Chapter XXVI: By the Beleaguered City

"Peace; come away; the song of woe
Is after all an earthy song:
Peace; come away; we do him wrong
To sing so wildly: let us go."
--TENNYSON.

The summer seemed interminable, lit all along though it was with the glimmer of lilies and iridescent gleams of parti-coloured roses. It was the season of the year which Joscelyn loved best; but now the ceaseless sunshine, the mosaic marvels of the turf, the kaleidoscopic changes of earth and sky wearied her, so that she longed for the coming of autumn. It came at last, unfurling its red and yellow banners in the woodlands, and setting its russet seal upon the meadows. And with it came the news of the siege of Yorktown; and the town of Hillsboro' waked to new enthusiasm and thrilled or shuddered at every alternating rumour.

And in each of those far-away armies on the York was a man who watched the sun go westward every eve, and sent a silent message to a girl with dark hair and sea-blue eyes who pruned her roses in a new garden of the Hesperides beside the Eno. Unknown to each other, their thoughts had yet a common Mecca. But fate was not content that they should stand thus forever apart.

In Yorktown, Cornwallis had thought to be safe either to escape to Clinton or be rescued by that general's fleet sailing down the Atlantic from New York. But instead to the east, in Lynn Haven Bay, De Grasse's ships held the passes to the sea; while on the land side--one wing on York and one on Wormley creek--in two great crescents stretched the lines of the allied armies, with Warwick creek running darkly between. Over the tents that gleamed in the autumn sunshine there flew, side by side, the stars and stripes of the Republic and the _fleur-de-lys_ of France. And there were sallies and repulses, and daily encroachments and skirmishes between the allies without and the British within.

It so happened one day that Richard's company was detailed to guard the ditchers who were making a new trench, and throwing up a fresh line of breastworks that would enable them to draw yet nearer to the red-coated pickets. Already these latter had been forced--by the horns of that ever encroaching crescent--to withdraw twice, and now a third retreat seemed imminent. But not without a struggle would they yield their posts; and so presently, on that mellow autumn day, a flash of scarlet came in the sun as an assaulting column swept out toward the projected line where the shovels were at work; and the Continental guard, after discharging their guns with signal success, waited with fixed bayonets to receive the advancing column. It was a fierce contest fought almost hand to hand; then the Redcoats began to fall back, and with a quick rush the Continentals turned their retreat to a rout.

Returning from that fierce charge with the flush of the fight upon him, Richard came upon a man lying prone upon his face in the stubble--the gallant English captain who had led the sally. He had seen him as he fell far in advance of his column. There the retreat had left him inside the new lines of the Continentals, and finding him still alive, Richard turned him over softly so as not to start his wound afresh; and as he did so he caught one word from the pale lips:--

"_Joscelyn._"

The name unlocked the floodgates of the young Continental's sympathies.

"Dunn," he said to the man in front of him, "give me a hand, that I may get this poor fellow to my tent."

"The surgeon will find him here directly and have him moved to the field hospital."

"He could not stand so long a trip; see how near he is already gone with this bullet hole in his side. Come, I have a fancy not to see him die here in the wet grass."

So Dunn lent his aid, and the wounded man was put down in Richard's tent, murmuring again that talismanic name.

"He may possibly live till morning," the surgeon said, when at last he came from attending to his own men, "but he cannot be moved. I will try and send some one to look after him."

Richard touched his cap, "If you please, I am off duty to-night; I will willingly nurse him, if so you give me directions."

And the man was left in his care; and during the slow hours, word by word and sentence by sentence, he patched together the fevered ramblings of his patient, until he knew that the Joscelyn of his own hopes and fears and dreams was identical with the girl of this other man's thoughts.

With the knowledge something seemed to catch at his throat, to tighten about his heart; and he went out and stood awhile at the tent door, gazing up into the clear heavens whose steadfast stars were shining also on the distant Carolina hills, watching a window behind which a girl lay sleeping--dreaming perhaps of the man yonder on the pallet. Had he lost her through this other one? Was his life to miss its one strong purpose, in missing her?

