"You can sleep in this room," she said, unclosing a door that opened on to the gallery, with which all the sleeping apartments communicated.

"You will find water, towel and soap on the stand. You need not be in a hurry to go in the morning. We all rise before daylight, at this time of the year, and you can have your breakfast before you go."

As she turned to leave the room, the woman suddenly grasped her wrist, and forcibly detained her, staring in her face, with the same bold glance which had inspired such deep loathing.

"Stay, my pretty la.s.s, I can tell your fortune. Tell you the name of the lad you are to marry, the fate of him you are always thinking about, who is away in foreign parts, and all the good luck in store for you."

"I don't believe in such folly," cried Dorothy angrily, wrenching her hand from the woman's grasp. "It is worse than folly; it is wickedness.

Good night. I hope you may sleep well."

She shut the door. A loud laugh followed her down stairs.

Dorothy, on reaching the great room, sat down in a chair, and panted for breath.

"What is the matter? What ails you, Dolly?" asked the old people, with looks of alarm.

"Nothing--that horrible looking person took hold of me, to tell my fortune. I got frightened and angry, and ran down stairs too fast. That has set my heart in flutter, and taken away my breath. Dear mother, give me a gla.s.s of water, and don't look so pale and scared. It won't do for us all to play the coward."

"Why, whatever do you mean, Dolly?" said Mrs. Rushmere, giving her the water. "Is the child crazy?"

"Not quite," returned Dorothy, trying to laugh, as she gave back to her mother the empty tumbler.

"I will tell you what I mean, for I feel calmer now. I don't like that woman, if she be really a woman, a fact which I very much doubt. I don't like her staying in the house, and I have made up my mind not to go to bed tonight, but to sit up and watch till the morning."

"I saw nothing amiss in the woman, Dolly," said Rushmere. "She be big, an' ugly, an' bold like, but what manners can you expect from the like o' her?"

"Father," pleaded Dolly, "it is not that. I am used to poor ignorant rude creatures, but she looks bad. I can't find words to express the dislike I feel for her. I feel as if she were here for no good. Did you see how she glowered at the money in mother's purse? I expected every moment that she would make a grab at it--and then the hint, father, she threw out to you, about selling your corn so well in the market. She must have walked quicker here than Jack trotted home. Did you pa.s.s any one on the road?"

"Not I. Dolly, you make me feel rather curious about un. But if she wor a thief, she would not ha' asked if we were afeard of robbers. Na, na, child, go to your bed, there's naught to fear, an' a man too in the house."

"I don't mean to go to bed," said Dolly, stoutly. "I'll tell you my reasons to-morrow morning. I have a bunch of stockings to mend for father; I'll sit up in the pantry and darn them. Is the gun loaded?"

"Na, Dorothy," and Rushmere laughed long and heartily, "I told the woman a big lie, just to scare her. It has not been loaded these ten years. I shu'd like to see you trying to pop it off."

"It's a pity to keep a useful weapon only for show," returned Dolly, eyeing the old blunderbuss with looks of regret. "It is like the boy in the fable, crying out wolf, when no wolf was near."

It was in vain that the old people tried to reason Dolly out of the foolish notion she had taken about the tramp; but finding that she was determined to have her own way, they went to bed, and left her to please herself--not, however, before Dorothy had whispered in her mother's ear:

"Be sure to lock your door, and pa.s.s the big iron bar across it."

Mrs. Rushmere, who felt more nervous than her husband--for fear is strangely infectious--promised faithfully to observe her injunction.

"And now for the night," sighed Dorothy, as she returned alone to the great hall. "If it were not for them, I never could muster courage to watch here by myself. How many hours is it yet to day?"

She glanced up at the tall, old-fashioned clock, in its dark mahogany case; a solemn looking piece of antiquity, that had stood on the same spot, and told the lapse of time to many generations of the Rushmeres, who had long ceased to reckon it for ever. It was still ticking on, telling the same tale to the beautiful girl, who now stood before it; and by her, as far she was individually concerned, was as little heeded.

"Only nine o'clock. How many hours I shall have to keep awake."

Like most hard workers, sleep was a necessity to Dorothy, of so overpowering a nature, that the difficulty with her was not how to go to sleep, but how to keep awake. Of one thing she felt certain; that she was more likely to nod on her post than the strange being who was occupying her neat little chamber above.

She now diligently set to work, to prepare for her long vigil.

First, she raked the fire together; and covered the hot coals with ashes, then she lighted a dark lanthorn, and put on a large great-coat of Mr. Rushmere's over her other garments; with the further adornment of an old fur cap, the lappets of which she carefully tied under her chin, the better to conceal her ident.i.ty; she was now ready for action.

Going to the wood-shed, she brought from thence, a small axe, with which she was wont to chop into convenient lengths, the branches of the f.a.ggots with which she heated the brick oven for baking.

