Joscelyn Cheshire Part 7

"Take us to your general, and take us quick," said Dunn.

La Fayette recognized Dunn, instantly, and received his news with much emotion, for he had hoped to strike a telling blow on some of the outposts, and maybe cut off a foraging party, whose members would be valuable prisoners for exchange. Now there was nothing but to turn back.

But even as they were making ready for a retreat over the road by which they had come, his scouts came flying through the lines with the news that Grant was close upon them in the rear, having made a circuitous march in order to get between them and their camp at Valley Forge. La Fayette set his teeth as he said:--

"Then 'tis fight, though that means death to every brave man here."

But Dunn told of Matson's ford still unguarded, and the commander was quick to seize the one chance left to save his men, and before midnight the little band was safely over the river, with their faces toward Valley Forge. There they were received with cheers by their comrades, who, having heard some wild rumours brought by two countrymen from beyond the Schuylkill, had feared the worst for them.

That night, long after Richard was sleeping the sleep of healthy but exhausted youth, Dunn sat in the officers' quarters and told how, with a military rain-coat over his workman's blouse, Richard Clevering had played the gallant to the beauty of Philadelphia and the _fiancee_ of Howe's chief of staff.

CHAPTER VIII.

A MAID'S DREAM AND THE DEVIL'S WOOING.

"A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was: Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pa.s.s, Forever flushing round a summer sky."

--THOMPSON.

It was June-time in the beautiful hill country along the Eno. Down the long road that sloped to the bridge from the west two horses took their leisurely way, while their riders talked or were silent at will. Below them, in the curve of the river, lay the town in a green summer dream; the roadside was lined with nodding blossom heads, and the thickets were a-rustle now and then with the subdued whir of wings, for the song season of their feathered tenants was done, and sparrow and wren and bluebird were busy with family cares.

"Joscelyn, you are not listening to a word I am saying," complained Mary Singleton, petulantly, after repeating a question a second time and getting no answer.

"I beg your pardon, Mary; I believe you are right."

"Of what were you thinking so intently?"

"I was not thinking. It is too delicious this afternoon to do anything, even think. I am just resting my mind."

"Well, I find you very dull under such a process."

"'A friend should bear a friend's infirmity,'" quoted Joscelyn.

"Dulness is not an infirmity; it is a crime."

"Then methinks the world must be full of criminals."

"And those who are so intentionally and voluntarily should be punished like other wrong-doers."

Joscelyn laughed. "Well, pa.s.s sentence upon me, most wise judge, if you think I was not born that way and that the sin is intentional. Am I to hang for it, or will you be merciful and make it a prison offence?"

"Oh, you'll get the hanging soon enough if you go on wearing that red bodice and stringing pictures of King George on your balcony!"

"So mother says. And hanging is not a becoming way to die; one has no opportunity to say that 'prunes, prisms, and preserves' sentence that leaves the mouth in such a charming pucker. Well, since my lips are to be awry, I trust they will give me time to put on my new silver-buckled shoes. It would be a comfort to know that at least my feet looked their best."

"Joscelyn! You are perfectly horrid."

"You mean I would be without the 'prunes and prisms' expression."

Mary struck her horse and rode forward a few yards, but presently fell back again beside her companion.

"What I asked you just now related to Eustace. Do you think--"

"I said I was not thinking."

"Well, begin at once. Is there any danger that Eustace will really try to marry Betty Clevering?"

"Danger is a wrong word, Mary. If Eustace is ever so fortunate as to win Betty, he should spend the rest of his life in thanksgiving. She is as true as steel, and better tempered than either of us."

"I am not disparaging Betty, and I have often wished our parents were not at outs, so that she and I might be better friends; we only meet at your house or places of entertainment. But, Joscelyn, you know--you must know what we all have hoped for you and Eustace."

Joscelyn turned her eyes fully and calmly upon her companion. "Yes, I know. I should have been even duller than you p.r.o.nounced me just now not to see through your plan. Diplomacy is not your _forte_."

"You knew I--we all wanted you to marry--"

"Eustace? Yes; he and I have often laughed over it to each other. And now that you have mentioned it, I want to tell you frankly that there is not the faintest possibility of such a thing. As a friend Eustace is charming; but as a husband--"

"Don't! Your mouth looks as if you had bitten a green persimmon."

"Well, I think with Eustace as a husband life would be all green persimmons, without any prunes or prisms to break the monotony. It would be quite as bad on him as on me; you would make us both utterly miserable."

"I cannot believe it. I know Eustace looks at Betty with the utmost admiration, and manages often to meet her; but 'tis much the same way with every pretty girl,--he must be saying sweet things to each of them.

But in his heart I feel sure he prefers you above all the rest, only your indifference holds him aloof. Here is a letter I had this morning, in which he devotes a whole page to happy imaginings about a soldier's welcome home when the war shall be over. He grows really poetic about shy eyes and the joy of holding a white hand in his. Whom can he mean but you?"

"Betty has shy eyes, and Janet has the whitest hands I know anywhere. As you said, Eustace has a roving fancy."

Mary sighed. "I intended to read the letter to you, but here we are at the bridge, and we will now be meeting so many people."

"Give it to me; I will read it at home," Joscelyn said, stretching out her hand with sudden interest. "It would be preposterous to waste all that sentiment on a mere sister; it takes an outsider to appreciate touches like that. Oh, it shall be read with all the accessories of a grand pa.s.sion--sighs, smiles, blushes, and suchlike incense." She laughed as she tucked the letter into her belt, but she did not say who the reader would be, and Mary took much comfort in the thought that she would appropriate the sentimental parts to herself. Whose eyes were softer than Joscelyn's, whose hands whiter or sweeter to hold?

And so, each thinking her own thoughts, they crossed the wooden bridge that spanned the river, the horses' hoofs making a rhythmic clatter on the boards. In the street beyond they came upon Mistress Strudwick carrying an uncovered basket heaped high with hanks of yarn. The road was a slight ascent, and the corpulent dame was puffing sorely.

"Why, Mistress Strudwick, you with such a load as that? What does this mean?" cried Joscelyn.

"It means that that little darky of mine has run away again, and that there'll be one less limb on my peach tree to-night when he comes back."

"Will you not take my horse and ride?"

"It's been thirty years since I was in a saddle, and I'm not honing to wear a shroud."

Joscelyn leaned down, and catching the handle, lifted the basket to the pommel of her saddle. "I will not see you make yourself ill in this way.

Were there no other servants to spare you this exertion? You are all out of breath."

A curious light came into the old lady's eyes as she saw the girl steady the basket in front of her; but she checked the words that had sprung to her lips and trudged slowly along, the riders holding back their horses to keep beside her.

"What have you two been plotting together this afternoon?" she asked, looking from one to the other with the pleasure age often finds in contemplating youth and beauty.