From Kingdom to Colony 26 – Devereux · Library Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
From Kingdom to Colony 26Chapter 25
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
From Kingdom to Colony 26
Chapter 25
DevereuxEnglish
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.
It was Mary who came to announce that the girl was now better, and that, having taken a sleeping potion administered by Aunt Lettice, she wished to see her father.
The old gentleman left the room with a brisk step; and Mary's eyes followed him nervously as she went over and seated herself by her husband.
They were silent for a time, both of them watching the flames that arched from the logs over the fiery valleys and miniature cliffs made by the burnt and charred wood, until Jack asked suddenly, "Why do you not tell me now, sweetheart?"
Mary well knew what he meant; but she waited a moment, thinking how best she might reveal the sad and terrible matter she had to disclose.
"Mary,"--he now spoke a little impatiently, and as though to rouse her from her abstraction--"tell me what all this means."
She stole a hand into his, and then repeated to him all that Dorothy had told her.
He listened with fast-growing anger; and then, coupled with his first outburst of rage against the hated redcoat, were reproaches for his wife, that she had not sooner informed him of the trouble.
"He would never have left the house alive, had I known it before," he cried savagely. "As it is, I'll ride after him as soon as day comes, and call him to an accounting for his villany,--the dastardly scoundrel! And Mary--oh, my wife, how could you keep it from me till now?"
Her heart sank at this, the first note of reproof or displeasure his voice had ever held for her.
"You must remember, Jack," she pleaded, "how sorely I was distressed to know what to do, for I had given my promise to Dot, and could not break it. And you must know as well that it was not until this very evening that I learned of the matter."
"True," he admitted. "But"--persistently--"there was the ruby ring, when the child was first taken ill; how could you keep that from me?"
He spoke reproachfully, but his voice was growing softer, and his anger was now gone, for Mary was sobbing, her head against his breast. And this was as strange to him as his harsh words had been to her.
"I'll never--never keep any matter from you again," she protested brokenly. "I promise it, Jack, for now I see it was very wrong."
"There--there, sweetheart," he said soothingly, as he stroked her bright hair,--"'t is all well for us now, and will ever be, if you but keep to what you say. But Dot--poor little Dot!" And his anger came again.
"Oh, that villain, that cursed villain,--but he shall reckon with me for this outrage! And 't is well for that scoundrel Weeks that he's been made to flee the town for his seditious sentiments and preachings."
"But," Mary explained, "Dot said he was forced to do it, at peril of his life; that he--the Englishman--held a pistol to his head and swore he'd shoot him if he refused."
"Pah," said Jack, contemptuously, "he'd never have dared go so far as that. Master Weeks is but a poor coward." Then he asked quickly, "Think you, Mary, that Dot is telling our father aught of the matter now?"
"I cannot say," was his wife's irresolute answer. "I fear so, and yet I cannot but hope so, as well,--for how can another ever tell him?"
"Aye," groaned the young man; "it will come nigh to killing him."
But Dorothy had not told her father anything. No sooner had he come to her bedside than her eyes filled with a contented light, and slipping her hand within his close clasp, she fell tranquilly asleep, too stunned and numbed by physical weakness and contending emotions,--her senses too dulled from the effects of Aunt Lettice's draught--to find words wherein to pour out her heart to him.
He left her sleeping quietly, and returned to those below; and soon thereafter the seizure came, and he fell back in his chair, speechless, with closed eyes and inert limbs.
It was Mary and Aunt Lettice who ministered to him, with the help of his son and the faithful Tyntie, who was summoned from Dorothy's room, where she had been sent to watch the sleeping girl.
Leet was too old and slow of movement to be entrusted with the summoning of Dr. Paine; and Trent, who slept in one of the outer buildings, was aroused and despatched forthwith, with orders to use all possible speed, as they feared the master was already dead or dying.
They carried him at once to his own bed, where he lay unconscious, with no change in his appearance or breathing; and his son, sitting beside him, gazed with agonized eyes upon the white face lying against the pillows, his own face almost as white, and seeming to have aged under this flood of sorrow now opened in their midst.
It was well along toward morning, although yet dark, with the sky cloudless and gemmed with stars, before Dr. Paine arrived.
The first thing the bustling little man did was to bleed his patient, as was then the practice in treating most ailments. Its present efficacy was soon apparent, for it was not long before the labored, irregular breathing became more natural and the old man opened his eyes.
But there was an unusual look in them,--one that never went away. And although after a time he recovered some of his strength, and was able to go about the house, the hale, rugged health and vigorous manhood were gone forever, and Joseph Devereux remained but a shadow of his former self.
