CHAPTER XXIX.
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 alittle, still hampered, however, by splints and bandages; for in hisfevered tossings he had hurt his arm anew, and the setting had to begone over again. The doctor's face was very grave as he warned himagainst 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 wishedto make himself useful, and was quite willing to snip threads and tieknots. But his offer was received with scoffs, and instead he wasforthwith 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 andpreparing to look very busy, "while we sew, you shall tell us a story ofyour camp life,--something that will make our blood curdle and tinglelike it used to do when the war messengers rode into town, and we knewnot what tidings they brought."
"Yes, tell us a story, Master Clevering," they all cried, and settledthemselves to listen.
"Let it be about a real hero, Richard; and make him as tall as Goliathand 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 jetblack hair and call him Frederick," cried Dorothy Graham. Whereat therewas a general laugh, and for which personality the speaker got a prickfrom Janet's needle.
"One need not draw on his imagination for heroes in these stirringtimes, Janet. The land is full of them," Richard answered, catching oneof her shining curls and twisting it about his finger, "though of coursejet black hair and the name of Frederick is a combination to inspire anystory-teller."
And then he told them of Monmouth day,--of its exultant beginning, itsstrange changes and chances, its palsying despair, its victory snatchedfrom defeat. And while the story was nearing its climax and the needleswere idlest, who should pass along the opposite sidewalk but MistressJoscelyn Cheshire, her skirts held daintily out of the slush and snow,while a riotous March wind set her throat ribbons in a flutter, andkissed her cheeks to a glow a lover might have envied. A more charmingvision it was hard to conjure up, and the story-teller's narrativefaltered, and his words trailed off into silence as he gazed. Butimmediately the slumbering ill-will of the sempsters began to showitself in sundry nods and head tossings.
"There goes the Tory beauty," said one sneering voice, "parading herselfbefore us out of very defiance, no doubt."
"She has been but to old Polly Little's to carry her some soup," Bettysaid hotly.
"And there was no other afternoon for her to go, and no other path totake but the one by this door where we might see her! You and Richardare foolish to be always defending her; she showed you small gratitudelast winter, telling the secrets of your house."
"Yes; and we know she sent and received spying letters about us to theBritish commander. I never speak to her, Tory ingrate that she is!"
And then while Betty fell to crying and Janet scolded back, declaringJoscelyn was better than all of them, the criticisms grew so harsh, andso incisive were the shrugs and lifted brows, that Richard forgot hiswound, forgot the pledge of secrecy upon him, forgot everything but hisanger, 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 thebloodiest battle-field, in whose presence the bravest of the brave mustuncover in reverence."
And then he told them the whole story of his hiding and escape whileCornwallis held the town the winter gone. Told it forcibly, graphicallyas he knew how, putting Joscelyn in such a heroic light that hermaligners held down their heads in shame and confusion, feelingthemselves to be all unworthy in comparison; and Dorothy was crying uponher 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 oftreason or espionage in them; they were but love notes from a Britishofficer whose chivalric homage had been an honour to any woman. He knew,for he had put her answers into the breastpocket of the young officerthe day they buried him from the battle-field on the banks of the riverthat flows forever to the sea.
So he finished; and thus did Joscelyn stand before them at last in hertrue colours.
Then with the heat of his anger still upon him, and not waiting forBetty, Richard got his hat and quitted the house. After that scene, theair 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 whatpeace with her he might. He could better afford to bear her anger thanto hear her maligned by those who would be utterly incapable of hercourage or her sacrifice. He had always known he must tell his story ifhe heard her slandered.
He was very weak from his long stay indoors, and the excitement of thescene through which he had just passed had left his brain dizzy, so thathe was all unfit to take the homeward journey alone. He did not noticethe ice on the crossing until suddenly he felt himself slipping--faster,faster. He made one frantic effort to regain his balance, missed hisfooting, and came down with a crash and a groan upon the jaggedcobblestones. He heard a woman's voice scream out in terror, sawJoscelyn 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 tolose it was the one hope of life; and even that hope was but a slenderone. 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 layquiet, getting back his hold on the world. His recovery was slower eventhan had been expected, but it was sure, and that was enough forthankfulness. His mother was telling him this one gusty April twilight,when Joscelyn came into the room on one of her rare visits. The door wasopen, so they had not known she was there; and stopping to remove herwrap, 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 arecovery."
"Perchance I should; but what avails health when a man may not have thatwhich 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 nowI shall never possess her."
"I had long ago guessed your love for her," his mother said slowly; thenadded, after a pause, "but I see not why you should not possess her; youhave a true heart, a goodly property, and a shapely figure which thisaccident 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 awoman's life--to ask her love. She is grateful for the protection I havebrought her, but she has no thought for me beside. I lie here and watchthat clock every hour of every day, longing to see her come, hoping forsome sign of awakened love, but there is none. That she comes so seldomis evidence that she means me to understand this. I shall never dare askher 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 thecurtained door. How generous he was; how brave and true he had alwaysbeen! Never once, even in their days of quarrel and make-up, had sheknown him lacking in courage and generosity. What would her life be nowwithout him, for had he not made all the crooked ways straight beforeher; 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, andher mother's happiness besides? Gratitude, did he say? Surely that wasnot all there was in her heart, for gratitude did not make
a girl shyand sensitive and dreamy. It was not gratitude that had made her weep sopassionately over his suffering and his loss, and kiss a senseless coinin the dark of her chamber. From that hour she had worn it in a silkenbag about her neck; she drew it out now and held it in her tremblingfingers.
Presently Mistress Clevering rose and quitted the room by another door,unwilling that Richard should see her emotion. Joscelyn hesitated uponthe threshold, held back by a palpitant timidity, until across thefirelit 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 lightof the room, and kneeling by his couch, drew his one arm over hershoulder 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 hishand, her own tremulous with emotion.
"I dare not."
"What was the gold piece to be?" Her voice was scarcely more than athread of sound.
"Our wedding ring--at least, I hoped so once."
She pressed his fingers together over it, her face still hidden on hisbreast. "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--yourprisoner, 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 herhead and looked at him, and by the fleeting gleam of the fire he foundat last the love-light for which he had so long waited shining in thedepths 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 andintent.
Joscelyn Cheshire: A Story of Revolutionary Days in the Carolinas Page 29