# Mistress Madcap Surrenders/Chapter 13

BUT some good fairy must have decreed that they were not to perish by fire! Anthony Freeman, not knowing this, had made a brave effort to help himself and Mehitable by working himself over to her motionless form and trying to shove it toward the door. But looking at the door, he had groaned, for Mehitable, for some unaccountable reason, had closed it behind her upon entering. It had seemed to mock him, because with his hands tied behind him, he had not been able to open it!
Well, they must escape by the open door in the rear, he had told himself! Give them time enough, please Heaven, and they could make it! This had been denied them, however, for glancing up, he had seen that the stairs were beginning to smoulder, that a thread of flame had already licked its way across the top step.
Anthony Freeman had worked frantically, then. Grunting, pushing that inanimate body of Mehitable's before him, he had gone only half a yard or ​so when men's shouts had sounded outside and the front door had been flung open.
The ancient, evil hallway had seemed suddenly to swarm with men. Mehitable had been caught up in a pair of strong arms, knives had been whipped out, and Captain Freeman's legs and arms had become once more his own. Rising, he would have fallen, however, from sheer numbness, had not someone supported him and afterward helped him to safety.
It was a day or two after these exciting events that Mehitable, awakening from a doze, looked around her weakly. A lady turned away from the window and approached the girl's bed.
"Art hungry?" she asked kindly.
"Nay, Mistress Roberts." Mehitable shook her head.
Mistress Roberts seated herself beside the bed and, taking out a gray sock, commenced to knit. As she knitted, her face grew very sad, as well it might be. For she was Master Hedden's sister who, hastening across lots from her own home, upon hearing of his arrest, had remained to take charge of the disorganized household. To her care, then, Mehitable had been committed, after good Doctor Burnet had pronounced her uninjured save for minor bruises and the burns upon her hands.
"Hath heard from Master Hedden yet?" asked Mehitable, now.
​Mistress Roberts sorrowfully shook her head. "Nay," she sighed. "And his poor, wounded wife—how she doth long for news!"
There was a little silence. Then Mehitable cleared her throat self-consciously.
"Hast heard from Captain Freeman?" she asked far too casually.
Mistress Roberts looked at her in a kind, unobserving manner. "Nay—he went back to Morris Town."
Back to Morris Town! Back without one word of inquiry or interest!
"I hope I am not going to weep!" thought Mehitable, agonizedly to herself, blinking very fast. "He does not care! Nay, but I will not weep!"
"The snow glare doth hurt your eyes, I fear!" remarked Mistress Roberts, glancing up from her knitting. She rose and, going over to the window, raised it and struggled with the shutter, which she finally got to close. "There—that be better, forsooth!" she said in a satisfied tone.
"Thank'ee," said Mehitable, a little gruffly. (He does not care! He does not care!)
There was a scrambling noise outside the door. Soon it opened, and a shy little face peered rather frightenedly into the darkened room.
"Come in here, sir!" Mistress Roberts smiled at her young nephew. "Come in and tell Hitty what ye did the other night!"
​The little boy slid around the corner of the lintel and, step by step, finger in mouth, approached the bed.
"I ran away. I climbed out a window and ran away. Then I saw ye, Hitty."
"Aye—so ye did!" said Mehitable.
"I went on and on, after I left the old house," said the child. "I went to my aunt's in Wad—Wadsesson, Hitty—I did not want to come home. The red-coats might a-got me! My aunt brought me here in a sled, with two horses pulling it!" he added proudly.
Suddenly, Mehitable, regardless of her bandaged hands, leaned out of bed and caught him to her. "Little lad—so brave!" she cried, hugging him. She kissed his curly head and released him, to his squirming relief. "And ye were a big man!" she told him solemnly.
"Truly, Hitty! And did I help ye?" he asked with shining eyes. And when she nodded seriously, he regarded her delightedly. "But I don't like to be kissed, Hitty," he said in an aggrieved voice, moving precipitately toward the door, to vanish upon laughter from the two who were watching him.
Underneath the fun, however, Mehitable's heart continued to ache. Back came the old, suspicious anger, the doubt and the turmoil which Charity's fairy tale had aroused that time. Anthony Free​man was, after all, just a play-boy, an unstable person of moods and fancies, a young man to whom the interest of the moment meant much and 'to-morrow nothing at all!
