Dorothy was back in the library for one brief minute. “Keep the lights up, and the house just as it is, until I get back,” she said, hurriedly, “Thank God, they got out safely,” she added, turning to Mrs. Tayloe, and giving her a swift, tender kiss. “Did anybody miss me? I was wild with terror lest they would suspect something, but I knew their only chance was to get out during the noise and romping. I shall tell them good-bye for you all. No, no! No one must go.” She was hastily wrapping herself up as she talked, and when Sallie Tom appeared at the door, heavily muffled about the head and face, they crept out together into the bitter, bitter night.
It was a good half-mile down to the quarters, but already they could see through the darkness a tiny light, and they struggled on through the snow, almost falling in a drift, then up and on again. Neither spoke. The reaction was beginning to tell on Dorothy, and her strength was tested to the utmost. Much was yet to be done, however, and she bit her lips almost to the blood, lest she should give some sign of how she suffered. The snow muffled the sound of their coming, and while Sallie Tom knocked softly at the door, Dorothy leaned heavily against it. In a moment it was opened, and the men sprang forward to catch her, as she almost fell inside. “I’m all right,” she cried. “Shut the door quick. You have not a moment to lose. Are the horses ready?”
Bobbie took her up in his arms, as if she were a little child, and put her in front of the fire. “Where is Dr. Miles?” he asked, hoarsely. “Didn’t you bring him? I have the license here in my pocket. We must be married before I leave you. Don’t tell me!”—. The look on her face stopped him; and the reckless young soldier, who had faced death a hundred times without a quiver, turned away, lest she should see the bitter pain of this defeat. The two older men stood aside; this was too sacred even for them. Sallie Tom was outside, helping Peter Black with the horses, and only the sputtering of the logs broke the sorrowful stillness that fell upon them all. Presently Bobbie stooped over and kissed her. “I know all about it. We have been outwitted to-night; but I swear here, in the presence of you all, that, if it is not possible before, then on next Christmas night nothing but Almighty God himself shall keep me from claiming my wife! I shall keep this”—and he touched the license in his pocket—“whenever I come, will you be ready?” She nodded without speaking, and silently they each bent and kissed her good-bye, and through the stillness she heard the muffled sounds of their horses’ hoofs upon the snow, and upon her heart lay the despair of utter desolation.
CHAPTER XI.
The days that followed were very dreary ones. Little by little the resources gave out, and actual, positive hunger began to be felt on every side. “White Point” reflected the life of the county; and while much of the real condition of things was kept from Mrs. Tayloe, lest her sorrowing heart could not bear the strain upon it, yet even she knew how necessary it was to count every mouthful eaten. Anne and Dorothy kept up the spirits of the people until in August, when the terrible sorrow came, and Dorothy sat like one stunned and crushed by its force. They brought his body home; and not until she knelt over it and saw the almost rapturous smile upon his face did she realize that to grieve would be selfish indeed; that he was at last “at home”—at last “with her!” The shock of her father’s death for a while broke almost her brave spirit. It was a glorious death, Bobbie wrote her. It grieved him beyond words of telling that he could not be with her in her sorrow, but more than ever was he needed, and not for even one single day could he get leave.
After they buried him, right next to her mother, the old routine of life became almost unendurable. She could not leave “White Point,” her duty kept her there, and yet how she longed for work—hard, continuous, ceaseless work—that she might not think. Anne’s cheerful, buoyant nature was a helpful tonic, and Dorothy struggled hard to be brave. Always Anne had something funny to tell of that “good-looking Lieutenant,” with whose movements, in some mysterious way, she seemed to keep well posted; and she made Dorothy take hold of life again, and in doing for others, her own pain became a little dulled.
The weeks dragged into months, and still Bobbie had never gotten back. Way off in a distant part of the country he had been in active service, and his name had become a familiar one in the army, and they loved him there as they had loved him in his home as a boy, and over the camp-fires at night many a tale was told of his daring and skill as a soldier, and his gentle touch as a nurse when the day was done.