CHAPTER XXVIII
"Oh, Mary, which one of them do you suppose is he?" whispered Dorothy, as the two girls hung over the balustrade of the upper hall, watching the figures entering through the outer door, all of them so muffled in storm-cloaks as to look precisely alike, save as to height.
The landlord, with much obsequious bustling, had hastened forward to meet them. His wife was beside him, and she had just summoned a servant to assist in taking the wet wrappings from the new arrivals as she stood courtesying before them.
"The rooms be aired, lighted, and fires made, as ordered, sir," Trask was saying.
In one hand he held aloft a clumsy brass candlestick holding three lighted candles, while the other hand was placed over his heart, as if that member needed to be repressed under the well-filled proportions of his ample waistcoat; and he was bowing with great servility before a figure whose stature far exceeded that of the other new-comers, but whose face, hidden by his hat, could not be seen by the eager onlookers at the top of the stairs.
"Oh, Dot, they are coming straight up here," Mary gasped; and both girls sprang back in dismay at sight of the procession beginning to file up the stairway, preceded by the landlord, who now carried a candlestick in either hand.
Scarcely knowing what they were doing, and intent solely upon concealing themselves, they darted through the doorway of the nearest room, which was lighted only by a cheery wood fire.
"They will surely see us as they go by," whispered Mary, for, once inside, they saw that the door by which they had entered was in the extreme corner of the room, rendering the entire interior visible to a passer-by.
"Let us shut the door," Dorothy suggested.
But Mary said quickly, "No, that will never do. The landlord may have left it open, and would notice it being closed."
It had not occurred to them that all this was probably on account of the room being one of those assigned to the new guests, for Mary had given but slight heed to what Mistress Trask said as to the entire upper floor being taken, and Dorothy had heard naught of the matter beyond what Mary told her.
"Here is another room," said the younger girl joyfully, for her alert eyes had spied a half-closed door communicating with an inner and dark apartment.
It took them only a moment to gain this place of refuge and shut the door; then, standing close to it, they listened for any sound to indicate the passage of the procession down the hall, and so leave them an opportunity to return unobserved to their own apartments.
"I wish we had never done so foolish a thing," Mary said in a low voice. She was breathing rapidly, and trembling from agitation.
"So do I—as it is," was Dorothy's hurried answer. "But if I only could have seen him, so as to know him, I should not care."
The next minute they were awakened to new dismay by the sound of heavy footsteps entering the outer room. Then they heard the landlord say, "This is the room, your Excellency; I trust it be such as to suit you."
A calm, full-toned voice replied: "Thank you, landlord; everything seems quite as it should be. The other gentlemen will be here shortly; show them up at once, when they arrive."
"Yes, sir—certainly, sir," Trask replied. "This is the bedroom, sir." And the sound of his heavy feet approaching the door caused still greater terror to the trembling girls.
The latch was actually lifted, when the other voice arrested any farther movement by saying with a note of impatience: "Yes, yes—very well, landlord. We should like supper as speedily as it can be served, and as there will be many of us, we will have it downstairs."
Trask seemed now to take his leave, for they heard the outer door close. Then the same voice, mellow and dignified as at first, came to them again.
"No doubt, Dalton, they have been detained by the storm."
"Faith, sir, 't is little such a man as Glover cares for water," replied another voice, more jovial and evidently younger; "although, to be sure, he may prefer the water to be salt, being more used to that flavor."
Mary pulled Dorothy by the arm.
"We must walk straight out of here," she whispered, "this very minute. There is nothing else for us to do."
"Well,—go on." The words came brokenly from the younger girl's lips, for her heart was beating in a way to make her actually dizzy.
Then, as Mary hesitated, Dorothy's sturdy self-reliance returned; and pushing the door wide open, she passed in front of her sister-in-law and stepped forth into the presence of four officers, wearing the uniform of the Continental army.
Three of them were wandering about the room, as though awaiting the orders of the fourth,—a very tall man, of massive frame, seated by a table.
He was examining a sealed packet, and seemed about to open it under the light of the candles, but looked up quickly as the childish figure came and stood directly in front of him. Then, as his large gray-blue eyes glanced at the taller one, he arose to his feet, with the unopened packet in his hand.
The other officers had come to a standstill, as though rooted, in various parts of the room, and stood staring open-mouthed at the fair intruders,—a very evident admiration soon taking the place of their amazement.
Their commander now addressed the two girls, looking down from his great height upon the faces wherein embarrassment and veneration seemed hopelessly mingled.
