Joscelyn Cheshire Part 32

"And when the war is over, and I tell her again of my love," said Richard, with that impulsive generosity that was ever one of his characteristics, "I will tell her also of yours--and mayhap she will choose rather to cherish your memory than to give herself to me."

And Barry turned his face to the wall and died, whispering his love for her to the last. It was a strange scene, this midnight confessional between two men who, all unknown to each other, had striven for the same heart-goal--who in life would have been bitter and unrelenting rivals, but who met and parted amid the shadows of death as friends and brothers. Richard wrote it all to Joscelyn, eloquently, pa.s.sionately; portraying faithfully every emotion of the dying man.

"He loved you, Joscelyn, even as I do; only not so much, for methinks no man could do that. But he was brave and manly, and to have won his heart is proof of your sweetness and worth. He told me many things of that fearful night when I lay up in your garret, and downstairs you held your guests from all suspicion by your tact and courage. He hated Tarleton for his distrust of you, and I let him go to the far Sh.o.r.e in ignorance of how you saved me, fearing that he would not understand, and that his last moments would be imbittered by a useless jealousy.

"Did you love him? Am I breaking your heart with this news, my best beloved? If so, remember, I beseech you, how my own would break to know it."

And Joscelyn read the letter by the fading sunset, and then sat with wet eyes through the star-haunted gloaming, thinking of the young life that had gone out in the red trail of war. She missed him as it did not seem possible she could have missed any one who had been so short a while in her consciousness.

And sitting thus alone with her sorrow, she felt a hand on hers and an arm slip around her neck.

"Joscelyn, I could not stay away any longer," whispered Betty's voice in the dark. "I had both of your notes; I know you are sorry, and I miss you so much!"

"Dear Betty, dear Betty, how glad I am you are come! I cannot tell you how lonely and wretched my life is, and now my--my true friend is gone!"

and with her head on the girl's bosom, she gave way to a nervous sobbing.

"Did you love him?" Betty asked, when at last she understood.

"I--I do not know; but I have so few friends, and he loved me and trusted me, and I shall miss him."

"Did you wish to marry him?"

"I cannot say. Sometimes when I have been very lonely, and you all turned from me, I have thought I did. To marry him and go away to a new place and new friends seemed best. He was strong and brave, but he was gentle and considerate, and he never hectored me--a girl likes not to be hectored and quarrelled with in her courting."

"No," answered Betty, sadly, understanding she had Richard in mind.

Often, with a woman's instinct, she had pleaded with her brother to humour Joscelyn more in her way of looking at things; but he had chosen to attempt to set her right, or, at least, right as he saw it.

"I must be going; mother is at Mistress Strudwick's and will be angry if she knows I came here," Betty said at last, rising with a sigh. But Joscelyn held her back with both hands.

"Not yet, Betty, not yet; we can see her far down the street by the lights from the windows. Stay a little longer; it is such a comfort to have you."

"I wish I could come without this deception."

"I, too, with all my heart."

"You had a letter to-day; was it from Master Singleton?"

"No; it was this sad one from Richard, by the same messenger that brought yours. The last letter I had from Eustace was the one I sent you some two weeks ago. Since he was then on the eve of going to New York to carry letters to General Clinton, it is not likely he is among those in the beleaguered city of Yorktown."

"I have been so glad to think this," Betty answered, sighing. "Do you know, Joscelyn, I saw him in the parlour yonder for a few minutes the day the British marched?"

"Yes; I told mother to have you here, and then I sent him back from headquarters."

Betty kissed her gratefully. "I might have guessed it. It was such a happy ten minutes! But, Joscelyn, mother never mentions his name except to remind me that his father and mine were bitter enemies."

"Wait until Richard comes home; he doubtless will look at matters differently; and as he says, so will your mother do."

"Not unless you plead for me; and even that may not now avail, for he may share mother's anger against you."

"Richard will not be angry with me when he returns," Joscelyn answered confidently; and Betty kissed her softly.

"Oh, Joscelyn, if it could only have been Richard instead of Captain Barry to win even this much of your heart! But there, I must be going; some one is coming down the street."

