Joscelyn Cheshire Part 13

The reproof had the desired effect; for the girl stood silent and abashed, and her angry a.s.sailants drew back. Taking advantage of the lull, Mistress Strudwick seized Joscelyn by the arm and almost forcibly drew her away.

"Begone to your home, and bide there till you learn some sense," she cried sharply. "What's the use in b.u.t.ting your brains out against a wall, when there's room enough to go around it? There is no fool like a self-made fool! Go." But when the girl had gone a few steps she made her return. "Promise me truly," she whispered, "that you'll go straight home and stay until the fire you kindled here burns down a bit--promise you will not stir from the house, or I shall not sleep to-night."

"I promise, dear Mistress Strudwick," Joscelyn said, kissing the big hand that patted her cheek. "You heard me say I was sorry our townsfolk were taken, and so I am."

"Yes, yes. Harkee, tell your mother I say to be sure and send Amanda Bryce a loaf of hot bread for supper--Billy will be hungry with running so far from Monmouth," she said, with a meaning wink. In truth, she intended the hot bread as a peace-offering to Mistress Bryce, for it was by such small acts of quiet diplomacy that she kept down the enmity against the Cheshires, or rather against Joscelyn, since she it was who aroused the resentment.

Slowly the girl went down the street thinking of the scene just pa.s.sed.

Mistress Strudwick was right; it was a disgrace for women to brawl thus upon the public thoroughfares; never again would she let her temper get the better of her in this way--only they should not touch her. And already half-forgetful of her resolution, she mounted her steps with flashing eyes and flaming cheeks.

Presently lights began to glimmer through the dusk, and when the dark really came every house in the town showed a candle in its window in token of the advantage won at Monmouth, for since Washington held the field they deemed him victorious. Even in those houses where grief had entered, the light shone; for true patriotism is never selfish. Only the Cheshire windows were dark, so that the house made a blot in the street.

Mistress Cheshire had gone to the Cleverings to condole with them over Richard; but Joscelyn, because of her promise to Mistress Strudwick, had bided at home, though she would much have loved to comfort Betty. From porch to porch the women called to each other, and some of the girls sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of song here and there, like mocking-birds hid in the shadows. But Joscelyn sat at her upper window, silent and musing, thinking what a beautiful thing Richard Clevering had done to let the little lad go free while he himself went back to captivity. Suddenly a voice below her whispered:--

"Hist! Joscelyn, Joscelyn!"

She leaned over the window-sill. "Who is it?"

"It is I--Billy Bryce. I have only a minute, for mother must not know I came, but I have a message for you."

"From whom comes it, Billy?"

"From Richard. Come quickly."

She ran lightly down to the veranda and leaned over the railing to the boy in the shadow. He took her hands eagerly in his.

"He loves you, Joscelyn!"

She did not answer. He was too earnest for a jest, so she only pressed his hand and waited.

"He is so n.o.ble, so generous, Joscelyn; even among us younger boys he never did a mean thing, and there's not a man in the company who is not his friend."

"Yes, I always knew Richard had a kind heart, and his letting you go in his stead was unselfish--beautiful; and I honour him for it."

"And do you not love him for it also?" the lad begged wistfully. "Say that you love him just a little."

"Nay, Billy; he is brave and kind, and he is my friend and Betty's brother, therefore do I wish him naught but good fortune and happiness; but, laddie, I do not love him."

"You are cruel--heartless!" he cried, flinging her hands away.

"Richard's little finger hath more feeling in it and is worth more than your whole body."

"Your championship does you credit, Billy, and I shall not quarrel with you for appraising my value so low. Mayhap Richard thinks differently."

"Ay, that he does--more's the pity!" Then taking her hands again, he said vehemently: "An you come not to love him, I pray G.o.d to curse you with an ugliness so great that no other man may ever kiss or love you!

