The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the two
girls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the group
in a way to make all their movements visible.
"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come here
to me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house."
And Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.
A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which were
well wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" were
waiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.
Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it,
in a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.
Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway,
dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to the
open sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boats
and report the recent occurrence.
This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing among
the men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to be
told, while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.
So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that he
did not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her low
voice he turned quickly and came toward her.
There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his
face as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the
curling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she
had never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint
light giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his
voice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shore
his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested
so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed
more tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she
felt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart
beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could
hear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent
his head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled
embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world
see me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait
another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you
surely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at
once, is whether my love is returned."
Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,--just behind these rocks; come
and speak to her first."
"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declared
firmly. "I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent and
blessing, if you will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me,
Mary--sweetheart; tell me, do you love me well enough to be my wife?"
A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down on
his arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked a
long moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.
Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lips
on hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the few
yards to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.
John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I thought
she was here."
"I _am_ here, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; and
Mary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told her
that her own precious secret was known.
"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, giving
her the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that Johnnie
Strings had told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks,
as indeed the pedler supposed to be the fact.
"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can do
it just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house.
But before I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked in
the new shed, in the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms are
safe, you had best get him out."
"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.
"I did," was the answer.
"You, Dot--what for?"
"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know.
Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will release
him as soon as you unfasten the door."
"Who is he--do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly as
his sister would have liked.
"He is a redcoat,--one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck,"
said Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came upon
Dot and me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowling
about the place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, and
caused Dot to put out the signal-lights."
Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignant
at Dorothy's apparent lack of what she herself considered to be a
proper view of the affair.
"Aha," muttered her lover, his voice full of sharp suspicion. "Did
this man hold much converse with you this morning, Mary?"
"No, very little," she replied uneasily; and Dorothy added with a
laugh,--
"I fancy he had a bit more than he enjoyed."
"Johnnie Strings told me of your frightening a Britisher so that he
nearly tumbled into the sea," John said, speaking in an approving way.
"And so this is the same fellow, is he? But how comes it, Dot, that
you found the chance to lock him away?"
"'T is a long story," his sister replied, with a touch of petulance,
"and Mary and I must get back to the house. Only,"--and her voice
softened again--"won't you promise me, Jack, that you will not permit
him to be injured? I could never sleep again if I thought I was the
cause of any ill befalling him."
She was almost in tears; and knowing this, her brother hastened to say,
"There, there, Dot! You've too tender a heart, child. But your mind
may rest easy, for I myself will let the man out as soon as 't is
prudent to do so. He shall go his way for this once, but I'll not
promise as to what may befall should he see fit to repeat such a bit of
business."
The moon was rising higher, and its light becoming clearer and more
silvery. The boats were unloaded, and the sailors were pulling them
back to the ship, when the girls saw Hugh Knollys coming toward them
from the beach; and at sight of him they turned to flee.
"I must go to the house with you two, Mary;" and John Devereux laid a
detaining hand upon her arm, bidding Dorothy wait a moment.
"No need for that," she said quickly, fearing that Hugh might accompany
them; "we are not afraid."
But John called out to Knollys,--speaking very carefully, for it still
seemed as though each rock or bush might be concealing a spying
enemy--asking him to go to the Black Hole in charge of the men, as he
himself must first hurry to the house, to rejoin them later.
Hugh turned back, and the three took their way through the woods,
Dorothy keeping ahead and the others walking closely together just
behind her.
"Mary," John said presently, and his voice was tremulous as a woman's,
"I can scarcely believe it."
"Hush!" she whispered warningly.
But pressing her hand, he said, "Dot knows all about it." And he
laughed softly, while Mary's cheeks burned, and she was silent.
Then he added: "You see, I have been under such a strain, so filled
with anxious thoughts, that I well-nigh lost my senses when I landed on
the beach, and knew you were near me, and heard your voice. Then,
afterwards, I was so shocked by Dot's prank when I came upon her by the
rocks, that it is just coming to me what the child has done. It was a
brave deed; and but for her doing it, who can say what might have
happened--brave little girl!"
The slight figure was too far ahead of their lagging footsteps to be
reached by his words. Indeed they could not see her at all through the
gloom of the woods, although they could hear now and again her light
footfall, or the cracking of a twig as she stepped upon it.
"She thinks you are displeased with her prank," Mary said, "and I'm
sure she feels very unhappy about it."
"She shall not feel so very long," he replied heartily.
They found her waiting for them at the back door of the house, ready to
put the key into the lock. But before she could do this her brother
put his arms about her and kissed her fondly.
"Brave little girl!" he whispered. "'T is you who have saved the arms
and powder for the town."
To his amazement she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing and
trembling like a child.
"Why, Dot, whatever is it?" he asked anxiously, lowering his voice so
as not to arouse the inmates of the house.
"She is suffering from a reaction, I think," Mary said softly; "but it
will soon pass away."
But Dorothy was of too dauntless a spirit for her brother to be content
with this explanation; and holding her close in his arms, he went on
assuring her that he was not displeased, but that she had done a brave
act, and that every one would say the same if the news of it should get
abroad.
