THWARTED.
"They laugh who win."
--SHAKESPEARE.
As the candle kindled under the orderly's hand Tarleton, who had sprung
toward the door, found himself within a foot of Joscelyn, whom the light
revealed standing in the open doorway with a hand lifted to either
lintel.
"You find me guarding the postern, colonel," she said, smiling, although
her very knees were shaking under her with nervous trepidation.
"How came the light to go out?" he demanded angrily.
"Surely, that is a matter for you to explain. I was far from it at this
end of the room," she answered coldly. Then presently added, "Perchance
'twas struck by some of the things you threw out of the chest; or did
the orderly jar the plank on which it sat? You see the floor is quite a
loose one. No fourth person could have put it out without my perceiving
him, _and I swear to you I have seen no human being save our party of
three_ since coming up the stair."
This was the truth; for she had not once glanced behind the door, and
she spoke the words slowly, looking the while straight into Tarleton's
eyes. He turned his searching gaze from her, but evidently he was not
satisfied, for as she moved from the door he snatched the light, and
stepping beyond her, and so on up the hall, looked into both of the
rooms he had recently examined. As he paused at her door with the candle
lifted above his head, the scene swam before Joscelyn's eyes. If he
entered, there would be discovery--murder. It seemed an interminable
minute that he stood thus; then the blood came again to her heart with a
rush, for he turned back from the threshold, and, calling for another
light to leave in the hall, he went again to finish his examination of
the attic. Not a box was left unemptied, not a barrel or chest or shelf
that was not searched as for some tiny object that might secrete itself
in a crack. Joscelyn, leaning against the open door, watched the process
in silence save for occasional mocking suggestions or biting comments,
to most of which he gave no heed. A lurking suspicion of her, added to
his fear of ridicule at headquarters, made him doubly cautious, so that
he never turned his back upon her for an instant, and now and then he
paused and looked at her keenly and curiously; but she only gave him a
satirical laugh for his pains. But the search could not go on forever,
and at last he had to announce that he had finished. Joscelyn longed to
leave the door open, that Richard might creep back; but they had found
it locked, and so, fearful of arousing suspicion, she made no objection
when Tarleton, having looked behind the door, locked it and handed her
the key. On every step of the stair her spirits rose, so that her cheeks
were brilliant and her eyes shining, when at the bottom Barry met them,
and relieving her of her basket and candle, placed them on the table.
There was no need to ask the result of the search; Tarleton's face was a
proclamation of defeat. After a few pleasantries with Barry as to how he
had guarded the steps, and how many ghostly spies he had seen gliding up
or down, Joscelyn opened the dining room door, saying, with a return to
her stately courtesy:--
"And now, Colonel Tarleton, we will finish our task, an it please you.
His lordship will be consumed with impatience for your return."
Sullenly Tarleton followed her lead; he intercepted the glance she shot
at Barry, and felt himself a butt for her ridicule, and his temper was
not improved thereby. The ransacked pantries and closets gave up nothing
that was alive except a mouse, at whose wild antics, Joscelyn and Barry
laughed like a couple of children, their mouths full of cake which the
girl had cut from the loaf on the shelf. It was such a relief to laugh,
to do anything to ease the tense strain upon her nerves and composure.
It was raining without, and she sat with Barry by the dining room fire,
while Tarleton and the orderly investigated the cellar and the
outbuildings. Those few moments alone with her finished the subjugation
of the young man's heart. He knew that for him there could be no
happiness in the future unless she shared it with him; and he was
telling her so in hesitating whispers--for his very earnestness had made
him shy and awkward--when the return of the searching party put an end
to the interview.
Joscelyn stood upon the veranda as Tarleton mounted for the ride, and
cried out with her tantalizing mockery:--
"Commend me to his lordship, and say that you came upon a fool's errand,
and carry back but the fruit of such a quest."