By and by, when he was calmer, he came again to the pallet where the dying man lay, and picked up the sword which, along with his own, was propped against the canvas wall of the tent. It was of beautiful workmanship with a crest on the jewelled scabbard, and below a graven name which, by the light of the tallow dip, Richard at last spelled out:--

"Barry."

He stood thinking for a moment. Why, this then was the man for whom Ellen Singleton had mistaken him that night he played the squire to her in a borrowed military cloak at the fete in Philadelphia. What strange fate had brought them thus together? "The finest officer who wears the red, and a lady-killer," Dunn had said. And that tightness gathered again at Richard's heart, for where else had he heard of the man?

Stay, was not Barry the name--Yes, it was the very name he had heard coupled with Joscelyn's that night while he lay hiding in the freezing attic. "She is sitting on the stair with Captain Barry." The very tones of the speaker came back to him, bringing again that thirsty desire to open the door and look for her which he had not been able to resist, though life itself might pay the forfeit.

He went back to the pallet, and bent down that he might see the face of his patient. So this was the man who had won her away from the rest of her company, the man to whom she had bent down so low that from the rear only the dark crown of her hair could be seen as she sat on her steps--this was the man to whose love tale she had listened smilingly, while he himself was a prisoner hiding for his very life. A lady-killer, Dunn had said; and well he could believe it from the traces of manly beauty still lingering in the suffering face. A fierce jealousy tore at his heart. Evidently, from his ramblings, Joscelyn had listened to this other's wooing, and had written him letters, while she mocked him and sent him never so much as one little line in answer to all the pages he wrote her. He had always known that other men would love her,--it could not be otherwise with her sweetness and her beauty,--but always in his thoughts she had kept herself for him. Had it been a false hope; had she loved this brave Briton who called upon her with such pathos of tenderness? If so, then was his own dream-castle in ruins.

By and by, just before the end, there came a lucid hour. The wounded man turned his eyes questioningly upon his nurse.

"I found you after the fight, so far in our lines that your own men had missed you in their retreat, and the surgeon left you in my care," Richard said gently.

"To die? Yes, I see it in your eyes."

"You fell at the head of your men, as a soldier wishes death to find him."

The other smiled faintly, "My mother will perchance be a little comforted by that. You will write her?"

"Yes--And Joscelyn?"

"Joscelyn?--how do you happen--?"

"You talked of her in your delirium. She lives in the Carolina hill country. I, too, know her and--love her."

And then each told something of his story to the other; and they clasped hands as brave men can when enmity and prejudice and jealousy are swallowed up in the wide sympathy that lurks forever in the precincts of the Great Shadow.

"And when the war is over, and I tell her again of my love," said Richard, with that impulsive generosity that was ever one of his characteristics, "I will tell her also of yours--and mayhap she will choose rather to cherish your memory than to give herself to me."

And Barry turned his face to the wall and died, whispering his love for her to the last. It was a strange scene, this midnight confessional between two men who, all unknown to each other, had striven for the same heart-goal--who in life would have been bitter and unrelenting rivals, but who met and parted amid the shadows of death as friends and brothers. Richard wrote it all to Joscelyn, eloquently, passionately; portraying faithfully every emotion of the dying man.

"He loved you, Joscelyn, even as I do; only not so much, for
methinks no man could do that. But he was brave and manly, and to
have won his heart is proof of your sweetness and worth. He told me
many things of that fearful night when I lay up in your garret, and
downstairs you held your guests from all suspicion by your tact and
courage. He hated Tarleton for his distrust of you, and I let him
go to the far Shore in ignorance of how you saved me, fearing that
he would not understand, and that his last moments would be
imbittered by a useless jealousy.

