GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART.
"Yet all my life seems going out
As slow I turn my face about
To go alone another way, to be alone
Till life's last day,
Unless thy smile can light the way!"
--ANON.
In the early morning, before the family were astir, Joscelyn dressed
herself hurriedly and went to the attic door. It was ajar. With a quick
premonition of evil, she entered and whispered Richard's name. No answer
came; no one was there. Then the truth flashed upon her--he had gone,
risking everything rather than further expose her to discovery and its
dire results. How chivalric, and yet how insane! Of course he would be
captured, or else he would perish with cold and hunger this bitter
winter weather. She looked about carefully; not a scrap of a note had he
left to say good-by. She had not dared to wait to speak with him last
night, lest Mary discover them; but now she reproached herself, feeling
that she might have prevented this mad mistake. She had meant to come
back after all was quiet, but Mary talked so long that for very shame
she had not dared to do so, dreading his man's judgment of a visit at
such an hour.
She was now in a nervous tremor, and feared to have the maids come in,
lest they announce that the spy had been taken; and when they came but
said naught of it, she began to look for news from outsiders. Several
times during the morning meal she glanced across to Aunt Clevering's
house with such a tempestuous pity for the old lady's coming sorrow that
her eyes shone with tears; and her mother, seeing them, thought that
it was sorrow for the estrangement she had wrought between the two
families, and resolved to tell Ann Clevering about it.
"Come, Joscelyn," said Mary, looking up from her plate, "an you eat no
breakfast and keep your mouth pulled down at the corners like that,
we'll be thinking Captain Barry left unsaid the things he should have
said last night."
"I know not what you think he should have said--but he was very
charming," the girl said, rousing herself.
"Particularly when you two sat on the stair and whispered so long."
"The time seemed long to you because just at that time Edward Moore was
talking with Pattie Newsom."
"Well," answered Mary, tossing her head, "it was quite as long to him,
for he said it seemed years while he was from me."
"Poor Pattie!"
But all the time she jested her heart was full; and she kept her eyes on
the opposite house or watched those who passed in the street to guess,
if possible, if they carried news to the commander's quarters. The rain
had passed in the night, but toward dawn the wind had crystallized it
into sleet, so that in the sun the ice-dight world sparkled like a jewel
catching the light upon its many facets and kindling each with a
different flame; everywhere was a brilliant silvery glisten with gleams
of amethyst and agate, ochre and opal like momentary meteors in the
marvellous dazzle. What a day to be hunted across country like a wild
animal by human bloodhounds! What a day to die by a bullet, or, worse
still, on yonder historic hill as the Regulators died!
The hours wore on, and still no tidings came. Joscelyn went restlessly
from room to room, unable to fix her attention upon anything. It was
close upon ten o'clock when the thud of hoofs resounded outside, and a
minute after Barry entered the room. Evidently the news he brought was
of a gloomy character, for his face was clouded.
"The spy--they have caught him!" Joscelyn cried, leaning heavily on her
chair.
"The spy? What do you mean--what is the matter that you are so pale?"
The solicitude in his voice was not unmixed with a curious surprise.
Then when she hesitated over her answer, he said; coming quite close to
her, "Why are you so interested in this spy?"
Then in a moment she was herself again. "They say it was he who saved
my life on the commons; should I be true to my womanhood if I dismissed
him from my thoughts? I tell you frankly I wish him well."
She returned his gaze quietly, and he took her hand with a deference
that was an apology. "And I, too, wish him well for that service, no
matter what he may have carried to his general to our undoing--for he
has not been taken. I am a soldier and a servant of the king, but in my
heart of hearts your safety is more than the safety of Lord Cornwallis's
whole command."
His reward was a dazzling smile and an invitation to sit with her upon
the sofa, which action brought him within a foot of her. He longed to
lessen even that distance, but comforted himself with the thought that
his hand might creep to hers at the first softening of her manner.
"What made you think I brought news of the spy?"
"You were so grave I thought naught but an execution could be in
progress."
"It is indeed a kind of execution, for this is to be my good-by," he
said sadly. "We march in two hours; already camp is broken, and
preparations are being made."
