Chapter XXV: 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.