The summer days found Glover's regiment stationed, a portion at
Cambridge, and the remainder on the high grounds of Roxbury, where were
also all the other Massachusetts troops, as well as some of those from
Connecticut.
John Devereux, being on duty at Cambridge, had approved of his wife
accepting Mistress Knollys' invitation to stop with her in Dorchester.
Her brother-in-law had been killed at Bunker Hill, and his devoted
wife, broken-hearted, died soon thereafter, thus leaving Mistress
Knollys entirely alone.
Mary insisted upon Dorothy accompanying her, for the girl had become
greatly changed since her father's death, and Mary, as well as Aunt
Lettice, deemed it wise to try the diverting effect of new scenes and
associations. Then, too, Dorothy had always been a prime favorite with
Mistress Knollys, and returned sincerely the good lady's motherly
affection.
Thus it was that Aunt Lettice and 'Bitha were left alone at the
Devereux farm, whose flocks and stores had already been much depleted
by generous contributions sent up to the patriot army about Boston.
Mary saw her husband at rare intervals, when it was possible for him to
snatch a few hours from his post of duty; but Hugh never came.
Mary could readily divine the reason for this, and so could Mistress
Knollys, albeit the subject was never mentioned between them: for soon
after their arrival, Mary, with Dorothy's consent, had told her of all
that related to the young Englishman.
At first the old lady was filled with righteous indignation. But when
she came to understand and realize how it was with Dorothy's own
feelings, she accepted the result with the philosophy that was a part
of her sweet nature,--even smiling to herself when she thought of the
young man's rare audacity.
She had, despite her white hairs, a spice of romance yet left in her
heart. And perhaps the memory of her own elopement, in the face of her
parents' prohibition, went far toward softening her feeling in favor of
the daring offender.
But she shook her head sadly as she thought of her own boy, the secret
of whose heart she had long suspected, although he had not given her
his confidence; and her eyes moistened as she realized the downfall of
the cherished castle she had been building for him, with this girl--of
her own choosing--for his wife.
Late one September day, Johnnie Strings brought word to Dorothy that
Aunt Penine lay at death's door, and was craving to see her.
It was decided that she had better accede to her aunt's request, and
that Mary should go with her; and so, in pursuance of arrangements made
by the pedler, they started on horseback the following morning, with
that wary individual as escort, and rode directly to a certain tavern
just inside the American lines, and known as "The Gray Horse Inn,"
where they procured a conveyance to carry them the remainder of the
journey.
Strings himself did not deem it wise to venture nearer than this to
Boston, as he was expected to hold himself in readiness at the inn to
receive some papers to be delivered to the Commander-in-Chief at
Cambridge.
It was late in the afternoon when the two girls, after having seen Aunt
Penine and made peace with her, hurried down the street toward the
place where their carriage was awaiting them.
The day was gray, with clouds gathering slowly, when they had set out
on foot from this point for their visit to Aunt Penine, their driver
having considered it better that he should wait for them near the house
of an acquaintance, whose true sentiments were known to only a few of
his countrymen. And now, as they returned, a strong east-wind was
making mournful soughings in the trees, and a downpour of rain seemed
imminent from the solidly massed clouds overhead.
As they came down the steps of the house, Mary noticed a man across the
street, lounging under the elms, as though awaiting some one. His tall
figure was well wrapped in a riding-cloak, whose folds he held in a way
to conceal his lower features, while his hat, slouched over his
forehead, made it still more difficult to obtain a clear view of his
face.
"Look at that man over there," she said nervously, clutching Dorothy's
arm.
"Yes, I see," Dorothy replied with no show of interest, as they started
down the street. "What of him?"
She was paying little heed to anything about her, for the meeting with
Aunt Penine had aroused to new and acute paining the sense of her own
great loss.
This, thanks to the diversion afforded by her new surroundings, had
begun to be a little dulled; for when one is young it is no easy matter
for any sorrow, however heavy, to utterly crush out all the light and
hope.
Then, too, it had seemed to Dorothy a most marvellous thing to see Aunt
Penine so softened and repentant. And this of itself served to
increase the homesick longing the very sight of her had brought to the
girl,--a craving for the happy days of the dear old home, when a united
family gathered under its roof, with no war-clouds darkening their
hearts.
"I am sure he is the same man I noticed walking after us when we came;
and if so, why has he been standing there all this time?"
Mary now spoke excitedly, and as though alarmed, glancing now and then
over her shoulder at the cause of her fears.
"He is probably attending to his own affairs, and giving no thought to
ours," Dorothy answered, without looking in the stranger's direction.
"If not, what then? It will be daylight for two hours to come, and in
five minutes we will be where the man is waiting for us."
Mary said nothing more, but ventured to steal a parting glance as they
turned the corner of the street; and she was much disconcerted to see
the man still appearing to follow them.
They soon reached their destination and found the vehicle waiting. A
minute more and they were seated, the driver gathered the reins, and
his horses set off at a pace bespeaking their impatience to return to
their stalls at the Gray Horse Inn.
