He waited a moment for her to speak. Then an eager, appealing look came to his face, and he asked, "Have you naught to say to me--no word for me before I go?"

Joseph Devereux now found his voice.

"Aught to say to ye, sirrah!" he demanded furiously. "What should a daughter o' mine have to say to one of His Majesty's officers, who has been to this house but once before, and then, as now, only by means of his own audacity?"

At the sound of this angry voice Dorothy shuddered, and tearing her eyes from those blue ones that had not once left her face, she turned quickly and clung to her father.

The young man laughed, but not pleasantly, and there was a nervous twitching of the fingers resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"You are surely aware, sir," he said, "that I have the honor of a slight acquaintance with your daughter. And I fail to see why I should be insulted, simply because I was mistaken in holding it to be but natural courtesy that I should bid her farewell."

Here his voice broke in a way that was strange to all save Dorothy and Mary, as he added: "We leave this place to-morrow, sir, and your daughter and myself are never like to meet again; and I had good reason to wish the privilege of begging her forgiveness for aught I may have done to cause her annoyance. And if she refused me forgiveness, then she might be pleased to wish me a right speedy meeting with a bullet from one of her own people's guns."

Joseph Devereux looked sorely puzzled at these strange words, which seemed to bear some hidden meaning. Then, as he felt the quivering of the slight form clinging to him so closely, and heard the tremulous "Oh, father, speak him kindly," his face relaxed and he spoke less brusquely than at first.

"Your conduct seems rather cavalier, young sir, but we surely have no wish to seem insulting; and as for any annoyance you may have caused my daughter, I am ignorant o' such. It is but natural, considering the times, that we do not relish receiving into our houses gentry who wear such color as is your coat; and yet we are not cut-throats, either in deed or thought. We pray and hope for the good of our country and cause; and for such, and such only, do we think o' the use o' bullets."

During all this time the dragoon's eyes never strayed from the curly head pressed against the old man's arm. And now, while her father was speaking, Dorothy's face was turned, and the big dark eyes, full of perplexity and fear, met his own and held them.

Mary had made a sign to her husband, and he followed her into the drawing-room, where Aunt Lettice was still sitting before the fire, the trembling fingers betraying her excitement as they flashed the slender needles back and forth through the stocking she was knitting.

"What does it all mean, dear?" she inquired, as Mary came and looked down into the fire, while she twisted her hands together in a nervous fashion most unusual with her.

"It means," John Devereux answered angrily, but not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the hall, "that there is never any telling to what length the presuming impudence of these redcoats will go." He ground his teeth savagely as he wondered why he had not taken the intruder by the collar and ejected him before the others came upon the scene; and he was now angry at himself for not having done this.

"Whatever can he wish to say good-by to Dot for?" he muttered hastily to his wife. "And whatever can he mean about annoying her? Annoy her, indeed! Had he done such a thing, I should have heard of it ere this, and he would not have gone unpunished all these days, to crawl in now with a pretence of apology."

"It seems to me there was little show of crawling in the way he came,"

said Mary, with the ghost of a smile, and speaking only because her husband seemed to be expecting her to say something. Her brain was in a tumult as she wondered what would be the end of all this, and what would--what could poor Dorothy do for her own peace of mind and that of her father?

She feared that, should a sudden knowledge of the truth come to him, it might be his death-blow; and she made no doubt that if her hot-headed husband knew it, the young dragoon would scarcely be permitted to leave the house unscathed, if indeed he were not killed outright. And then she thought of a duel,--of its chances, and of her husband not being the one to survive.

At this a low cry escaped from her lips before she could prevent it; and her husband stepped closer to her side.

"It is nothing--nothing," she said brokenly, in response to his anxious questioning. "I was but thinking."

"Thinking of what, sweetheart?"

"If any harm should befall you," she answered.

"Why, what harm, think you, should come to me?" And he took her hands, holding them close, while he tried to look into her averted eyes.

"I--don't know," she said evasively. "These are such dreadful times that have come to us, that no one can tell what is like to happen.