"Well, ladies," he demanded,—his words and manner, albeit perfectly respectful and courteous, tinged with sternness—"what is the meaning of this?"
They both knew themselves to be in the presence of the great man whom they had desired so much to look upon, and they could see nothing in the room but the impressive figure now facing them with such an air of dignity and command.
There was about him the very atmosphere of self-nobility, self-reliance; and with it that supreme control which, being the ruler of his own nature, enabled him to govern all the more surely those about him. The steady gaze of the unusually large eyes, every line of the firm mouth and chin, bespoke a well-disciplined mind, and the keen intuitions of a born leader of men.
Mary was dumb from mortification, not unmixed with actual fear, for she could see no easy way of extricating themselves from their dilemma; but Dorothy plucked up heart of grace, and answered, as she dropped a little courtesy, "It is only that we wanted to see you, sir."
There was a spontaneous laugh from the three officers; but Washington checked it by turning to them with a frown.
And yet there was a faint smile touching the corners of his own lips, relaxing their severity, as he looked down at the girl and asked, in the quizzing tone he might have used toward a child, "Well, little one, now that you have seen me, what will you?"
"That you will pardon us, sir," Mary answered instantly, as she moved forward to Dorothy's side. Washington bent his head graciously to her. But his smiling eyes went back to the younger girl's face, although his words were now in reply to Mary.
"There is surely little to pardon. Rather let me thank you that I am held in such esteem, and thought deserving of so much consideration." Then he added with a glance that embraced them both, "May I know your names?"
"This is my sister, Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead; and I am Mary Broughton Devereux, wife of the officer of that name in Colonel Glover's regiment, now stationed at Cambridge."
Her composure had fully returned, and she spoke with perfect freedom—indeed with a touch of pride—as she looked up fearlessly into Washington's face.
"Aye;" and now his look and voice showed naught but cordiality. "I am happy, ladies, to make your acquaintance. I happen to know your husband, Mistress Devereux, for my present headquarters at Cambridge are in the house formerly occupied by Colonel Glover and his officers.[[1]] I had also a slight acquaintance with your father-in-law."
[[1]] This mansion was afterwards the home of Longfellow.
"Oh, sir—you say that you knew my father?"
The lines of his face relaxed still more as he regarded the little figure standing before him, her hands clasped impulsively, and the great dark eyes, now glittering with tears, raised in a worshipful gaze more eagerly questioning than was even the sweet voice.
"Aye, child, I knew him. We met at the house of your townsman, Colonel Lee."
"He is—perhaps you do not know—my father died this spring." And crystal drops welled from the big eyes and hung suspended on the curling lashes.
"Aye, my dear child," and a note of the tenderest sympathy came to the deep voice, "so I heard at the time. God grant we may all be as well prepared as was your good father, when the end shall come."
There was a pause, filled by the crackling of the fire, whose gleams made a bright sparkle of the drops on Dorothy's swart lashes before she could wipe them away. The other officers were now exchanging significant glances, and looking at the girl with much interest.
The silence was broken by Mary, who was secretly burning to escape. She had waited until she met Washington's eyes; then, as he glanced at her, she made a deep courtesy and said, "And now, sir, if you please, we will retire to our own apartments below stairs."
"Wait but a moment," he replied. His eyes had gone back to Dorothy, who was standing with clasped hands, looking into the fire, and forgetful of all else than the sorrow his words had awakened within her heart. "Are you abiding under this roof, Mistress Devereux?"
"Only for this one night, sir," Mary answered. "We are stopping at Dorchester, with our old friend Mistress Knollys, and have been toward Boston to see a dying relative. We were returning from there when the storm overtook us, and are obliged to remain here until to-morrow. We shall set out again in the morning, sir."
"Not alone, surely?" he said with a slight frown. "It is scarce prudent for you two young ladies to be travelling these roads, at such a time as this, without escort."
"We had an escort, sir, but he went on to Dorchester, to assure Mistress Knollys of our safety. He will return in the morning, or else send some one for us."
"That is more as it should be," Washington said with an approving nod. "And in case no one comes for you, I myself will take pleasure in seeing that you are provided with a suitable escort."
Mary courtesied once more, and both girls murmured their thanks.
The sad look had departed from Dorothy's face as she now stood watching the great man whom she might never have the opportunity of beholding again; and while so engaged, it happened that one of the buttons of his coat came directly opposite her small nose.
At first she looked at it without any interest,—almost mechanically. Then she was overcome by a sudden intense desire to possess it as a souvenir, to be treasured for all time to come.
