"It was like a hundred candles suddenly brought into a dark room," Betty said, snipping off her thread. "But do you know, Joscelyn, that you acted so queerly, scolding because you had cried so much, and c.o.c.king your head before the mirror to count the wrinkles your grieving had made,--though for the life of me I could never see one of them,--that I half believed you were angry that Richard had not died in truth."
"You give me credit for much feeling, I am sure," quizzed Joscelyn. "But in sooth, Betty, when a woman gets circles under her eyes, and crow"s feet at the corners of her mouth, and a dismal whine to her voice through over-much sighing, she likes to know it has not been all in vain. Wasted grief is like wasted sweets--useless."
"I would to heaven all grief were useless and in vain."
Joscelyn shook her head. "That would not do; for without grief there would be no pity, and without pity there would be no love, and life without love were not worth the living."
"Love? What do you know of love?" Betty asked, looking up quickly.
"You vain little minx! do you think Cupid wasted all his arrows on you and Eustace?"
"N-o; but Joscelyn--"
""But, Joscelyn,"" mimicked the other, still laughing; "from the doubt in your voice one would think you were own daughter to that biblical Thomas whose faith was so small. Trust me, Cupid has saved a shaft in his quiver for me."
"You are such a queer girl, Joscelyn; one never knows how to take you.
You sorrowed for Richard so vehemently at first--do you--can you mean that you care just a little for him?"
"My dear, I was much more in love with Richard dead than I am ever like to be with Richard alive. You see, Death is not unlike charity: it covers a mult.i.tude of faults."
"You heartless creature!"
And Betty got up and took her frame to another window. But she could never stay angry long, partly because of her gentle disposition, and partly because she knew that much of Joscelyn"s seeming heartlessness was in truth but mischievous banter; and so their heads were close together again very soon, while their needles wrought silken poppies or blue-eyed violets into the meshes of canvas on their frames.
And while they thus talked and sewed, a horseman came galloping down the streets. A great commotion followed in his wake; for he rode with a free rein and so rapidly withal that his horse"s hoofs struck sparks from the loose stones of the street. Straight to Mistress Clevering"s door he went, and springing down stayed not to knock or parley, but entering without ceremony and meeting the astonished lady in the hall, hugged her with a will.
"Why--it is--Richard--Richard!"
Her voice was half choked with giving back his kisses, but it reached the two girls in the parlour who, startled at first into silence, threw down their needles and rushed headlong into the hall, and, before they realized it, were kissed by the newcomer in a rapturous greeting.
Joscelyn"s cheek burnt scarlet under his lips, but so glad was she to see him safe after all their anxiety that she submitted without protest.
In faith, it was over so quickly, there had been no time for resistance.
Devouring her with his eyes, he tried to retain her hand when the greeting was over, but after a moment she slipped it, not unkindly, from his grasp, and presently when he had told them briefly of his marvellous escape, she ran over to give her mother the news and to see if there was not a piece of his favourite cake in the cupboard. A warm tingle was in her veins, and she put her hand up to the cheek he had kissed. How pleasant it was to hear his voice in the house. If he would only leave the war alone, and--and quit making love to her, she would be so fond of him; they used to be excellent comrades before these two things came between them.
Thinking thus, she put a napkin over the cake and turned to leave the pantry; but Richard, under pretext of speaking to her mother, had followed her, and now stood in the door barring her exit.
"Joscelyn, how good it is to see you again! Have you thought of me?"
""Twould have been impossible not to think of you with nothing else being talked of in the house these two months past."
"But have you missed me?"
"Why, we miss anything to which we have been accustomed."
"And you sorrowed for me?"
"Truly, Richard, I should be a most hard-hearted girl not to sorrow over such suffering as has been yours."
"G.o.d bless you!" He was so full of joy over the meeting that he did not notice the lack of love-warmth in her voice, but when he would have put his arm about her, she pushed him off with quiet decision.
"Nay, Richard, do not begin that. You told your mother just now that you had but three hours to stay with us; let us not waste a single moment of the time in a useless love-making."
"But you kissed me for greeting."
"Nay, sir, "twas you kissed me," she said, with a shimmer of laughter over her face like sunlight upon dancing water.
"Listen, sweetheart," he said, coming very close to her, his head swimming with the soft intoxication of her presence; "we may have but these few minutes together, but I want you to know that it was the thought of you that kept me alive in that vile prison and finally nerved me to escape. But for you,--for the fierce longing to see you, to touch you,--I should have stayed there and died like a rat."
"Eustace did all he could," she broke in, "but our letter was long in reaching him, for General Clinton had sent him to help repel the attack on Rhode Island, and he did not return to New York for more than a month."
"I know, and some day I shall thank him; but he could not have effected my release or exchange, only bought a little favour from my hard jailers, and I cared not for that kind of obligation from one of his name. It was you--the memory of your dear face--that steeled my nerves and broke my bonds. There is a species of numbing despair that comes upon a man sometimes over which a great love alone can triumph."
She put her hand upon his arm, for there was a pathos in his voice that touched her deeply; "Richard, I wish I loved you."
"And so you shall, and do," he cried; and instantly the tender spell upon her was broken, for in his tone and manner was the old arrogance and sureness that she so much resented. He felt the change, and said pleadingly, "The fisherwoman who rescued me said at parting, "Tell your Joscelyn to use you well." Are you so soon forgetting her injunction?"
"Nay; she was a good woman, and I shall pray for her."
"Love me instead--"twill be truer grat.i.tude."
But his mother and Mistress Cheshire were in the hall, and so for answer Joscelyn pushed him through the door; and he went out to the older women, munching a bit of sweet cake like a boy.
By this time the neighbours were all collected about the door, eager to hear of absent sons and husbands; and he went out to them and answered questions, and took messages and told anew the story of his escape, but with such omissions of names as to throw no suspicion on Dame Grant, if so the story found its way back to the north.
"And in writing to Peter," he said to Patience and her mother, who were grief stricken at his story, "say only that d.i.c.k Clevering told you where he was; he will understand, and anything else might arouse the warden"s suspicions and bring punishment upon him."
He thought they would never have done with their inquiries and their bemoanings, so short was his time and so eager was he for one more word with Joscelyn. At last he said:--
"And now, my friends, I will carry as many letters as my pockets can hold, but they must be writ in short shift, for in an hour I go on my journey and shall not return this way when once I set my face northward."
And so they went away,--some to prepare their missives, others out of delicacy, feeling his own people must have him to themselves.
"Tell us all about your journey"s purpose, Richard," said Betty.
"No, sister; a soldier"s mission is not his property. Suffice it for you to know that another man, Dunn by name, and I go through the Carolinas, perhaps so far south as Savannah, on business for the commander-in-chief. He cannot weaken his present force by detaching any number of men to aid the southerners, but he wants to put them on their guard against the force Clinton is sending by sea from New York; and also to learn accurately the strength of the cause in these parts."
"And where is Master Dunn?"
"He stopped for a few hours over the Virginia line to see his wife, and I rode the livelong night that I might have this glimpse of you.
Methinks I should almost have deserted to come back for a look at you all, had I not persuaded Dunn to choose me on this expedition."
"And where are you to meet him?"
"At Charlotte, three days hence."
"When Eustace--when Master Singleton,"--Betty corrected herself, with a vivid blush, "wrote, saying you were dead, mother and I were like to go crazy with grief. He wrote it kindly, but for two days mother did not leave her bed."
"And what did Joscelyn say?"