From Kingdom to Colony Part 30

"I must know first what it is." She was smiling, and yet wis.h.i.+ng he would not look at her in such a strange way; she had never known before that his frank, good-natured face could wear so sober an aspect.

"I wish you would promise me that you'll keep out of this fellow's way,--that you'll never permit him to hold any converse with you, and, above all, when no one else is by."

"I'll promise no such thing," she answered promptly, and with a look of defiance.

"And why not?" he asked in the same grave way, and with no show of being irritated by her quick refusal. Indeed he now spoke even more gently than before.

"Because," she replied, "it is a silly thing to ask. He is a gentleman; and I do not feel bound to fly from before him like a guilty thing, or as though I were not able to take care of myself. Besides, we are not like to meet again--he and I."

Her voice sank at the last words, as though she were speaking them to herself--and it had a touch of wistfulness or of regret.

This set Hugh to scowling once more. But he said nothing, and sat toying in an abstracted fas.h.i.+on with her small, soft fingers.

The desire to plead his own cause was again strong upon him, and he was wondering if he might not in some way sound the depths of her feeling toward him, without violating the pledge which, although unspoken by his lips, he knew her brother--his own dearest friend--a.s.sumed to have been given.

He was aroused from these speculations by a question from Dorothy.

"You will never speak to him of me in any manner, will you, Hugh?" she asked coaxingly.

"Speak to whom?" he inquired in turn. Then, noting the embarra.s.sment in her eyes, he muttered something--and not altogether a blessing--upon Cornet Southorn.

"But you 'll--promise me you 'll," she insisted.

"And if I promise?" he asked slowly. He was looking into her face, thinking how sweet her lips were, and wis.h.i.+ng he could throw honor to the winds and kiss them--just once, while they were so close to his own.

"There is nothing," she declared with a sudden impulse, "that I will not do for you in return!"

"Nothing!" A reckless light was now growing in his eyes. "Are you sure, Dot, there is nothing?"

"No, nothing I can do," she affirmed. But she could not help remarking his eagerness and illy repressed excitement, and felt that she must keep herself on guard against a possible demonstration,--something whose nature she could not foresee.

The young man was still looking fixedly at her. But now he let go her hands and sprang to his feet.

"I'll make no bargain with you, Dot," he said excitedly. "I hate this man, and have from the very first, and I hope I'll have the good fortune before many days to meet him face to face, in fair fight. But I promise, as you ask it, that I'll seek no quarrel with him. And even had you not asked, I'd surely never have mentioned your name to him."

"Thank you." Dorothy spoke very quietly; and before he could know of her intention she s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand and kissed it.

She did it so suddenly and quickly that he knew not what to say or do.

He felt the hot blood rush to his face, and found himself trembling from the storm aroused within him by her caress.

Before he could speak, she was on her feet alongside him, smiling up into his burning face, and saying, "You are a good friend to me, Hugh, and I'll not forget it." Then, as she laid her hand on his arm, "Come, I will play something for you; I feel just in the humor for it."

He followed her into the drawing-room, where a huge wood-fire leaped and crackled on the hearth. She bade him be seated in a big chair in front of the dancing flames, and then went over and perched herself upon the bench--roomy enough to hold three Dorothys--before the spinet.

A moment later and there stole from beneath the skilful touch of her fingers one of those quaint melodies of which we in this generation know nothing, save as they have come down to us through the ear alone, never having been put upon paper.

Hugh Knollys sat and watched her, noting the pretty curves of her cheeks and throat,--the firm white neck, so small and round, with the wayward hair breaking into rebellious little curls at the nape,--the slender wrists, and small, snowy hands.

None of these escaped him, as he sat a little back of her, his hungry eyes absorbing each charming detail. He thought what a blessed thing it would be, could she and he always be together, and alone, like this, with peace smiling once more over the land, and they happy in the society of each other.

The music seemed to fit exactly into his present mood, and he sat motionless for a time, listening to it. Then, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, he arose to his feet; and as the final cadence died softly away, he was in a chair beside the bench, with his arm clasping Dorothy's waist.

She turned a startled face, to find his own bending close to her, and with a look in it such as she had never before known it to hold.

"Dorothy," and his voice was almost a whisper, "you care more for me than for the Britisher?"

An alarmed suspicion of the truth came to her. She saw a new meaning in all he had said, in what she had beheld in his face and manner; and realizing this, she sat white and motionless, her fingers still resting upon the keys.

He now bent his head, and she was frightened to feel tears dropping on her wrist.

She was possessed by a wild desire to fly,--to get away from him. But she found herself unable to stir, and sat rigid, feeling as if turned to marble, while his arm was still lying loosely about her waist.

Then his hand stole up, and his fingers clasped her hand.

"Oh, my G.o.d,"--his voice was hoa.r.s.e and choked--"I cannot endure it!"

At this, there came to the girl a flash of remembrance from that same morning. She seemed to feel the arm of the young soldier around her, and to see the scarlet-clad breast against which her head was pressed so tenderly. A feeling as of treacherous dealing with his faith and with her own rushed upon her, and she struggled to get away.

"Are you gone daft, Hugh Knollys," she cried angrily, "or whatever ails you?"

He arose shamefacedly, and stood mute. But as she moved off, he stretched out a hand to detain her.

"Wait,--wait but a moment, Dot," he begged. "Don't leave me in such fas.h.i.+on. Don't be angry with me."

"Are you mad?" she demanded again, and with no less impatience, although pausing beside him.

"Aye, I think I must be," he admitted, now speaking more naturally, and trying to smile down into the small face, still glowing with indignation, so far beneath his own.

"So it would seem," she said coldly, and in no wise softened. "I ne'er expected such a thing from you."

"Never mind, Dot,--forget it," he pleaded, now full of penitence.

"I've a great trouble on my mind just now, and your music seemed to bring it all to me with a new rus.h.i.+ng."

Dorothy's face changed in a second, and became filled with sympathy.

"Oh, Hugh, I am so sorry," she said with quick solicitude, taking him by the hand. "Don't you want to tell me about it? Mayhap I can help you." Her anxiety about this unknown trouble had lulled to sleeping her suspicions as to the reason for his outbreak.

He smiled,--but sadly, grimly. "I'll tell you some day," he said, "and we will see if you can help me. But we'll be better friends than ever after this, won't we, Dot?" His eyes had been searching her face in nervous wonder, as if to a.s.sure himself that he had not told her aught of his secret,--the secret his honor forbade him to reveal.

"Yes, Hugh, I am sure we shall be." Dorothy said it with a warmth that set his mind at rest.

"And you'll let no redcoats, nor any coats--whate'er be their color--come betwixt us?" he added, with a touch of his old playfulness.

"No, never!" And there was a sincerity and firmness in her answer that warmed his very heart.

"Thank you, Dot," he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. "And thank G.o.d!" he muttered as he released her hand, saying it in a way to make Dorothy feel uncomfortable in the thought that perhaps she had pledged herself to something more than she had intended.

Just here Aunt Lettice came into the room. "Leet has returned from the town," she announced, full of excitement, "and says that Mugford's wife has at last prevailed upon the English officers to release him."