The rain held back until they drew up in front of the entrance. Indeed
it seemed as if the storm had waited for the girls to reach shelter,
for no sooner were they inside the house than it let go with a sudden
burst, doubtless setting in for an "all-nighter," as Johnnie Strings
averred when he met them at the door.
It was impossible for them to continue their journey on horseback that
night, and the landlord refused to send the carriage to Dorchester, by
reason of all his horses being needed early the following morning to
carry some supplies to the outposts. And so, yielding to the
inevitable, Mary and Dorothy decided to pass the night at the inn,
letting Johnnie Strings, who cared nothing for the storm, go on and
explain matters to Mistress Knollys.
The Gray Horse Inn was an old building, whose precise age none could
tell. The street whereon it stood was little more than a lane, leading
off the main thoroughfare to Boston; and a person outside could easily
glance through the lower windows, when these were unshuttered, as no
shrubbery veiled them. Inside it was cheery and well-kept, and its
rambling style of construction afforded accommodation for a surprising
number of guests.
Back of the building extended a cornfield, which ended in a tract of
woodland, while upon its townward side was a sturdy growth of oak and
nut trees, encircling the cornfield, and running quite to the line of
the woods beyond.
Mistress Trask, the landlady, gave the two girls a small parlor,
communicating with a sleeping-room; and here their supper was served.
As the buxom dame brought in the well-filled tray, a loud, aggressive
voice came through the open door, evidently from the taproom, where a
fire blazing on the hearth--although the night was barely cold--tempted
the wayfarers to congregate.
"An' I tell ye," said the unseen speaker, "that Boston is the heart an'
mouth o' the colonies. The wind that blows from Boston will set every
weathercock from New Hampshire to Georgia."
A silence followed, suggestive of no one caring to dispute the
assertion.
Mistress Trask, noting Mary's expression of annoyance and her glance
toward the door, made haste to close it. Then she explained, as she
began setting the food upon the table: "That's only farmer Gilbert.
He's a decent enough body when sober, but once he gets a bit o' liquor
under his waistcoat, it seems to fly straight to his brains and addle
'em. And then he do seem fairly grieving for a fisticuff with all
creation."
"I surely trust he will make no such disturbance while we are in the
house," Mary said uneasily.
"Never ye have any fear, dearie," replied the good woman. She was an
old acquaintance of Johnnie Strings, and he had duly impressed her as
to the high standing of the guests he left in her charge.
"Never ye fear," she repeated. "The sight of a real lady is sure to be
a check on his tongue an' manners; an' I'll see to it that he knows who
be in this room. 'T is true sorry I am to have to put ye on this lower
floor; but ye see, we've strict orders to keep the whole o' the upper
floor for some gentry who will be here by late evening."
Then bending her head quickly, she whispered with great impressiveness,
"Who, think ye, we expect?"
"I have no idea," was Mary's indifferent answer. She had scarcely
heard the question, for wondering what it might be that Dorothy was
thinking about as she stood by the window, from which she had drawn
away the curtain.
Certain it was that the girl could distinguish nothing in the pitchy
darkness outside, even if she could see through the rain-dashed panes,
that looked as if encrusted with glass beads.
Mistress Trask's information--whispered, like her question, as if she
feared the furniture might hear her words--caused Mary to sit very
erect, with kindling eyes and indrawn breath.
"Hush-h," warned the landlady, with a broad smile of delight at the
surprise she had aroused. "Hush-h; we was ordered on no account to let
it get out."
"Dot, did you hear what she said?" Mary asked, when the two, left to
themselves, sat down to the tempting supper.
Dorothy shook her head, wondering the while at Mary's agitation.
"She said," and Mary lowered her own voice, "that the
Commander-in-Chief is to arrive here soon, and that he will stop here
all night, as there is to be a meeting of some sort with many of his
principal officers."
"General Washington!" A new light came to Dorothy's face, kindling a
rush of color in her cheeks, and sending a glitter from her eyes that
routed all their sad abstraction.
Mary nodded.
"I wish we could see him," said Dorothy. "Oh--I must get a peep at
him."
"We will certainly try to see him," Mary agreed, adding eagerly, "And
oh, Dot--mayhap Jack will be of them."
"And perhaps Hugh," Dorothy said impulsively. Then quickly, as she saw
the sudden change in Mary's face, "Whatever is the matter with Hugh
Knollys, I wonder? He has not been to see his mother since we went to
stop with her; and I have noticed that whenever his name is mentioned,
you and Jack--and even his mother--look oddly. Has he done anything
amiss?"
"Nothing, indeed, that I know of." And Mary lifted her cup of tea so
that it hid her eyes for the moment.
"I have wished so often that he would come--I should like to see him
once more. How long--how very long it seems since he left us last
fall!" Dorothy sighed; and Mary knew it was not for Hugh, but because
of all that had happened since his going.