And what about the unknown lady Anthony had kissed at that long-ago masque—the lady he had told he loved! Most wonderful for Nancy and John, this clearing up of the little mystery! Aye, said Mehitable's tormented young heart—but what about me!
"Art hungry?" asked Mistress Roberts again, out of a somber silence.
Mehitable watched her flashing needles and sighed. "Nay," she said.
"Art hungry, Hitty?" It was Mistress Hedden's daughter this time, sticking her head in at the door. Her cheerful young face was like a bright gleam of sunshine. "Mother seems better and John hath come," she said radiantly.
"Nay, I'm not hungry!" said Mehitable gloomily. All the world seemed happy! "All the world—save me!" thought Mehitable, turning her face to the wall.
"Oh," said Mistress Roberts fussily. "That light doth indeed hurt your eyes! That be right! Turn away from it and rest them! Try to sleep, my child!"
She did not hear the howling, mocking laughter of Mehitable's heart.
​But a few days later, being a strong, healthy young person, Mehitable, from old Dulcie's back, was waving farewell to a group of faces in Mistress Hedden's parlor window and trotting briskly down the street, with her father, mounted, beside her.
"Are ye sure ye can bear the long ride back to the Mountain?" asked Squire Condit anxiously, as they passed Newark's Four Corners, the village center where the town pump, some ten feet below the ground, was located. Villagers, coming and going from the pump, nodded cordial greetings as the Squire passed, for he was a prime favorite, and many were the nudges and looks of interest directed at Mehitable, too.
"Aye," answered Mehitable. "See, my mittens do protect my hands! Besides, the burns be on the backs, so when I hold Dulcie's bridle, thus, it does not hurt! The good beast seems to realize and obeys my slightest touch, too—don't ye, old Dulcie!" And the girl leaned forward to place her smooth cheek between the old horse's ears, which pricked back intelligently.
Nearing the Mountain Society settlement, as Orange was then called, Squire Condit noticed Mehitable's look of exhaustion and abruptly drew rein before the Ranfield Tavern.
"Come—let us stop here and rest, Hitty! May​hap I can obtain possession o' some conveyance and drive ye the remainder o' the way home," he said, affectionate concern in his face as he helped her down from her horse.
"After a short rest, I shall be all right!" murmured Mehitable, lingering.
"Go ye on into the tavern, Hitty," he bade, noticing her hesitancy. "Or"—he remembered, all at once, the unpleasant episode which had occurred at the Ranfield Tavern before and thought Mehitable but natural in her reluctance to enter—"mayhap ye would rather ride on to Samuel Munn's tavern?"
But Mehitable's glance had happened to rest upon a little rush-woven basket still attached to old Dulcie's saddle, and she straightened her weary figure in sudden decision.
"Nay, let us rest here, Father," she said abruptly.
Rather puzzled, the Squire glanced at her, then, evidently granting her the whimsies of her sex, he nodded and turned away with the horses.
"Very well—go into the house. I will turn the beasts over to someone at the stable and see an Master Ranfield hath any suggestion to make as to a sled!"
Mehitable's feet were rather reluctant, though, as she went in through the tavern door. Only her sense of curiosity, patriotism, and, perhaps not so ​fine a reason, her dislike for Mistress Ranfield and the girlish desire to see that lady paid back for her meanness that long-ago night, could have carried her forward.
The taproom was deserted. In the big fireplace, a lazy fire was snapping and sputtering. A steady murmur of voices came from the kitchen, and hither our heroine crept.
"It cannot hurt an I seat myself here beside the kitchen door!" she told herself excitedly. "Surely no one can prove I eavesdropped!"
But for all her words, Mehitable's heart began to pound rather heavily as she sat there, her bandaged hands lying motionless in her lap. Presently, the murmur developed into a distinct conversation.
"An this be all, mistress, I'd best go!" said a voice finally.
Mehitable listened eagerly. For it was the spy Simpson's voice!
"Wait!" That was Mistress Ranfield's voice, speaking hurriedly. "I must warn ye someone hereabouts doth know our secret. My husband stupidly did empty a basket which I had full o' my belongings, including letters. All of the letters I did recover, save a piece o' one which became torn i' the man's hurry to dump the basket's contents. He said he gave the basket to——"
"But why kept ye letters which might prove said a ​dangerous witnesses against ye?" demanded Simpson's voice sharply.