She would have said more, but her mother plucked her by the sleeve with
frightened command; and so with an enchanting change of manner she
turned to Captain Barry, who had lingered on the step, and begged that
he would ere long give them again the pleasure of his company. Her words
were meant more as a rebuff to Tarleton by contrast with the sharp
things she had said to him; but the younger officer construed them into
an acknowledged preference for himself, and his quick pulses throbbed
with a foretaste of that sweetest victory a man can win--the capture
of a beloved woman's heart. As he rode away with his companion, he knew
not if it still rained or was clear; the mud of the streets might have
been drifts of bright-hued blossoms for all the notice he gave it; even
his resentment against Tarleton was forgotten in this sweet dream of
love which, amid the shadows of war, had suddenly opened before him
as a flower unfolds its petals to the dawn. At supper with his
fellow-officers, he heard none of the jests upon Tarleton's failure of
the evening, so busy was he recalling every word and look of the girl
who in one short week had made the world as a new creation for him. The
time for his wooing would be short, and the morrow was too remote for
his impatient heart; and so ere another hour went by he was again
knocking at her door. Much to his chagrin, he found other guests before
him, for hardly had he quitted the house ere Mary Singleton arrived and
announced that she meant to tarry all night.
"Eustace and some of his friends are coming later; so, my dear, you must
let me run upstairs at once and change this damp gown for something more
comfortable and becoming. When you see who is with Eustace, you will
understand why I want to look so charming. My maid has my bag in the
kitchen. Come."
Another menace! Would she never be free from discovery, Joscelyn
wondered. And taking her friend by the shoulders, she pushed her
playfully into the parlour.
"'Tis easy enough to guess who is coming, by the happiness in your eyes.
But there, go make your duty to mother while I have a fire kindled in my
room; then shall you make yourself as beautiful as a dream ere it runs
to a nightmare."
Upstairs she raced, stopping in the hall only long enough to unlock the
attic door. In her room was a slight noise; and she was about to call
Richard softly, when by the fireplace she perceived the maid blowing the
coals into a blaze.
"That will do, Peggy. Go down at once and get a pair of your dry shoes
for Mistress Singleton's maid, that she may shortly be ready to help her
mistress dress."
Peggy obeyed; and then Joscelyn heard her name called, and saw the
curtains of the bed-tester shaken as by some one standing behind them,
and Richard's head and shoulders came to view. Answering the look in his
eloquent eyes, she put out her hand with a quick impulse to meet his;
but at that moment the door was flung open, and Mary rushed in.
"They have come already, and 'tis as much as my chances with Edward
Moore are worth to have him see me in this garb; so I fled for my life,"
she cried, laughing and panting together.
Joscelyn dared not look toward the bed curtain; surely, the fates had
combined against her! She stood quite still and let Mary run on with her
confidences concerning young Moore, salving her conscience with the
thought that a second listener could not matter when a human life was at
stake. But when Mary, too intent upon the mirror to look at the bed,
shook down her hair and began deliberately to unfasten her bodice,
Joscelyn grew desperate. She could not permit this.
"Wait until--until the fire burns, Mary," she cried, that she might
gain a few minutes to think. But Mary only laughed and went on
unhooking, raving about blue eyes and a tall figure; to all of which
Joscelyn agreed, striving to fasten the hooks again until Mary pushed
her off in a small pet. Then, with a last frantic effort, she upset,
with a palpably awkward movement of her elbow, a pitcher that stood on
the dresser; and as the deluge of water came down she cried to Mary to
go at once to her mother's room, where was a better fire, and she would
follow with her things. It was a most open bit of acting, without a
shadow of plot or diplomacy; but Mary was too intent upon her love
affair to notice, and so went obediently into the next room, talking
still of Edward Moore. As Joscelyn gathered up some ribbons and lace
from the bed, she whispered as though to the curtained post:--
"The attic door is open--there is no one in the hall."
Then did the post seem suddenly alive, for a hand caught hers, and a
voice full of love and gratitude said in her ear:--
"God bless you! Good-by."
Ten minutes later, trying the attic door, she found it locked from
within; and, leaving Mary in the hands of the maid, she went down the
stair with a light heart, for the day's trials were over at last, and
she might cease to wrack her brain for expedients and deceptions. Other
guests had followed Barry, and the house was soon full of echoing
laughter and snatches of song, with the low hum of conversation, like
the ripple of a brook, running ceaselessly underneath the lighter
sounds.
As soon as Joscelyn laid eyes on Eustace she knew something was amiss,
and he was not long in letting her know what it was, upbraiding her
bitterly for her cruel speech of last night.
"You were not content that those rude men were searching her house, but
must add to her humiliation. What demon of cruelty possessed you?"
