THE END OF THE THREAD.
"Does not all the blood within me
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee,
As the spring to meet the sunshine!"
--"Hiawatha."
After a few weeks Richard was able to leave his couch and move about a
little, still hampered, however, by splints and bandages; for in his
fevered tossings he had hurt his arm anew, and the setting had to be
gone over again. The doctor's face was very grave as he warned him
against another accident.
One afternoon, being lonely and having no better way to pass the time,
he went with Betty to her sewing society. There he protested he wished
to make himself useful, and was quite willing to snip threads and tie
knots. But his offer was received with scoffs, and instead he was
forthwith enthroned in the best chair, served with coffee by one girl,
and with cake by another, and petted and praised like a prince.
"And now," said Janet Cameron, taking the stool at his feet and
preparing to look very busy, "while we sew, you shall tell us a story of
your camp life,--something that will make our blood curdle and tingle
like it used to do when the war messengers rode into town, and we knew
not what tidings they brought."
"Yes, tell us a story, Master Clevering," they all cried, and settled
themselves to listen.
"Let it be about a real hero, Richard; and make him as tall as Goliath
and as strong as Samson. We'll credit anything you say," laughed Janet,
biting off a length of thread.
"And if you wish to keep Janet's attention to the end, give him jet
black hair and call him Frederick," cried Dorothy Graham. Whereat there
was a general laugh, and for which personality the speaker got a prick
from Janet's needle.
"One need not draw on his imagination for heroes in these stirring
times, Janet. The land is full of them," Richard answered, catching one
of her shining curls and twisting it about his finger, "though of course
jet black hair and the name of Frederick is a combination to inspire any
story-teller."
And then he told them of Monmouth day,--of its exultant beginning, its
strange changes and chances, its palsying despair, its victory snatched
from defeat. And while the story was nearing its climax and the needles
were idlest, who should pass along the opposite sidewalk but Mistress
Joscelyn Cheshire, her skirts held daintily out of the slush and snow,
while a riotous March wind set her throat ribbons in a flutter, and
kissed her cheeks to a glow a lover might have envied. A more charming
vision it was hard to conjure up, and the story-teller's narrative
faltered, and his words trailed off into silence as he gazed. But
immediately the slumbering ill-will of the sempsters began to show
itself in sundry nods and head tossings.
"There goes the Tory beauty," said one sneering voice, "parading herself
before us out of very defiance, no doubt."
"She has been but to old Polly Little's to carry her some soup," Betty
said hotly.
"And there was no other afternoon for her to go, and no other path to
take but the one by this door where we might see her! You and Richard
are foolish to be always defending her; she showed you small gratitude
last winter, telling the secrets of your house."
"Yes; and we know she sent and received spying letters about us to the
British commander. I never speak to her, Tory ingrate that she is!"
And then while Betty fell to crying and Janet scolded back, declaring
Joscelyn was better than all of them, the criticisms grew so harsh, and
so incisive were the shrugs and lifted brows, that Richard forgot his
wound, forgot the pledge of secrecy upon him, forgot everything but his
anger, and rising up, cried out:--
"Listen; I will tell you another story, not of a hero, but of a heroine,
a slip of a girl whose courage equalled anything I ever saw upon the
bloodiest battle-field, in whose presence the bravest of the brave must
uncover in reverence."
And then he told them the whole story of his hiding and escape while
Cornwallis held the town the winter gone. Told it forcibly, graphically
as he knew how, putting Joscelyn in such a heroic light that her
maligners held down their heads in shame and confusion, feeling
themselves to be all unworthy in comparison; and Dorothy was crying upon
her sewing, and Janet's arm was about his neck in an unconscious,
breathless gratitude for Joscelyn.
And those letters which had excited their wrath?--there was nothing of
treason or espionage in them; they were but love notes from a British
officer whose chivalric homage had been an honour to any woman. He knew,
for he had put her answers into the breastpocket of the young officer
the day they buried him from the battle-field on the banks of the river
that flows forever to the sea.
So he finished; and thus did Joscelyn stand before them at last in her
true colours.
Then with the heat of his anger still upon him, and not waiting for
Betty, Richard got his hat and quitted the house. After that scene, the
air of the room stifled him. He could not be sorry for what he had done,
but he must go straight to Joscelyn and tell her himself, and make what
peace with her he might. He could better afford to bear her anger than
to hear her maligned by those who would be utterly incapable of her
courage or her sacrifice. He had always known he must tell his story if
he heard her slandered.