"And this decision was reached--?"
"Late last night at a council of officers. This spy has carried away
information about our position that Greene could use to our defeat;
that, with other reasons, brought about the decision. I did not sleep
one moment for thinking of leaving you."
"And the search for the spy is given over?"
"Yes."
She could not repress a sigh of relief, but he did not so interpret it.
Mary had withdrawn to the window, and her mother had left the room; they
two might as well have been alone.
"My God, how I shall miss you!" cried the young fellow at last,
desperately. "You see I never loved a woman before, and so I know not
how to bear this parting."
"You are a soldier," she said gently. "A soldier endures any pain
manfully."
"Yes, but no sword thrust ever hurt like this. You are glad you have met
me?"
"Very glad."
"And you will miss me and think of me sometimes?"
"Many times."
"And when the war is over, I may come back and--and claim your love?"
He had taken her hand, and she could not at once draw it away, for a
strange hesitation was upon her. "I cannot promise," she said at last.
"Ten days ago I did not know you."
"Yes, but ten hours taught my heart its lesson for life, and war makes
quick wooing."
She slowly but firmly drew her hand away. "I cannot promise; but I love
no one else."
"Then I will wait and hope."
A few minutes later a bugle sent its shrill call down the wind. He
sprang up and hastily shook hands with Mary and Mistress Cheshire, who
had just returned to the room; but, answering his pleading glance,
Joscelyn followed him into the hall that the others might not witness
the emotion of his parting with herself.
"Try to love me," he said, and was gone; and watching him as he passed
out of sight, she felt that her hands were wet with the boyish tears
that had fallen on them as he carried them to his lips in a fervid
farewell. And suddenly she asked herself what happier fate awaited her
than to accept this love poured out so prodigally at her feet. The
question brought serious thoughts, so Mary found her but dull company
until other visitors arrived to say also their farewells. One of these
brought a note from Lord Cornwallis. Would she not come and witness
their departure?
"Mother," she said, coming downstairs in her habit, "I shall not be at
home this afternoon; call Betty over to sort her wools out of my
knitting-bag; she will find it on the spinet. And while she works over
it, go you once more to Aunt Clevering's, if you please, and intercede
for me; Betty will not mind being left."
Thus did she plan to leave the way open to Eustace for a hasty farewell
to his sweetheart.
A little past noon the drums rolled out their hoarse commands, and the
British army was on the move. An unrestrained excitement ran riot in
the town. There were blaring bugles and flaunting flags, and everywhere
glimmers of red as the corps passed onward. At the head of the British
columns rode Lord Cornwallis, and at his bridle-rein went Mistress
Joscelyn, the picture of good humour and coquetry, with a scarlet
cockade in her hat, and an officer's sash tied jauntily across her
breast from shoulder to waist. The rich colour of the silk brought out
by contrast the sea-blue lights in her eyes and the glossy gleams of her
hair. Men forgot the martial pageant to look at her; and when at the
home pier of the river bridge the staff paused, the salutes from the
passing soldiers were as much for her as for the general beside her.
There the parting came, the officers falling in at the rear of the
troops when the last company had passed over. As Eustace passed
Joscelyn, he lifted the lapel of his coat, on which was a purple
aster,--the like of which grew nowhere save in Betty's dormer
window,--and said with a happy smile:--
"Your plan worked well, sweet Joscelyn. Ten minutes of heaven compensate
a man for hours of purgatory. May the fates be as kind to your own
heart."
But it was Barry who lingered behind the others for one last look and
word, and then went clattering over the bridge, and left the girl to
return to the town with the few Tory women who had dared to share her
ride. They had been bold enough at the start, with all the king's army
at their backs, but to go back unprotected by martial power was quite
another thing; anti-Toryism would now hold sway, and they knew what that
meant; so at the entrance of the town the others turned aside to find
their homes, which fortunately were near at hand. But Joscelyn lived at
the far end of the town, and must needs pass the whole length of King
Street ere she gained her door.