Oh," with a sudden impetuous burst, more suited to Dorothy than to her own calm self, "I wish there had never been such a nation as the English!"

When Joseph Devereux had done speaking, the young man turned his eyes from the pale face in which he seemed to have been searching for some hint or suggestion as to what he should now say.

That his quest was fruitless,--that he found nothing, no fleeting glance or expression, to indicate the girl's present feeling toward him, was apparent from the look of keen disappointment, well-nigh despair, that now settled upon his own face, making it almost ghastly in the uncertain light.

But despite all this, his self-control did not leave him; and after one more glance into the dark eyes--fixed and set, as though there was no life animating them--he drew himself erect, and made an odd gesture with his right hand, flinging it out as if forever thrusting aside all further thought of her. Then, without looking at her again, he addressed her father.

"It was not to discuss such matters that I ventured to force my way into this house, sir," he said with a dignified courtesy hardly to be looked for in one of his years. "It was only that I could not--or felt that I should not--go away without holding speech with Mistress Dorothy. It would seem that she has naught to say to me, and so I have only to beg her pardon, and take my leave. And, sir, I entreat the same pardon from you and the other members of your household for any inconvenience I may have caused you and them."

He bowed to the old gentleman, and turned slowly away. But before he had taken many steps toward the outer door, Dorothy's voice arrested him, and he turned quickly about.

"Stay--wait a moment." And leaving her father's side, she went toward the young man.

"Believe me," she said, speaking very low and very gently, as she paused while yet a few steps away from him, "I wish you well, not harm."

"Do you still hold to what you told me?" he asked quickly, paying no heed to her words.

His voice did not reach her father's ears; and the young man's eyes searched her face as though his fate depended upon what he might read there.

"Yes!" The answer was as low-pitched as his question, but firm and fearless. And he saw the fingers of both little hands clench themselves in the folds of her gown, while the lace kerchief crossed over her bosom seemed to pulsate with the angry throbbing of her heart.

"And you will never forgive me?" He spoke now in a louder tone, but with the same pleading look in his pale face.

Dorothy's eyes met his own fairly and steadily, but she said nothing.

He waited a second, and then bending quickly, he clasped both her hands and carried them to his lips.

"G.o.d help me," he said hoa.r.s.ely, as he released them,--"G.o.d help both of us!"

With this he turned away, and opening the door, went out into the darkness.

Dorothy stood perfectly still, with her father staring perplexedly into her white face. It had all pa.s.sed too quickly for him to interfere,--to speak, even, had he been so minded.

At the sound of the closing door John Devereux came again into the hall; and now the noise of horses' hoofs was heard, dying away outside.

"Dot--my child, what is it?" her father exclaimed, his heart stirred by a presentiment of some ill he could not define. And he moved toward the mute figure standing like a statue in the centre of the wide hall.

But John was there before him; and as he pa.s.sed his arm around her, she started, and a dry, gasping breath broke from her lips,--one that might have been a sob, had there been any sign of tears in the wild eyes that seemed to hold no sight as they were turned to her brother's face.

"Dot--little sister," he cried, "tell me--what is the matter?"

And Mary, now close beside them, added quickly, "Tell him, Dot,--tell him now."

"Tell," Dorothy repeated mechanically, her voice sounding strained and husky. "Tell--tell him yourself, Mary. Tell him that--" And she fell, a dead weight, against her brother's breast.

CHAPTER XXV

Whether it was due to ordinary physical causes, or was the result of mental agitation arising from what has been told herein, cannot well be determined; but, soon after Dorothy had been carried to her room,--conscious, but in a condition to forbid all questioning or explanation--her father was taken with what in the language of that day was termed a "seizure,"--so serious as to alarm the household, and divert all thoughts from other affairs.

He had been pacing up and down the drawing-room, now deserted by all save himself and his son. His hands were clasped behind him, his chin was sunk upon his breast, and his brows knit as though from anxious thought.

Jack sat staring into the fire; and both were waiting for the return of either Mary or Aunt Lettice, both of whom had gone to Dorothy's room to give her such attention as she might require.