An hour later the three stood before the door of Washington's private
office; and in response to John Devereux's knock, the voice that was
now so familiar to Dorothy bade them enter.
As they came into the room, Washington advanced toward Dorothy with his
hand held out in greeting, and his eyes were filled with kindness as
they looked into the charming face regarding him half fearfully.
"Welcome," he said,--"welcome, little Mistress Southorn."
At the sound of that name, heard now for the first time, a rush of
color suffused Dorothy's cheeks, while the two younger men smiled,
albeit each with a different meaning.
The one was triumphantly happy, but Jack's smile was touched with
bitterness, and a sudden contraction, almost painful, caught his throat
for a second.
"I trust that my orders were properly carried out for your comfort,"
continued Washington, still addressing Dorothy, as he motioned them all
to be seated.
She courtesied, and managed to make a fitting reply. But she felt
quite uncomfortable, and somewhat alarmed, to find her small self an
object of so much consideration.
The Commander-in-Chief now seated himself, and turned a graver face to
the young Englishman.
"May I ask, Captain Southorn, if the plans of which you told Lieutenant
Devereux and myself are to be carried out?"
The young man bowed respectfully.
"I am most happy, sir, to assure you that they are, and at the
speediest possible moment after I return to Boston."
Washington was silent a moment, and his eyes turned to Lieutenant
Devereux, who, seemingly regardless of all else, was watching his
sister.
"And you, Lieutenant, do you give your consent to all this?"
"Yes, sir." But the young man sighed.
"And now, little Mistress Southorn," Washington said, smiling once
more, "tell me, have you consented to leave America and go with your
husband?"
"Yes, sir," she replied almost sadly, and stealing a look at her
brother's downcast face.
"It would seem, then, that the matter is settled as it should be, and
to the satisfaction of all parties," Washington said heartily. "And I
wish God's blessing upon both of you young people, and shall hope,
Mistress Dorothy, that your heart will not be entirely weaned from your
own land."
"That can never be, sir," she exclaimed with sudden spirit, and
glancing almost defiantly at her husband, who only smiled in return.
"Aye, child--so? I am truly glad to hear it." Then rising from his
chair, he said: "And now I must ask you to excuse me, as I have matters
of importance awaiting my attention, and regret greatly that I cannot
spare more time thus pleasantly. You will escort your sister back to
Dorchester in the morning, Lieutenant?"
"Aye, sir, with your permission."
"You have it; and you had better take the same number of men you had
yesterday. Return as speedily as possible, as there are signs of--"
He checked himself abruptly, but swept away any suggestion of
discourtesy by saying, as he held out his hand to the young Englishman,
"I'll bid you good-night, Captain Southorn; you see that it is natural
now to think of you as a friend."
"It is an honor to me, sir, to hear you say as much," the other
replied, as he took the extended hand and bowed low over it. "And I
beg to thank you for all your kindness to me and to--my wife."
Dorothy now courtesied to Washington, and was about to leave the room,
when he stretched out a detaining hand.
"Stay a moment, child. I am not likely to see you again before you
depart, and therefore it is good-by as well as good-night. You will
see that I have endeavored to do what was best for you, although I must
admit"--and he glanced smilingly at Jack--"it was no great task for me
to bring your brother to see matters as I did. And now may God bless
you, and keep your heart the brave, true one I shall always remember."
She was unable to speak, and could only lift her eyes to the face of
this great man, who, notwithstanding the weight of anxiety and
responsibility pressing upon him, had been the one to smooth away the
troubles which had threatened to mar her young life, and who had now
brought about the desire of her heart.
But his kindly look at length gave her courage, and she managed to say,
although chokingly, "I can never find words in which to thank you, sir."
He bowed as the three left the room, and no word was spoken while they
took their way down the hall to Dorothy's apartment.
Jack opened the door and motioned the others to enter.
"I must leave you now," he said, "and go to see Hugh Knollys. He is
not feeling just right to-night."
"Why, is he ill? I wondered that he was not at supper with us."
Dorothy spoke quickly, her voice trembled, and her brother saw that she
was weeping.
He followed them into the room and closed the door. Then he turned to
Dot, and taking her by the hand, asked tenderly, "What is troubling
you, my dear child?"