The street, which for the past week had been almost deserted by the
patriotic townspeople, now swarmed with eager men and women; but
Joscelyn's thoughts were too full of Richard's escape and Barry's wooing
for her to note the angry glances directed toward her. It was not until
she was passing the wooden building that had served Cornwallis as
headquarters for his staff, that she became aware of the hostility she
was exciting. Then a voice called out to her to take off that hated
insignia she wore; and ere she realized what was happening, four or five
boys had surrounded her horse and were snatching at the sash ends that
dangled from her waist. Her anger flamed up to a white heat at this
insult, and she laid about her with her riding-whip until they let her
be. A volley of light missiles followed her as she went on her way, her
horse curbed to a walk because she was too proud to seem to fly. The
same pride kept her from dodging the paper balls and bits of soft mud
that rained around her, and now and then struck her skirts and
shoulders. Thus, looking neither to the right nor the left, she went
slowly onward until a little urchin, springing to the middle of the road
in front of her, shouted insolently:--
"Out upon you for a Tory jade!"
His companions screamed their encouragement, thinking to see her
discomforted; but leaning out of her saddle she said, with that smile
that had played havoc with so many older hearts:--
"Thank you, Jamie, for calling me such a beautiful name. Were the
examples I helped you to work last week quite right? You must come again
when you get in trouble over them, that I may save you from another
flogging."
The boy, remembering her timely aid, drew back abashed, dropping the mud
he had been wadding together in his grimy hand; and taking advantage of
the momentary cessation of hostilities, Joscelyn waved them a laughing
salute and cantered away to her own door. But in the privacy of her room
she broke down and sobbed out the excitement and suspense of the past
two days. The courage which had defied and cheated Tarleton and put the
riotous urchins to shame melted away in that burst of tears, and a
woman-like longing for protection and safety surged through her. If she
might only go away, or if there were but some one to stand between her
and this weary persecution!
The first object upon which her eyes rested as she lifted her head when
the weeping was past, was that ill-fated scarf with which Barry had
decorated her that morning at headquarters. What a world of meaning
there was in it! Perhaps nothing could so have drawn her heart to the
absent officer as this silent messenger of his love. She folded it away
carefully, lingering a moment ere she shut it from sight to recall those
last words he had whispered in her ear ere he followed his comrades over
the river. All the rest of the day they echoed in her thoughts, calming
her by their earnest tenderness.
"Betty came for her wools?" she asked her mother at bedtime.
"Yes. And I forgot to tell you that after I had gone from the house
Eustace Singleton came to say good-by to you. When I returned from
Ann's, I found him in the parlour, where his presence must greatly have
annoyed Betty, for she was red and flustered. I am sure I was sorry, but
I was in no way to blame for her disturbance." And then tearfully she
went on to tell how her mission with Aunt Clevering had again failed.
The change that came upon Hillsboro' with the going of the British was
as swift as it was pronounced. Where before had been sullen repression
among the people, all was now animation and exuberance of spirits; the
Tories were intimidated, and the place bristled with patriotic
evidences. It was as though a slide had been slipped in a stereopticon,
and a new picture projected upon the canvas. All the talk now ran on
Greene, who had moved down from the Dan and lay upon the heights of
Troublesome Creek, only thirteen miles from where Cornwallis had pitched
his own camp. For nearly two weeks the entire country watched with
panting interest these two generals play their advance-guards and
reconnoitring parties against each other as though they were so many
ivory figures upon a chessboard. Then came the meeting at Guildford
Court-house, the fame of which blew through the land like a sirocco's
breath.
"Lord Cornwallis has won the game at Guildford," cried Joscelyn.
"Ay, won it so hard and fast that he has had to run away to hold the
stakes," retorted Mistress Strudwick, equally rejoiced over the British
retreat to Wilmington.
"Had the militia but done their share, we should have finished
Cornwallis for good," Richard wrote to Joscelyn after the battle.
"But praise be to Heaven, Banastre Tarleton is among the wounded. I
do hope and believe it was my bullet that hit him, for I singled
him out for my aim, remembering his bearing to you and my mother
last month. If so I hear that his wound proves fatal, I shall wear
no mourning."