The feeling grew stronger each moment, and there is no saying to what lengths her childish impulsiveness might have spurred her, had it not been for the keen looks bent upon her by the officers at the other side of the room.
Washington seemed to be conscious of this, for his eyes took a curious expression as he said, looking down into the girl's earnest face, "I am tempted to ask, little one, what great subject makes your eyes so solemn."
He spoke more than half jestingly, and it was apparent that he judged her to be much younger than her actual years, because of her diminutive stature and childish appearance.
"I was wishing, sir, that you would give me something to remember you by," was her frank answer; "that is,"—hesitating a little—"I was wishing I could have something to keep all my life."
She stopped, scarcely knowing how to express herself, while Mary stared at her with manifest disapproval.
"I understand, my child," Washington said, now looking at her more gravely.
He paused, and seemed to be considering the matter. Then he laid his hand lightly upon the girl's shoulder, much in the way a father would have done.
"I shall take pleasure, little one, in giving you something by which to remember me."
Resuming his seat by the table, he took up the packet he was examining when they interrupted him a few minutes before.
He now opened it hastily, and a number of papers dropped out.
One of these he picked up, and tore from it a strip, which he looked at carefully, as though to be certain it was clear of writing; then, dipping a quill into the ink, he wrote a few words upon it.
"Take this, my child," he said, extending it to her, "and should you ever be in need of any service within my power to render, you have but to send this slip of paper, to remind me that I have promised to assist you."
Dorothy stood speechless, well-nigh bewildered, her eyes fixed upon his face, now alight with an aspect almost paternal.
She said nothing, did not even thank him; but taking the paper, she pressed her lips to the hand that proffered it, and then, turning quickly, sped from the room.
"We are most honored, sir—you are very kind," said Mary, who felt it incumbent upon her to express their gratitude in more formal fashion than Dorothy had adopted.
Washington was looking at the door through which the girl had disappeared, but now he turned and bowed courteously.
"Much of the obligation is my own," he replied with courtly gallantry. Then his manner changed as he said: "Your sister is a sweet little maid,—it is most sad that she should have lost her father. He was, as is his son, a worthy and stanch patriot. These are troublous times, Mistress Devereux, and one so young and charming as she may come to feel the need of a protector; although, from all I have seen of her brother—your husband—it might well be supposed my own poor services would never be called into use."
"I thank you, sir; and I am sure Dorothy does the same—and both of us with all our hearts." And Mary ventured to extend her hand.
Washington arose from his chair, and his large, strong fingers closed about her own slender ones in a firm clasp, which she felt still tingling in their tips when she found Dorothy waiting for her at the head of the stairs.
"Oh, Mary," she burst out, looking as though something were amiss, "I am glad you are come. I've been so affrighted."
Then, as they started down the stairs, she told how a dreadful-appearing man had come out of the tap-room, and stood glaring at her, as he demanded fiercely to know her business.
"I was so scared that I could not speak, and I did not dare go back into the room. I am sure the man was full of drink."
"Where is he? I see no one." And Mary craned her neck to look over the rail into the hall below.
"He went back into the taproom when he found I would not answer him."
They had now reached the foot of the staircase; and as though waiting for the clicking of their high heels on the oaken floor, the taproom door opened suddenly, and a great hulking fellow, with a red face, topped by a wild shock of black hair, came staggering against them.
Both girls cried out, and started to fly up the stairs. But they were reassured by the advent of Mistress Trask, who chanced to be coming down the hall, and who spoke sharply to the man, bidding him have a care how he ran into ladies.
"'T is only Farmer Gilbert," she said, turning to her frightened guests, and seeming surprised to find them in that part of the house. "There's no cause to be alarmed, my pretties."
Mary glanced with disgust at the drunkard, who was now attempting a maudlin apology. But she said nothing, either to him or to the landlady, and went her way with Dorothy.
No sooner had they closed the door of their own apartments than they hurried to the light and examined the precious slip of paper.
It read: "A solemn promise given to Mistress Dorothy Devereux, of Marblehead. G. Washington."
"Oh, Dot," Mary exclaimed, "I never thought,—we have told him an untruth!"
Dorothy was still looking at the paper, but at Mary's alarming words she raised her eyes in wonder.
"You are not Mistress Dorothy Devereux, but Mistress—"
"Sh-h!" cried Dot, putting her hand quickly over Mary's lips. Then they looked at one another and laughed, but uneasily.