She ran her finger along the edge of the instrument--Gilbert, when at home, used to keep it nicely sharpened for her use. She shook her head--Gilbert was not at home, and her axe was so blunt that a body might ride to Rumford on it. But then again, she reflected, that any weapon was better than none; so retaining the axe, she retreated into the pantry, a small room that opened into the great hall, from under the staircase, on the side nearest to the fire, and which commanded a full view of the length and breadth of the hall.

No one coming down the stairs could see into the pantry; but any person in the pantry could not fail to hear the slightest step upon the stairs; and by mounting upon a stool and looking through the sky-light above the door, could reconnoitre everything that was pa.s.sing in the public room.

After diligently investigating the capabilities of the place, and laying down a plan of action, or resistance, as the case might prove. Dorothy descended from her lofty perch on the stool, and met the red gleaming eyes of Pincher intently watching all her movements.

"Pincher, you can't stay here, poor dog," she said, patting his head.

"If there's no danger, I shan't want your services; and if there should be, which the good G.o.d forbid, your barking, sir, would betray me."

The dog seemed to comprehend her meaning; and followed her very quietly into the shed near the back entrance; and having carefully fastened him in, she returned to her post in the pantry.

The door she left purposely half closed, turning the dark side of the lanthorn, so that no gleam from it could be thrown upon the opposite wall, or from the panes above, and taking some coa.r.s.e woollen stockings from a basket on the dresser, she sat down in front of the lanthorn, with her face to the door, to listen to any sounds that might awaken suspicion.

Hour after hour pa.s.sed away. The stockings were all mended, and neatly rolled up. Dorothy began to feel drowsy, directly she had nothing left to engage her attention. Once or twice she had nodded upon her chair; and owned to herself that she was horribly sleepy.

The night was very cold, and the fire had gone out. The clock struck one. How loud and solemn it sounded, in the deep stillness that reigned through the house; a stillness always rendered more intense during a heavy fall of snow.

The clock striking that one solitary warning, completely roused Dorothy from her half conscious state. She had so seldom heard it mark that hour, during the deep hush of night, that the unusual sound smote upon her ear like the toll of the death-bell. She thought of the night she had spent upon the heath; and her cheeks grew cold and her teeth began to chatter. Hark! what was that? A deep growl from Pincher, and now a furious barking in the shed. A long, shrill whistle, once or twice repeated. Dorothy cautiously mounted the stool, as a heavy foot sounded on the stairs.

She was wide awake now. The imaginary fears were gone, and she became distinctly conscious of some great impending danger. She was not called upon to battle with the spiritual powers of darkness; but to exercise courage and coolness, in circ.u.mventing the wickedness of man--her spirit rose to the emergency, and she felt as brave as a lion. She drew down the dark slides of the lanthorn, and applied her eyes to the panes of gla.s.s over the door.

Some one crossed the floor, but the wide hall was still in darkness. It did not long remain so. Raking among the ashes on the hearth, a light was soon obtained by the intruder; and then she saw a dark ill-looking man, approach the table, and set down the candle he had lighted, and cautiously survey the apartment.

Satisfied that he was alone, he took from a side pocket two large horse pistols, and from a belt under his woollen smock frock, a long gleaming knife. He examined the locks of the pistols, c.o.c.ked them, drew the blade of the murderous looking knife across his thumb, to see if it was in good working order, listened intently, and then cursed the dog for making that "infernal noise!"

His next step was to take some grease from the candle, and apply to the large iron bolts that secured the door, which he cautiously and noiselessly withdrew, went out into the court-yard beyond, and gave the same sharp call whistle that had startled Dorothy from her unquiet sleep.

Now, was her time, or never. Dorothy slipped off her shoes, sprang from her hiding place, and quick as thought, closed upon the robber the ma.s.sive outer-door, and drew the heavy bolts back to their fastenings.

She then hastened to the window and opening the narrow cas.e.m.e.nt, secured on the outside with stout iron stancheons, she fired both the robber's pistols in succession at two dark figures who were standing a few paces from the house.

A heavy groan and a volley of horrible execrations, followed this daring act; and the ruffian made off dragging with him his wounded or dead comrade.

"Thank G.o.d!" cried Dorothy, holding fast to the iron bars, to keep herself from falling. "I have saved their lives and my own."

The report of the fire-arms awoke Rushmere and his wife, who rushed half dressed down stairs, to see what had happened to Dorothy, who now the reaction had come, had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

Rushmere lifted her up in his arms, and placed her in his great arm-chair. His wife brought the candle and looked in her death pale face.

"She is not shot, Lawrence. There is no blood upon her that I can see.

Bring me some water to dash in her face; she is in a swoon."

The shock of the cold water soon brought Dorothy to herself.