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 pass,
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, pass 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 pronounced 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 passion--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.
"Have we the appearance of dark conspirators?" laughed Joscelyn.
"Nay, you both look sweet and innocent enough; but somehow I'm always
giving that Bible verse a twist and reading it: 'Where two or three
Tories are gathered together, there is the devil in their midst.'"
"You should not twist your Scripture, Mistress Strudwick."
"Mayhap not, but sometimes it makes an uncommon good hit."
"Well, you were wrong to-day. Two Loyalists have been congregated
together; but Cupid, rather than the devil, has been our
co-conspirator."
"So! It was sweethearts you were discussing? Tell me now, was it your
match or Mary's you were arranging? There is nothing pleases me more
than a wedding."
"I thought you took no interest in matters concerning King George's
subjects."
"King George has naught to do with the wooing of our maids; and love is
love, whether it be Redcoat or Continental," replied the old matchmaker.
Joscelyn laughed. "I verily believe you'd like to know the courtship of
Satan himself, provided he had one."
"Of course he had, my dear, and a most engaging lover he made, I'll be
bound, seeing he is so apt a beguiler in other things. Oh, yes,
everybody knows that Satan is a married man."
"Where got he his wife?"
The old lady threw up her hands with quizzical scouting: "'Tis not set
down in the books, but it would have been just like some soft-hearted
creature to creep after him when he was exiled from heaven. And she is
not the only woman who has followed a man to perdition, either,--more's
the pity!"
"You are seeing things awry to-day, Mistress Strudwick."
"Mayhap, mayhap," puffed the old lady. "I haven't much of a prophet's
eye, but I see things of to-day plain enough, and I know that you are a
pair of uncommon pretty girls, and are like to have many a beau on your
string; but when marrying time comes, take an old woman's advice and
choose a man who is hale and hearty, for as sure as you are born, love
flies out of the heart when indigestion enters the stomach."
"Truly, Mistress Strudwick, you are better than 'Poor Richard's
Almanac,'" laughed Joscelyn.
"Oh, my dear, I've seen it tried. Courtship is the finest thing in the
world, but after the wedding love is largely a question of good cooking;
and although you two are rank Tories, and so deserve any punishment the
fates might send you, still I'd be glad, because of your comely looks,
to see you escape your deserts. But here we are at my gate. I wonder
what the town will say, Joscelyn, when they hear that you, Tory that you
call yourself, brought a basket of wool for Continental socks from
Amanda Bryce's to my door."
The girl's face flamed with a sudden heat. Then she said with that
beautiful courtesy that older folks found so charming:--
"It was not for the Continentals, but for my good neighbour that I
brought the basket. I am not minded to see her kill herself in so bad a
cause; rather do I want her to live and repent of her mistakes, that she
herself may not be the first to solve that riddle of the devil's
wooing." And kissing their hands jauntily to the old woman, the two
girls rode away into the purple twilight.
"Bless her bonny face and quick tongue!" the old woman cried, waving her
hand after them.
That night Mary cried herself to sleep over her shattered hopes, and in
the privacy of a white-curtained room, Joscelyn read aloud the letter to
her whom Eustace had in mind when he thought of the welcome of shy eyes
and clinging white hands. And Betty fell asleep with the letter under
her cheek, and all the soft June night was filled with flitting cadences
and starry dreams.