He was very weak from his long stay indoors, and the excitement of the
scene through which he had just passed had left his brain dizzy, so that
he was all unfit to take the homeward journey alone. He did not notice
the ice on the crossing until suddenly he felt himself slipping--faster,
faster. He made one frantic effort to regain his balance, missed his
footing, and came down with a crash and a groan upon the jagged
cobblestones. He heard a woman's voice scream out in terror, saw
Joscelyn kneel beside him, and then he fainted.
It destroyed his last chance,--that terrible fall,--the doctors said;
for the arm had again been fractured and lacerated beyond cure, and to
lose it was the one hope of life; and even that hope was but a slender
one. When Joscelyn heard this, she stayed all the afternoon in her room,
holding the gold piece very hard and tight and weeping bitterly.
But the operation was successful; and for long days the patient lay
quiet, getting back his hold on the world. His recovery was slower even
than had been expected, but it was sure, and that was enough for
thankfulness. His mother was telling him this one gusty April twilight,
when Joscelyn came into the room on one of her rare visits. The door was
open, so they had not known she was there; and stopping to remove her
wrap, for the day was cool and showery, she heard the end of their talk.
"Fretting is wrong, Richard. You should be thankful for so sure a
recovery."
"Perchance I should; but what avails health when a man may not have that
which is dearer than the strength of giants?"
"And what may that be, my son?"
"Joscelyn. I love her--love her beyond all words, all thoughts; and now
I shall never possess her."
"I had long ago guessed your love for her," his mother said slowly; then
added, after a pause, "but I see not why you should not possess her; you
have a true heart, a goodly property, and a shapely figure which this
accident will scarcely mar; a man like that has but to ask--"
"Nay, that is just it; a man maimed like me has no right to hamper a
woman's life--to ask her love. She is grateful for the protection I have
brought her, but she has no thought for me beside. I lie here and watch
that clock every hour of every day, longing to see her come, hoping for
some sign of awakened love, but there is none. That she comes so seldom
is evidence that she means me to understand this. I shall never dare ask
her again to marry me, but I shall love her always--always."
There was an infinite pathos in the last words that silenced his mother,
and drew something like a sob from the girl in the shadow of the
curtained door. How generous he was; how brave and true he had always
been! Never once, even in their days of quarrel and make-up, had she
known him lacking in courage and generosity. What would her life be now
without him, for had he not made all the crooked ways straight before
her; had he not given her back the love and esteem of her neighbours,
her old place in the community? Was it not to him she owed all this, and
her mother's happiness besides? Gratitude, did he say? Surely that was
not all there was in her heart, for gratitude did not make a girl shy
and sensitive and dreamy. It was not gratitude that had made her weep so
passionately over his suffering and his loss, and kiss a senseless coin
in the dark of her chamber. From that hour she had worn it in a silken
bag about her neck; she drew it out now and held it in her trembling
fingers.
Presently Mistress Clevering rose and quitted the room by another door,
unwilling that Richard should see her emotion. Joscelyn hesitated upon
the threshold, held back by a palpitant timidity, until across the
firelit silence there came her name in a sigh that was half a sob:--
"Joscelyn--lost--lost!"
Then with a sudden resolve she came out of the shadow into the dim light
of the room, and kneeling by his couch, drew his one arm over her
shoulder and laid her head on his breast.
"I am here--Richard."
"You? Dear love, dear love, what does this mean?"
"Can you not guess?" she whispered, slipping the gold piece into his
hand, her own tremulous with emotion.
"I dare not."
"What was the gold piece to be?" Her voice was scarcely more than a
thread of sound.
"Our wedding ring--at least, I hoped so once."
She pressed his fingers together over it, her face still hidden on his
breast. "Give it back to me sometime--in that shape."
"You mean you will marry me? Speak quick, beloved!"
"I mean that--that the war is over, and I surrender myself--your
prisoner, an you will take me."
"My heart's prisoner for time and eternity; thank God!"
A burned-out log snapped and fell to either side of the andirons,
sending a shower of golden sparks up the wide chimney. She raised her
head and looked at him, and by the fleeting gleam of the fire he found
at last the love-light for which he had so long waited shining in the
depths of her sea-blue eyes.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.
End of Project Gutenberg's Joscelyn Cheshire, by Sara Beaumont Kennedy