"Nay"—Mistress Ranfield's shrewish voice assumed a whine—"I be sorry——"
"Sorry!" Simpson's voice hurled back scorn at her. "Much good thy sorrow will do thee when the noose be drawn tight!"
There was a sharp cry from Mistress Ranfield at these sinister words. Then silence. At last came a sigh from the woman.
"Well, the piece o' letter be gone," she said resignedly. Came the sound of a chair being scraped over the floor. Footsteps! "I know, at any rate, who hath the information and——" Suddenly the kitchen door flew open, and Mehitable found herself staring up into Mistress Ranfield's amazed face. "And here she be now!"
"Who?" Simpson peered over his fellow Tory's shoulder.
Mehitable sprang to her feet. Too late, at the look of triumph upon their faces, she realized how foolish she had been! Affairs were not turning out as she had planned at all, she told herself shakily. She was to have confronted Mistress Ranfield quietly and coldly in the presence of the woman's husband and Squire Condit and force the woman to give up her odious calling!
With a wild glance at the door, Mehitable took a step forward. The next instant, Simpson had ​shoved Mistress Ranfield rudely aside and had leaped to Mehitable's side. His hand closed heavily upon her shoulder.
"Not so fast, mistress!" he told her fiercely. "When did ye enter this inn? And how much hath ye overheard?"
Mehitable flung up her head and looked at him proudly. "What concern o' yours, ye—spy!" she stormed.
Tense silence overwhelmed the three. The fire continued to sputter, and somewhere, Mehitable noticed vaguely, a clock ticked. Then Simpson, his handsome face malicious and ugly, turned to Mistress Ranfield.
"A rope for the rebel!" he ordered.
The inn mistress's thin yellow face slowly went dull red. "Ye"—she stopped and licked her lips; there was an odd, breathless hope in her voice, and her hands twitched, like a cat's paws about to play with a mouse—"ye mean to flog the rebel maid?" she asked.
But Simpson's face flushed. A pang went through Mehitable as his likeness to Tabitha showed momentarily.
"Nay," he said shortly. "We will take her into the kitchen and tie her to a chair—ye be sure your husband be not home?—Aye?—Then," he ended grimly, "can we discover how much she knows!"
So the two schemers pushed Mehitable out into ​the tavern kitchen, which was deserted save for themselves. Casting one despairing glance over her shoulder—for where was her father all this time?—the girl went, docile enough. And maintained her composure while the hemp was being wound around her, binding her fast to a chair, until Mistress Ranfield grasped her mittened hands. Then Mehitable winced with pain.
"Stay!" And Simpson tore the mittens from her bandaged hands. "So the rescuer's hands came to grief!" he sneered. But a remnant of decency made him forbid the inn mistress to truss the burned hands.
"A gag?" inquired Mistress Ranfield, thrusting a roll of cloth toward him.
"Nay," he answered scornfully, "how can we discover what she knows an we gag her? Now, mistress"—he turned roughly to the girl—"best speak up, for ye have no bully brother to come to your rescue this time!"
Suddenly, a new voice spoke from the threshold: "But I am here!" it said pleasantly, and Mehitable, twisting herself in her chair, saw the young man, Aaron Harrison, whom her cousin, Jemima Condit, had married, and had left a widower in the previous November. "What be the trouble here?" he asked sternly, coming forward as his eyes rested in surprise upon Mehitable. "Hold!" There was the sight of his drawn pistol, all at once, and ​Simpson, about to escape, turned slowly back, his hands held high above his head.
"Now," repeated Aaron Harrison, "what ill business goes on here?"
Unfortunately, his eyes went back to Mehitable for an instant, and in that instant Simpson saw his chance to escape. There was the sound of a chair crashing to the floor, the swift flight of a body hurtling itself toward the door, the belated flash of a pistol, and then they were all staring rather stupidly at the empty space Simpson had previously occupied.
At once, Mistress Ranfield became all concern. "Indeed, Major Harrison"—she fluttered over to Mehitable's chair and commenced to untie the knots of hemp—"indeed, 'tis well ye came when ye did! I was most frightened. For what could lone women do against such a desperate character as that unhappy young man!"