She gave a great sob and threw herself upon his breast.
"'T is because of what he just said--as we left him. It made me
realize that I am soon to go away across the sea from you--from all of
you," she exclaimed passionately. "Oh--how can I bear it!"
"'T is somewhat late, little sister, to think of that," her brother
replied, caressing her curly head with the loving touch she had known
ever since the childhood days. Then bending his lips close to her ear,
he whispered, "See--you are making him unhappy."
At this she glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who had walked to
the hearth, and stood looking into the fire.
"Come, little girl, cheer up," said Jack, "for to-night, at least. You
are to have a little visit with him before he returns to his quarters.
And before to-morrow noon he will be on the road to Boston."
With a long, sobbing sigh, she released him; then, as she wiped the
tears from her eyes, she said with a wan smile, "It is hard--cruelly
hard, to have one's heart so torn in opposite ways."
He knew her meaning, and thought, as he went away, how small was their
own grief compared with that of poor Hugh, who, utterly unmanned, had
immured himself in his quarters.
Dorothy stole to the hearth, where stood the silent figure of her
husband; and as he still did not speak, she ventured to reach out and
steal a timid hand within the one hanging by his side.
His fingers instantly prisoned it in a close clasp, and so they
remained for a time looking silently into the fire. Presently he
sighed, and drawing the chain and ruby ring from his pocket, said very
gently, "Will you wear this ring, sweetheart, until such time as I can
get one more suitable?"
"Aye--but I'd sooner not wear any other," she replied, looking
wistfully at him,--awed and troubled by this new manner of his.
"Would you?" And he smiled as he fastened the chain about her neck.
"Then I shall be obliged to have the half of it taken away, in order to
make a proper fit for that small finger. But you must let me put on a
plain gold band, as well, so that all may be in proper form."
She caught his hand and laid it against her cheek, while the light of
the burning wood caught in the ruby ring, making it gleam like a
ruddier fire against the folds of her dark-green habit.
"Why are you so unhappy?" she asked.
"That I am not, sweet little wife," he answered, drawing her to him,
"save when I see you unhappy."
"But I am not unhappy," she protested, adding brokenly, "except
that--that--"
"Except that you cherish a warm love for kindred and home, and one it
would be most unnatural for you to be lacking," he interrupted. "But
never fear, little one,"--and he stroked her hair much as her brother
had done--"you will not be unhappy with me, if you love me; and that
you say you do, and so I know it for a truth--thank God. This war
cannot last very long, and I've lost all heart to care whether King or
colony win. To tell the truth,"--and he laughed as he bent over to
kiss her--"I fear my heart has turned traitor enough to love best the
cause of her I love. So it is as well that I send in my resignation,
which is certain to be accepted; and we'll go straight to my dear old
home among the Devonshire hills, and be happily out of the way of the
strife. And when it is over, we can often cross the sea to your own
home, and perhaps your brother and his wife--if I can ever make my
peace with her--will also come to us. And so, sweetheart, you see the
parting is not forever--nor for very long."
Thus he went on soothing and cheering her as he seated himself again in
the big chair by the hearth and drew her to his knee. Presently, and
as if to divert her thoughts, he said: "Come--tell me something of your
family. I have seen them all, as you know, but there are two of its
members with whom I never had speech."
Dorothy puckered her brows and looked at him questioningly.
"They are wide apart as to age," he added, smiling at her
perplexity,--"for one of them is a sweet-faced old lady, and the other
is a lovely little girl with long yellow locks and wonderful blue eyes.
She was with you that eventful day at the cave." And he laughed softly
at the thought of what that day had brought about.
"Why, the old lady was Aunt Lettice, and the little girl is her
granddaughter--'Bitha Hollis, my cousin."
"She looks a winsome little thing--this 'Bitha," he said, happy to see
the brightness come to Dorothy's face.
She was smiling, for the names had brought visions of her dear old
home, and she seemed to see all the loving faces in the fire before her.
"Yes--and she is a dear child, and full of the oddest fancies." And
now Dorothy laughed outright as some of 'Bitha's queer sayings came to
her.
She went on to tell her husband of these; and when Jack returned half
an hour later to escort Captain Southorn to his room, he found the two
of them laughing happily together.