"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, where
you should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll go
together and release your prisoner."
All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over his
heart, quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as she
said with a hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am making
for Mary,--a big boy crying in your arms!"
"You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was opening
the door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man."
"And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queried
Mary Broughton, with dignified coquetry.
"Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already.
And now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, he
leaned over and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followed
Dorothy into the house.
No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously through
the pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs.
The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of each
overlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reaching
expanse of the sea.
Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, rooms
were in the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those of
Joseph Devereux were far to the front, and looked out directly upon the
grounds and wooded land that ran down to the beach, where the water
stretched away to the horizon.
They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with the
moonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they needed
no candle.
As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat to
tell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, while
the solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal.
"You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to so
disconcert Mary that she said uneasily,--
"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."
At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's
neck.
"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew
long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her
closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"
Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.
Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned
face upon which the moonbeams were resting.
"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more
than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."
"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was
crying once more.
"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying
twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."
"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him
this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I
do or say."
"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherly
fashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. And
now," she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, this
very minute. I want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."
With this she began tugging at the fastenings of the unfamiliar
garments; and Dorothy, despite her tears, commenced to laugh, but in a
nervous, unnatural way.
"Never mind," she said; "I will do all that, Mary, for I understand it
better than you. And," straightening herself, "I'll stop crying. I
never knew I could be such a fool."
Long after Mary was sleeping, Dorothy was still lying awake listening
for her brother's return. She knew she would hear him, for his room
was just across the hall, opposite her own.
As she nestled among the lavender-scented pillows, visions would keep
coming to her of the handsome face she had seen that morning, and again
that very night. The purple-hued eyes, edged so thickly with swart
curling lashes, seemed to be looking into her own, as when she held his
wounded head pillowed against her knee, while his voice yet thrilled in
her ears as had never any man's before.
And then came the realization that this man was her country's avowed
enemy,--a hated Britisher!
Her conscience smote her as she thought of the trick she had played
him, recalling how trustingly he had entered the dark shed, and how
silent he had been at first, when she slammed the door and shot the
wooden bar across. Then how fiercely he had seemed to fling his broad
shoulders against the door of his prison, making her fear that he would
be able to come forth and visit his wrath upon the audacious young
rebel who had served him such a trick.
But she could find some comfort in thinking of how she had stolen back,
and called him by name, at which the blows became stilled; and of how
she had then told him to have no fear for his safety, as in a short
time he would be released, to go where he pleased.
Mary, did she but know all these thoughts, would be angry, and call her
unfaithful to the cause. And Jack, and her father--what would her
father say to her?
She had never in her life feared him. But now a quaking dread beset
her as to what the morrow might bring from him of censure and
displeasure. And at this she began to cry again--softly, but bitterly.
Whether the girl knew it or not, her nerves had by this time become
strained to the uttermost; and sleep, the blessed healer that comes so
readily to the young and healthful, was beginning to woo her away from
all her troubles, when a slight noise startled her into new wakefulness.
Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heard
him say something to their father, who was passing on toward his own
apartments.
Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some wool
slippers and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stole
softly across the passage to her brother's room.
The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small hands
to shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came to
answer her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, and
the rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, he
drew her within the room and closed the door.
"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely make
yourself ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavy
silver candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsome
face, now looking all the darker from contrast with his snowy
linen--for he was in his shirt-sleeves.
He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her hands
from before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child--what
is troubling you?"
"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." And
two great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the rounded
cheeks, whose bloom was paler than he had ever seen it.
"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he asked
gently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she did
not speak. "I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you in
tears; it hurts me."
"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't
want to hurt you."
He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he said
softly: "Is it that you are jealous of me, or of--Mary? Is it that you
think I cannot love her and love you as well?"
"No, no! Oh, no! It is n't that, Jack. I know you love me, and will
always, as long as I live--just as I love you. I am happy to have Mary
for my own sister; but I--I--" And she broke down again.
"Now see here, little girl," he said, stroking the round white arm her
fallen-back sleeve left bare; "don't fret in your heart about to-night,
or whatever you may have done. It is never any use to worry over what
is past and gone. 'T is not a maidenly act, Dot, for a girl to array
herself in men's garments, and you must never do it again. But we must
all admit that 't was a lucky thing you did it this night; and the help
you rendered us far more than makes up for your own thoughtlessness.
So you need fear no blame on account of it."
"Does father know?" she asked nervously.
"Not as yet; but I will tell him the whole story of your bravery, so
he'll not misjudge you."
She raised her face and kissed him; then after a little hesitation she
asked shyly, "And the Britisher I locked in the shed,--did you release
him, as you said you would?"
Jack smiled down into the upturned face. "He was gone when Hugh and I
got there; and the bar was wrenched off, sockets and all."
"He is strong," Dorothy said, a light coming to her eyes that her
brother did not see; and she laughed softly.
"Well, had he the strength of Samson, he'd best take heed to himself
how he comes prowling about my father's premises at unseemly hours."
He spoke with angry emphasis; and Dorothy was glad the two had not met.