"KISS ME QUICK AND LET ME GO."
"And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him."
It was a windy day in late November, one of those rare days when summer,
repenting of her desertion, steals softly back to comfort the earth with
a parting smile. Out in the brown fields the birds pruned their wings in
the sun and sang a few notes softly, as a singer who recalls fitfully
and doubtfully a long forgotten tune; the golden daisies by the door
still burnt like stars late fallen from the far firmament; a revivified
butterfly hovered languidly over the faded aster beds, and venturesome
wasps sallied from their castles under the eaves and buzzed droningly
against the window panes. It was a day of shifting shadows, of subtle
changes and soft surprises.
Joscelyn and Betty sat over their embroidery frames in the latter's
parlour, talking over the events of the past two months--the long wait
between their letter to Eustace and his sorrowful reply; the grief that
clouded the two houses for four days following, before they knew that
Richard had escaped and was not dead, and the intense relief and joy
his short message had brought them.
"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 cocking
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 multitude 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."
"God 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 gratitude."
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 Dick 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?"
"Oh, Joscelyn cried till her eyes were all red and puffed, and reminded
us how you and she used to ride and read and walk together without even
so much as a sharp word until the war talk came on. She did much to
comfort mother."
"God bless her! But you were not long in suspense?"
"No; but mother had already prepared to have a service in your memory,
and Janet and Patience had practised the hymns."
"Well, there was at least a grave to sing over," laughed Richard; but
his mother was crying, even to think of those sad hours.
"How thin you are!" she said, feeling his arms tenderly.
"Well, mother, when a man has been in his grave, 'tis not to be expected
that he will look like one of the fatted kine. But I am plump as a rosy
Cupid compared with what I have been; and this reminds me that I am
hungry for some of your good cooking; do you and Betty get me up a bit
of dinner while I look to my horse."
But he knew his horse had been cared for, and instead of the stable, it
was Joscelyn's door he sought.
"I have but a little while left," he said; "come and sit with us, that I
may not lose sight of you for one of those blessed minutes. I am as a
thirsty man with the cup held ever out of his reach."
"I thought you would wish to talk with your mother and sister alone."
"There is nothing I tell them that I would not quite as willingly trust
to you; for though you are a Loyalist, yet you are loyal to your
friends," he said, smiling at his own pleasantry, and she laughed too.
Long afterward those words came back to him with a pang.
As they crossed the street Mistress Strudwick hailed them from the
sidewalk. "Hey, there, Richard! you are keeping bad company and will
fall under suspicion, consorting with that young Tory," she cried. "Are
your despatches in the pocket next to her?--if so, beware!"
"I have them in my heart, Mistress Strudwick."
"Then in faith are they already Joscelyn's," laughed the old lady,
teasingly pinching the girl's cheek as the two came up to her.
"Come, Mistress Strudwick, Richard wears not his heart on his sleeve."
"But he pins it instead upon yours--which is quite as public. Ah,
Richard, she is a sad dare-devil!" and she went on to tell him of some
of the scenes of the past months. He had feared for her from the first,
and in his mother's parlour he caught her arm almost fiercely:--
"Are you mad that you jeopardize yourself in this way?"
"Mistress Strudwick is over-alarmed; I can take care of myself," she
answered, a trifle hotly.
But he was not satisfied; one word brought on another, and they were
nearly quarrelling when Betty came to say his dinner was ready.
"Joscelyn," he whispered, with a sudden softening of manner as they went
down the hall, and he took her hand and laid in it a shining gold piece,
"this is all the gold I have in the world; it was to have paid the
price of my flight, but the fisherwoman would not have it. Keep it for
me till the war is done--I have a special purpose for it."
After dinner the neighbours came with their letters and farewells, and
he had no further talk alone with Joscelyn. She bade him a very gentle
good-by, however, and ran across to her own balcony opposite, while he
comforted his mother and Betty and said farewell to the assembled
friends. When he was mounted and had waved them a last adieu, he made
his horse curvet as though loath to start, and so brought up close to
the rail of the opposite balcony.
"Joscelyn, keep the gold piece safe and in some hallowed place, for when
the war is done it shall be made into our wedding ring--'tis for that I
saved it. Good-by, sweetheart."
And then he was gone as he had come, with a free rein and a ringing hoof
beat; and the crowd behind broke into small groups to discuss the news
he had brought, while the girl leaning on the veranda across the way,
turned a shining coin in her hand, looking at it pensively, with a
curious light in her eyes.