For listen; as we lay in the dark that night waiting for the moment to escape, this is what he said: 'If you get away and I do not, say to Joscelyn Cheshire that even behind prison bars I am her lover; and that if death comes, her face, or the blessed memory of it, will outshine those of the angels of Paradise.' That was his message. I have faced many dangers to bring it to you. Now that you have it, I shall go back to my regiment, and if a ball finds me, well and good; Richard will know somehow and somewhere that I did not fail him."

The girl dropped her head low in the starlight.

"Good-by, Billy; you have filled your mission bravely. Heaven keep you safe and send you back once more to your mother and us."

He put up his hand and stroked her cheek softly.

"I do not wonder that he loves you, Joscelyn, you are so beautiful, and you can be so sweet--so sweet," he exclaimed, and then ran away into the dark, leaving her alone with the words of the love-message ringing in her ears.

So still she stood that a big moth flying wearily by rested a moment on her shoulder; across the way her mother was bidding Aunt Clevering good night with admonitions to sleep well, and from down the street came the voices of the singers chanting of victory and the home-coming of loved ones. But above everything the girl on the dark balcony heard a deep, strong voice saying, "Even behind prison bars I am her lover."

Prison bars!

And suddenly she threw up her arms in the flower-sweet dusk and whispered vehemently:--

"Set him free, dear G.o.d! set him free!"

CHAPTER XIII.

DREAMS.

"For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine."

--OLD SONG.

"Rouse up, Richard! Rouse up, man! An you give way like this, you'll soon be taking the ship-fever and dying. 'Tis no use to wilfully hasten the end," said Peter Ruffin to the apathetic man beside him.

But Richard sat staring over the waters, saying only in a dogged way, "'Tis no use to r.e.t.a.r.d it."

"Ay, but it is; something may happen--Washington may drive Clinton from New York--"

"He cannot, for he hath not the force."

"--Or we may escape."

Richard glanced around the deck where guards, armed to their teeth, trod in ceaseless vigil, and then looked away to the sh.o.r.e, where a few cabins marked the station of the sh.o.r.e patrol who took up the watch where the ship guard left off, thus making a.s.surance doubly sure.

"With the sea and a double guard against us, the chance is not worth the counting."

"A resolute man could swim ash.o.r.e from here."

"Methinks he could most easily, especially with the tide in his favour; but if he eludes the watch here, the patrol yonder will shoot him like a rat when he crawls out of the water. No, Peter, I have gone over it all in my mind, calculated the method of reaching the water, the length of the swim, and the best place to land. I have even tried to get speech with Dame Grant when she comes with her wares, to see if she could not be bribed to aid me; but the warden never takes his eyes from her until her sales are over and her boat ready to start. She has a solemnly sour face, but mayhap a gold piece would soften her heart to mercy. It was for this that I have h.o.a.rded Colborn's gold."

"I, too, thought of the b.u.mboat woman, but gave up hope of aid from her, seeing how she is watched. 'Twere as much as her life is worth to give us the smallest a.s.sistance," answered Peter.

"Yes, we are cut off from every chance, condemned--doomed--and seeing this, I have given up hope."

"I am some twenty years your senior, Richard, and I say to you that a sane man never ceases to hope."

"Then mayhap I am insane--sometimes I think it may be so. Surely, it was the arch-fiend himself who put it into the hearts of the English to turn these disease-infected hulks into prisons; no mere mortal mind could have in itself conceived such a thought. The fever or the vermin--which were worse, 'twere hard to say. To rot here inch by inch, and the fight going on outside! G.o.d, but 'tis hard!"

"Hist! the guard is looking at you suspiciously. 'Tis no use getting his ill-will; let us talk of something else." And when the sentinel pa.s.sed slowly in front of them, the older man was talking of his boy who had died in childhood, and the younger one had dropped his head again upon his breast and sat in moody silence. Thus had life crept on for five weeks, each day of which was a slow-paced agony, each night a long-drawn horror.