"You will come again sometime?"

"Yes, for I have wanted you so much."

"And I you."

They held each other close for a moment, and then Betty ran across the street and dodged into the shadow of her own door. Her visit helped Joscelyn immeasurably, in that it gave her a sense of sympathy. But she could not shake off the depression of Richard's news; it was a culmination of the long strain upon her nervous system. In the succeeding days she had fits of silent brooding which sometimes, in the sombre twilights, ended in tears. For the first time since the news of Lexington, her neighbours found her grave and preoccupied. The fearless badinage with which she had met every attack upon her partisan creed was suddenly stayed, as though she heard not their thrusts and innuendoes.

And Mistress Strudwick watched her with a vague uneasiness, longing to see the old, quick pa.s.sion flame up now and then.

But this frame of mind was rudely broken by the thrilling news of the fall of Yorktown. She had expected it for days, but the reality roused all of her former spirit, and put her once more upon the defensive.

"Lord Cornwallis has surrendered?" she said calmly to Amanda Bryce and the two gossips, who had run in to tell her the news and to gloat over her discomfiture. "'Tis most courteous of you to bring me the information so swiftly; you are quite out of breath with your race. I shall immediately write my sincere condolences to his lords.h.i.+p that wrong has triumphed over right. Will you not have a cup of tea with me, ladies?--there is no longer any tax. No? Then I have the honour to wish you a very good morning. Pray come again when you have further tidings."

She set the door open for them with the air of a sovereign condescending to her subjects; and they went away humiliated and furious.

"From the airs she gives herself, one would think Joscelyn Ches.h.i.+re had royal blood in her veins," they said angrily. But when Mistress Strudwick heard of the scene, she laughed long and heartily.

"They deserved it, the carping crones! Would I had been there to see them routed. Thank Heaven her spirit has come back; how I love her for it, unreconstructed Tory as she is!"

Never again was Joscelyn to deck herself in her scarlet bodice in honour of an English victory; never again to tease her neighbours with her taunting Tory ballads. The war was over; she had lost her cause; and with her life all out of attune with her surroundings she must face the inevitable. Seeing the relief in her mother's face, she could not be sorry that peace had come, though the terms were bitter; and so even in her loss was there something of compensation.

CHAPTER XXVII.

HOMECOMINGS.

"The bugles sound the swift recall; Cling, clang! backward all!

Home, and good night!"

--E. C. STEDMAN.

The war was over; the drums lay unbeaten, the snarling trumpets sang their songs no more upon the level plains or sloping sides of far blue hills; liberty had triumphed, and the scarlet insignia of kingly rule had gone from the land forever. But peace did not bring the desired order of things. The unstable government of an untrained congress could not control the spirit of maraud and chaos that had so long dominated certain cla.s.ses of people. Eight years of warfare had left its scar on the whole country, but particularly in those portions where the fighting had fallen. The sanguine among the triumphant contestants had looked for an immediate rehabilitation of affairs, thinking that the taps of war would be the reveille of commerce and order and prosperity. But as yet Americans were better soldiers than statesmen. They had to learn to govern themselves, learn to wield the mighty power they had won; and at first knowledge was slow in coming. Private wrongs were remembered, individual grievances were recalled. The spirit that refrained from shouting over a fallen foe at Yorktown manifested itself at home in many petty ways against the defeated Tories, so that among these latter was a feeling of unprotected helplessness that made them sullen and restive.

"Joscelyn," Mary Singleton said, coming in one day when the winter was at its fiercest, "father says he is going to Canada to stay until things get settled. We cannot stir from our gate without receiving some rudeness, and our property is threatened with confiscation, piece by piece, on the ground that we used it to aid the king's cause. Will you come with us? We would love to have you."

"No, for my mother would not think of such a thing; and where she is, there will I stay."

"Well, you had no man in the war; but against us the enmity is strong, because Eustace actually bore arms in the king's service."

"Will Eustace go with you?"

"No; he writes that as soon as he gets his discharge, he means to return here and accept whatever fate comes to him."