Mehitable gasped. Such amazing effrontery as this fairly took her breath away! But Aaron Harrison, turning back from the door whence he had strode to look out, gazed down sternly at the sly figure before him. Mistress Ranfield, at that, muttering that the fire in the taproom needed mending, got rather hastily to her feet. She was stopped, however, upon the threshold, by the young soldier's grim voice.
"Mistress," said Aaron Harrison, "try not to ​deceive me! Ye are a suspect—indeed, e'en now there be proof o' your duplicity lodged wi' headquarters. To be proven a spy, whether man or woman, is to run the risk o' hanging! Be warned, now, for danger hovers o'er ye!" Then, as the inn mistress, ashen-faced, stumbled from the room, he turned to Mehitable and his expression changed. "Let me unbind ye, Hitty!" he said, an odd breathlessness in his voice.
"Thank ye, Aaron! Let us go into the other room—I like it not here!" Mehitable, as soon as she was free, stood up and walked toward the door. "Where can Father be! Well," she looked at him wonderingly, "what is it, Aaron?"
The young man, following her into the empty taproom, stood gazing at her absently. "Hitty," he burst out at last, "I was upon my way to your father's house! Canst guess why?"
Mehitable, gazing at him in the utmost astonishment as he sat down beside her on the inglenook bench, suddenly dropped her eyes at the tremendous meaning she read in his all at once.
But with realization came strong aversion to his meaning. Always Aaron had been a friend of the family, a brave young soldier—for he was a major in the American army—and likable, yet always the girl had thought of him as her cousin's lover and husband. Now the knowledge that he was seeking to replace his lost bride and that he would like to ​put Mehitable in her place came as a real shock, so that the girl's cheeks burned and her bandaged hands fell to trembling. She raised a hand in embarrassed protest.
"Nay, Aaron!" she began.
But the young soldier spoke huskily. "Ah, Hitty, ye do not know how lonely I've been since—since November, Baby Ira and I!"
"But, Aaron——" Once more Mehitable essayed to speak, and once more the soldier stopped her.
"Nay, Hitty, give me no answer this day!" he pleaded earnestly. "Think the matter o'er! Mayhap ye could be more happy wi' us—the baby and I—than ye feel for now. Go to see the little fellow—Jemima's mother hath him for awhile—and let his baby face speak for us both!"
A little silence fell. Mehitable looked into the fire with dreaming eyes. Often she had heard light-minded girls boast of their conquests, counting over their proposals triumphantly as a miser does his pieces of gold. But here was neither trie umph nor amusement! Only a sober-faced young father asking for companionship and understanding.
"Ah, Aaron," said Mehitable pitifully. She choked. "Life's so—so—queer!" she said breathlessly.
"Life can be—wonderful!" he said wistfully, ​touching her bandaged hand gently. "For two—or three—together!"
Then, as the girl sat silent, hard thoughts came. Anthony Freeman did not care! Very well—Mehitable tossed her head—she would show him that she, in turn, did not care, show him, too, in a way that could not be mended! And with this not very laudable resolve, Mehitable stumbled to her feet.
"Aye, Aaron," she said breathlessly, "aye, I will go and—and—see the baby! And," her gaze sought the floor, "ye may come anon for your answer!"
Then, as both stood silent and rather ill-at-ease for a moment, with that flat feeling which always follows a climax, the door to the taproom opened.
"Art ready, Hitty?" asked Squire Condit's hearty voice. "How now, Aaron?" He nodded cordially to the young soldier. "Art going our way? Hitty tell ye her exciting adventures i' the Town by the River? Poor maid burned her hands quite badly! I do protest," he turned to Mehitable, "I ha' tramped halfway to the Mountain and back again for that sled! Well, Aaron?"
"Nay, I thank ye kindly—I ha' my horse outside," answered the soldier, his gaze upon the down-bent face beside him. "And—Hitty did not tell me o' her burned hands. We—we—were talking o' other matters."
​"I see," said the Squire drily. "Well, Hitty, art ready?" His tone changed to impatience as Mehitable did not move.
The girl started. "Aye, Father," she answered then, with a catch in her breath. (Ah, Anthony!) "Aye," her glance flashed back at the young soldier, half daring, half desolate, "aye, ready for anything!"