And, truth to say, Joscelyn herself sorrowed never a bit over the short
colonel's discomfiture. Later on came another letter:--
"We are on the march to the south to aid Marion, Sumter, and
Pickens to snatch South Carolina and Georgia from the foe. We know
of the terrible doings of Arnold in Virginia, and General La
Fayette has been sent to check him, but much I doubt his success.
Ye gods! what a soldier we lost when Arnold went over to the enemy
in that traitorous way. He was the one man in our army who was
Tarleton's match in a raid. If the Marquis catches him, however, I
should like to be at the reckoning. A traitor with the fire of
genius in his veins! At Guildford I looked at his old command, and
said to myself that the day had gone differently had Arnold led
them. Men followed him like sheep to victory or to death. Think you
what a demon it takes to harrow one's country, to fight against
one's own people!"
As the weeks passed and the spring advanced, Joscelyn's position in the
community grew more irksome, for Tory supremacy was at an end and the
patriotic spirit was dominant. "Only the rudeness of some excited boys,"
the older folk had said of the incident of her homeward ride the day the
British withdrew; but it was rather the true index of the public temper
against her, and not a day went by but she was made to feel it keenly.
Never was an occasion to annoy her neglected, until between her and her
neighbours was a bloodless but harassing feud that destroyed utterly the
old harmony and good will. She felt the change bitterly; every neglect
or retort rankled in her thoughts until it became as a fester corrupting
her happiness. But she kept a brave face to the world, and sang her Tory
ballads on the veranda in the soft spring twilights, or as she worked
through the sunny hours in the side yard where no flowers but those that
blossomed red were permitted to blow. And Mistress Strudwick said to her
cronies, with genuine admiration, that twenty Guildfords could not break
the spirit of a girl like that.
But necessarily the thing that hurt Joscelyn most was Aunt Clevering's
treatment. Not content to be a spectator, she often took the initiative
in the persecution the girl was made to suffer, ignoring her in public
or noticing her only to taunt her with some uncivil word or look. A few
sentences from Joscelyn might have swept away the barriers and restored
the old friendship, but she would not buy her pardon thus. She possibly
might not be believed without the proof of Richard's letter, that first
short, fervid missive he had sent her on the eve of the great battle;
and that she could not show, not even to his own mother, such a heroine
did it make of her, such an ardent, grateful lover of him. Then, too, if
this quarrel with Aunt Clevering should be healed, people would ask
questions, and when the truth should be known she would be in no better
plight--a Tory maid risking everything, even life itself, to hide a
Continental spy! Neither friends nor foes would understand; her motives
would be misinterpreted, her loyalty questioned; and so her last estate
would be no better than her first. Thus did she hold her peace and hide
her tears under cover of darkness, the while by day she sang her daring
little ditties among the growing things of her garden.
Having been the arch-Royalist of the town, it was but natural that
public resentment should be most pronounced against her. The Singletons
and Moores were less outspoken, and so drew upon themselves less of
contumely. Her caustic speeches, on the contrary, were not forgotten,
until Mistress Strudwick threatened half tearfully, half playfully to
clip her tongue with her sharp scissors. But the chief thing that kept
alive the animosity against her were the letters that came to her now
and then from Cornwallis's camp. She did not deny their reception, but
steadily refused to divulge their contents; and as it was believed that
in one way or another she contrived to answer them, the idea got abroad
that she was in the employ of the British general to keep him posted as
to the state of things in Hillsboro'-town. Nothing else could so have
set the people against her as this supposed espionage, and all through
the advancing summer she felt the weight of their displeasure. Mistress
Bryce openly denounced her, boys shouted disrespectful things under her
window at night, and the shopkeepers so neglected or refused her orders
that, had it not been for Mistress Strudwick, she and her mother would
have suffered; but that good friend stood stanchly by her. So loud were
the outcries against her when she rode abroad that out of deference to
her mother's wishes, and also to save herself from needless
mortification, she never had the saddle put upon her horse.
And yet innocent enough were those letters that caused so much of
trouble, filled as they were, not with army news, but with a man's
tender love throes,--the vehement pleadings of a heart swayed by its
first grand passion.