"It was the meanest thing I ever did," she said, with something like a
sob; "and, Eustace, if you can only get Betty to forgive me, there is
nothing I will not do for you."
"Small chance I have to win forgiveness for you or favour for myself,"
he answered gloomily. "I wish I had been here last night; she should
have known she had at least one friend, though I lost my commission by
it. Only once have I seen her, and then but for ten minutes, with her
mother freezing the life out of us with her cold stare."
"If I arrange a meeting between this and your departure, will you spare
a few moments from your wooing to plead for me?"
"Yes; but can you do it?"
"Slip away up to mother's room and write her a note; I will see that she
gets it this night," and, mollified, he went.
Upstairs in the attic, shivering under the blankets behind the big
chest, Richard hearkened to the subdued echoes of gayety from below and
went over thoughtfully the events of the day. All the morning and
afternoon he had felt the nets closing about him, and when he read
Joscelyn's hasty warning he knew that death stood at his elbow. Not that
hope died, but what could hope do in such straights? He made ready as
she bade him, folding the blankets and straightening the carpet, putting
his boots into a barrel under a lot of old shoes and odds and scraps.
Then with his ear to the door, he had waited for what seemed a dragging
age. Always his care was for Joscelyn. Even when, during the search, the
door was opened, and he stood crushed against the wall with his would-be
captors and murderers not six feet away, the uppermost thought in his
mind was for her, anxiety for her safety, admiration for her magnificent
courage. Slipping out of the room in that momentary darkness, he had
felt like a traitor deserting the thing on earth dearest to him, and had
cursed the fate that sent him away. But the supreme moment came when,
crouching by her bed, he saw through the tester curtain the British
officer pause in the door with his lifted light. One step out into the
room, and the flimsy curtain could not have hidden the figure of the man
behind it. On that one more step hung life or death. Breathless, Richard
waited, his unsheathed dirk in his hand. He knew this man,--hated as no
other Englishman was hated through the length and breadth of the
land,--standing thus unconscious of any danger, was utterly within his
power. One strong upward blow where the heart was left uncovered by the
lifted arm, and the cause of American liberty would lose one of its
deadliest enemies. But the guards below, the soldiers swarming in the
street--and Joscelyn! At thought of her the murderous instinct in his
soul was quelled, and without so much as a relaxed muscle, he saw
Tarleton turn from the room. Then he had hidden himself more carefully
and waited for her coming. Mistaking for her the maid who came to light
the fire, he was near to self-betrayal; and he could not remember how he
had gotten out of sight when later on Mary burst into the room; but
lying now at full length under the sloping rafters, he smiled at the
measures Joscelyn had used to dispose of her, recognizing that subtle
loyalty which would, in dire straits, give up a friend's love secret to
another, but would not without an effort sacrifice that friend's
modesty.
Brave girl, what a spirit and resolution were hers! And yet he had seen
her cry over a dead wren and flinch from the sight of his hunting-gun.
And how many trials and perils he had drawn upon her by his presence,
although if taken he had resolved to live only long enough to proclaim
her blameless. Well, when the revel down below should be over, he would
steal away, for he would be a source of danger to her no more. And,
besides, Greene needed his information. He must face his fate and take
what chances he might; that was a scout's fate and duty; and so he
planned his course. By and by he left his couch and stood at the door to
try and separate Joscelyn's voice from the medley of sounds that made
their way up to him; the least scrap of a sentence would be as balm to
his aching heart. But he listened long in vain; all was a confused
babble; then suddenly a voice called her, and she answered clearly that
she was sitting on the stair with Captain Barry. And somebody said, "Of
course." And then there was a general laugh that somehow set Richard's
blood in a strange tingle of pain.
So she was sitting there just below him, within sight if he but dared to
crack the door. And such a longing came upon him that he did turn the
key and made a little opening, and saw the back of her head and her
scarlet bodice as she bent down to some one sitting below her. A keen
jealousy smote him; who was her companion, was he handsome or homely? Of
course he was making love to her; no one could look that close into her
eyes and not love her. And she,--was she smiling with the sweet shyness
he loved but wanted no other man to see? It was only by a supreme effort
of will that he dragged himself away and fastened the door again. Would
they never go, those idle gossiping people with their thoughts absorbed
by pleasure and merriment--never go and let her come to him for just one
minute of divine joy? How he hated them all for staying; and above all,
how he hated that man on the stairs whispering his heart into her ear.
