys' door; and with

him were Hugh and a dozen other stout fellows on horseback. He

explained that they had but a short time to tarry, and were come at

Washington's command, to carry Dorothy back with them to Cambridge.

"Hey, you little mischief, see the stir you are guilty of

making,--getting half the camp by the ears with your goings on," he

said laughingly, and in a way to set at rest all her misgivings, as he

took her in his arms.

"But what am I to go to Cambridge for?" she asked rather nervously,

still with her arms around his neck, and holding back her head to get a

better look at his face, in which a serious expression seemed to be

underlying its usual brightness.

"Did I not tell you,--because General Washington sent us to fetch you?

But come," he added more gravely, "we must get away at once. Hasten

and get yourself ready and I will tell you all as we ride along."

"Had I not better go with her?" asked Mary, when Dot had left them.

Her husband shook his head. "No, it was only Dot we were to bring."

"But for her to go alone, with a lot of men--" Mary began.

He put an arm around her shoulder as he interrupted her remonstrances.

"She goes with her brother, sweetheart, and to meet her husband."

"But she is coming back?" And Mary spoke very anxiously.

"Aye, she'll return sometime to-morrow; but for how long is for herself

and the other to decide."

Then he explained: "The British have a man of ours, one Captain

Pickett, a valiant soldier, with a stout arm and true heart. They have

had him these three months, a prisoner in Boston, and we have been most

anxious to bring about his exchange. General Washington has now

arranged this through Southorn, who is to return to-morrow to Boston,

and Captain Pickett is to be sent to us. After that, as I have said,

we have no right to dictate Dorothy's movements. Captain Southorn has

told me that he should return to England as soon as may be."

"Then," said Mary in a tone of conviction, and the tears springing to

her eyes, "Dot will go with him."

"Aye, belike," he sighed, "for they love one another truly."

"And you, Jack, do you--can you look at and speak to this man with any

tolerance?" demanded his wife, the asperity of her voice seeming to dry

away the tears.

"I try to do so, for Dot's sake, and for what he is to her. I've found

him to be a gentleman, and a right manly fellow, despite the prank of

which he was guilty."

"Well, I shall hate him the longest day I live!"

Mary could say nothing more, for Mistress Knollys and Hugh now came in

from another room, where they had been together.

Dorothy had passed this room on her way up the stairs, and seeing Hugh,

stopped, while he came forward quickly to meet her.

"Oh, Hugh, but I am truly glad to see you once more!" she exclaimed.

"How long, how very long it seems since you went away!" And there were

tears shining in the eyes she raised to his face.

He clasped both her extended hands, and reminding himself of all he had

heard, strove to hide his true feelings, while his mother, from the

room back of them, watched the two in silence, still seeming to hear

the cry he had uttered only a moment before,--

"Oh, mother, mother, I feel that my heart will break!"

Dorothy could not but observe the paleness of his face, and the traces

as of recent tears showing about the blue eyes; but she attributed

these to other than the real cause,--perhaps to matters arising between

his mother and himself after their long separation.

"I am glad you have missed me sufficiently to make the time seem long

to you, Dot," he replied, well aware, in the bitterness of his own

heart, of how little this had to do with her show of emotion.

"Aye, I have missed you very much," she declared earnestly. "And so

many sad things have happened since!"

"Yes--and so many that are not sad," he added significantly, desiring,

since he might be expected to speak of her marriage, to have it over

with.

A burning blush deepened the color in her cheeks. She drew away the

hands he had been holding all this time, her eyes fell, and she seemed

scarcely to know how to reply.

"I pray God you will be very happy, Dorothy." And his speaking her

full name accentuated the gravity of his voice and manner.

"Thank you, Hugh," she replied, trying to smile: then, with a nervous

laugh, "And when you return to Marblehead and see Polly Chine, I hope I

may say the same to you."

The young man forced a laugh that well-nigh choked him. It had been

hard enough to endure before he saw her. But even when he knew from

her brother of her being forced into a marriage with this Britisher,

his heart refused to relinquish all hope, despite what his friend had

told him of Dorothy's own feeling toward her husband.

But he had still cherished the idea that somehow, in some way, they

might never come together again; that the Britisher, believing Dorothy

to have no love for him, might sail away to England without her, should

the fortune of war spare him to do this.

He also reckoned--hoped, rather--that the girl was so young as to

recover from any sentiment this stranger might have awakened within her

heart.

But now, in the light of what had come about and was soon to be, all

hope was dead for him. The sight of the face and form he had never

loved so well as now,--when she seemed so sweet and so lovable in her

newly acquired womanliness--all this was unnerving him.

With these thoughts whirling through his brain, he stood looking at

her, while he forced such an unnatural laugh as made her glance at him

nervously and draw herself away.

"I'm not like to see the old town for many a long day, I fear," he

managed to say, his voice growing less strained as he saw the wondering

look in her dark eyes; "and as for Polly Chine, you must find one more

suited to my taste before you 've cause to wish me what I now wish you

with all my heart."

With this he turned hastily away, and his mother asked, "You are going

to get ready to start for Cambridge, child?"

"Yes," replied Dorothy, "I must leave at once."

"And can I do aught to help?" the good woman inquired.

Upon being assured that she could not, she cheerily bade the girl make

haste, and to remember that she was expected to return the next day.

"I shall miss the child sorely," she said, as the click of Dorothy's

little heels died away on the floor above.

Hugh said nothing, but sighed heavily, as he stood looking out of the

window with eyes that saw nothing.

His mother went to him and laid a gentle hand upon his broad shoulder.

"Oh, my son, my dear son," she said in a trembling voice, "my old heart

is sore for you. I have hoped for years that--"

He whirled suddenly about.

"Don't mother--don't say any more--not now. Let me fight it out alone,

and try to keep such a bearing as will prevent her from knowing the

truth."

Then the passion in his voice died out, and he caressed her gray hair

with a loving touch.

She drew his face down and kissed him.

"Come," she said, with an effort at cheerfulness,--"come into the other

room and have speech with Mary before you go, else she'll think we've

lost all proper sense of our manners. This is the first time you and

she have met since her marriage."