His days were all alike,--passed in sitting before the fire downstairs, or else dozing in his own room; and he had neither care nor thought for the matters that had once been of such moment to him.
The others were with him constantly, to guard against possible accident or harm, as well as to do all in their power in smoothing the way for the loved one they felt was soon to leave them. And he, as well as themselves, albeit he never spoke of it, seemed to understand this,--that they, like him, were waiting for the end, when he should be summoned by the voice none can deny.
And thus he remained day after day, spending much of his time with the other members of his family,--listening apparently to all they might say to him or to one another; but sitting with silent lips, and eyes that seemed to grow larger and more wondrous in expression and light, as if already looking into that mysterious world,--
"Beyond the journeyings of the sun,
Where streams of living waters run,"--
that world whose glories no speech might convey to earthly understanding.
"I can never tell him now," Dorothy said with bitter sorrow, addressing Mary, as the two were alone in the dining-room. It was one of the days when her father had risen for his morning meal, and, after sitting with them awhile, had returned to his room to lie down.
"'T is best not, dear," Mary assented. "Do not burden his heart now, for it would only give him bitter sorrow to brood over. Jack knows the whole matter, and he can do all that is to be done."
"And what is that?" Dorothy asked, speaking a little sharply.
"Call the man to a strict account," was Mary's reply, with anger now showing in her voice.
"No, Mary, no," cried Dorothy, with much of her old spirit. "That must not be,--at least not now." Then more gently, as she observed Mary's look of surprise, "Naught that he nor any one can say or do will mend what has been done; and it is my earnest wish that the matter be let alone, just as it is, for the present. Perhaps the future may show some way out of it." But she spoke as though saying one thing and meaning quite another.
"Will you tell Jack all this?" Mary asked, with an odd look.
"Me?" cried Dorothy, in great alarm. "No, no, Mary; you must do that. I do not wish to have him speak to me of the matter; I could not bear it." And she covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the very prospect of such a thing.
Mary's white forehead wrinkled as though from perplexity, while her slender fingers tapped nervously upon the arm of her chair.
She knew not what to make of the girl,--of her words and actions, of her strange and sudden sickness and faintings, of all that had come to her since the advent of this young Britisher.
And within these past few minutes a new anxiety had found its way into her mind, and this prompted her to ask, "Can it be, Dot, that you have permitted this stranger to come between you and your only brother, who loves you best of all in the world?"
But Dorothy evaded the question. "That he does not," she asserted, taking her hands from in front of her face and trying to smile; "'t is you he loves best of all."
Mary flushed a little, but replied with tender earnestness, "But you know, Dot, he and I are one. We both love you next to each other, and we wish to serve you and assure your happiness."
Dorothy sighed and looked down at the floor. "I doubt if I shall ever be happy again, Mary," she said; "and the best way to serve me is to leave me alone and let me go my own way."
She spoke as though wishing to dismiss the matter, and, rising from her chair, walked over to the window and stood looking off over the meadow lands and toward the sea.
It was a cheering, hopeful sight, for the snow was gone, and everything in nature was beginning to show a touch of the coming spring.
Later that same morning they were in Mary's room, the young wife busy with some sewing, while Dorothy, with much of the former color showing in her face, was moving restlessly about.
"Dorothy!"
Mary spoke suddenly, as though impelled by a hasty resolution, and there was a look in her blue eyes that made a fitting accompaniment to her words; but she kept them averted from Dorothy, who had turned and was coming slowly toward her.
"Dorothy," she repeated, as the girl drew close to her, "where is that ruby ring?"
Dorothy came to a stop, and every drop of blood seemed to find its way to her face.
"Eh,--ring,--what ring?" She glanced at her hands, and then at Mary's face, still turned partially away from her.
"That ruby ring I gave you back, and advised that you throw it into the fire or into the sea, and with it all thought of the dastardly giver."
Dorothy did not reply, and Mary now looked at her as she said slowly and distinctly, "If you cannot tell, I can. It is over your heart, hanging about your neck on a chain."
The girl gave a gasp, and Mary saw her face paling, only to flush again, while the dark eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, Dot," she cried, astonished and angry, "how can you love such a man?"
Dorothy threw herself on her knees and hid her face in Mary's lap, sobbing as if the words had broken a seal set to keep this knowledge from even her own heart.
"I don't know, Mary, but I do--I do love him, and have, for always. And now he has gone--gone away, thinking I hate him, and I may never see him again."
Mary put her arms around the little form, and used all her efforts to soothe the passionate outburst. She could not but feel that she had been wise in thus forcing Dorothy to open her heart, for not only did she know the girl would feel better for having spoken, but she herself had a new and most important fact to guide her own future action.