Presently there came the clatter of dishes, and then he remembered he
had had no supper and it must be close upon midnight. With the coming of
the dark the wind had risen and the garret was bitterly cold; but busy
with plans for his escape and with thoughts of her, he scarcely noticed
how stiff and numb his limbs were.
An hour later there were calls of "good-by," and the sound of opening
and closing doors below, mingled with shrill feminine voices calling for
wraps, and out in the street the stamping of horses. Then silence
reigned, and he knew the guests had departed. Presently there was a slow
tread upon the stairs, and Mistress Cheshire called back some directions
to those below. Then a lighter, quicker step followed, and Mary
Singleton went singing to Joscelyn's room. Fifteen, perhaps twenty
minutes of intense silence went by, and then a slender thread of light
shone under the door; and so faint as to be almost inaudible, a tap fell
on the panel. Quickly as possible he drew the bolt and opened the door,
but only just in time to see Joscelyn enter her own room and close the
door. On a table, in reach of his hand, stood a shaded candle and beside
it was his supper. It was for this she had called him; but hungry as he
was, he forgot it in his bitter disappointment that he was not to speak
to her. Time pressed, however, and soon he was back in the attic,
devouring the food she had left. Particularly grateful to him was the
mug of steaming hot tea.
"Tax or no tax, it cheers me up, temptress that you are, sweet
Joscelyn. Perchance a Continental toast may override the Royalist
poison lurking in it, and so I pledge Nathaniel Greene and his trusted
scout--particularly the scout." He laughed softly as he drained the cup.
Physically he was strengthened and warmed for the flight before him, but
his heart was heavy with disappointment and dread. Once he abandoned the
idea of attempting to escape; the house had been searched and the guard
removed, therefore he was safer here than anywhere else, and he must see
her before he went. But more unselfish council prevailed; it was not his
safety only that must be considered. The knowledge he had gained would
be of inestimable value to Greene; the going of the guard left the way
open to him, and it was duty, not personal inclination, that must
dictate his course.
He waited until the tall clock below chimed one, and then made ready for
his departure. He had resolved not to tell Joscelyn of his plans even if
he might have spoken with her, for he wanted her sleep troubled by no
anxiety for him; but the yearning of his heart found expression in the
farewell he left upon the senseless panels of her door. Then, boots in
hand, he crept downstairs and into the dining room. Here the rear door
fastened with a latch, the string of which was drawn inside at night.
Softly he stepped out, closing it behind him, and stood a moment pushing
the string back through its hole, that those behind might be safe; then,
hugging the fence, he crept to the gate and was soon in the alley
outside. The darkness, the soft mud, and the howling wind were all in
his favour. He knew his way even in the gloom, and so, making now and
then a detour to avoid a public street or a possible sentry post, he
came at last to the outskirts of the town, keeping always in the
direction opposite the British camp. The bridge he knew must be well
guarded, and so must the road over the mountains; hence he kept directly
across the fields to where the river bends under the cliff called
"Lovers' Leap." Ahead of him, behind a clump of bushes, burned a low
fire, and he crept up on hands and knees to hear what the two men
sitting there were saying. One of them was surlily poking the fire:--
"If we break camp to-morrow, how the devil can we march over such soggy
roads?"
"The Guildford road is not so bad," was the answer; and although Richard
waited a long time, he heard nothing else. And so like a ghost he crept
into the drifting rain and soon gained the river, repeating to himself
that last sentence which might be the keynote to the British movements.
His knowledge of the country folk stood him in good stead, for soon he
was untying a canoe from a gum tree not far from a lonely cabin. Often,
when a boy, he had gone with the owner fishing in this boat, tying it up
to the tree roots when the day's sport was done. The river was turbulent
from the recent downpour, and in the darkness he went further
down-stream than he intended; but at last he drew into a cove of weeds
and reeds, and leaving the boat there he plunged into the forest beyond.
But he was not lost, and ere the dawn came he had found a friend, and
well mounted he pressed on to carry the news he had gathered to the
American camp; and as he rode, he thought always and with a gnawing
bitterness of the view he had had of Joscelyn's head as she bent down to
catch the love words of that invisible suitor.