"Did you love him? Am I breaking your heart with this news, my
best beloved? If so, remember, I beseech you, how my own would
break to know it."

And Joscelyn read the letter by the fading sunset, and then sat with wet eyes through the star-haunted gloaming, thinking of the young life that had gone out in the red trail of war. She missed him as it did not seem possible she could have missed any one who had been so short a while in her consciousness.

And sitting thus alone with her sorrow, she felt a hand on hers and an arm slip around her neck.

"Joscelyn, I could not stay away any longer," whispered Betty's voice in the dark. "I had both of your notes; I know you are sorry, and I miss you so much!"

"Dear Betty, dear Betty, how glad I am you are come! I cannot tell you how lonely and wretched my life is, and now my--my true friend is gone!" and with her head on the girl's bosom, she gave way to a nervous sobbing.

"Did you love him?" Betty asked, when at last she understood.

"I--I do not know; but I have so few friends, and he loved me and trusted me, and I shall miss him."

"Did you wish to marry him?"

"I cannot say. Sometimes when I have been very lonely, and you all turned from me, I have thought I did. To marry him and go away to a new place and new friends seemed best. He was strong and brave, but he was gentle and considerate, and he never hectored me--a girl likes not to be hectored and quarrelled with in her courting."

"No," answered Betty, sadly, understanding she had Richard in mind. Often, with a woman's instinct, she had pleaded with her brother to humour Joscelyn more in her way of looking at things; but he had chosen to attempt to set her right, or, at least, right as he saw it.

"I must be going; mother is at Mistress Strudwick's and will be angry if she knows I came here," Betty said at last, rising with a sigh. But Joscelyn held her back with both hands.

"Not yet, Betty, not yet; we can see her far down the street by the lights from the windows. Stay a little longer; it is such a comfort to have you."

"I wish I could come without this deception."

"I, too, with all my heart."

"You had a letter to-day; was it from Master Singleton?"

"No; it was this sad one from Richard, by the same messenger that brought yours. The last letter I had from Eustace was the one I sent you some two weeks ago. Since he was then on the eve of going to New York to carry letters to General Clinton, it is not likely he is among those in the beleaguered city of Yorktown."

"I have been so glad to think this," Betty answered, sighing. "Do you know, Joscelyn, I saw him in the parlour yonder for a few minutes the day the British marched?"

"Yes; I told mother to have you here, and then I sent him back from headquarters."

Betty kissed her gratefully. "I might have guessed it. It was such a happy ten minutes! But, Joscelyn, mother never mentions his name except to remind me that his father and mine were bitter enemies."

"Wait until Richard comes home; he doubtless will look at matters differently; and as he says, so will your mother do."

"Not unless you plead for me; and even that may not now avail, for he may share mother's anger against you."

"Richard will not be angry with me when he returns," Joscelyn answered confidently; and Betty kissed her softly.

"Oh, Joscelyn, if it could only have been Richard instead of Captain Barry to win even this much of your heart! But there, I must be going; some one is coming down the street."

"You will come again sometime?"

"Yes, for I have wanted you so much."

"And I you."

They held each other close for a moment, and then Betty ran across the street and dodged into the shadow of her own door. Her visit helped Joscelyn immeasurably, in that it gave her a sense of sympathy. But she could not shake off the depression of Richard's news; it was a culmination of the long strain upon her nervous system. In the succeeding days she had fits of silent brooding which sometimes, in the sombre twilights, ended in tears. For the first time since the news of Lexington, her neighbours found her grave and preoccupied. The fearless badinage with which she had met every attack upon her partisan creed was suddenly stayed, as though she heard not their thrusts and innuendoes. And Mistress Strudwick watched her with a vague uneasiness, longing to see the old, quick passion flame up now and then.

But this frame of mind was rudely broken by the thrilling news of the fall of Yorktown. She had expected it for days, but the reality roused all of her former spirit, and put her once more upon the defensive.

"Lord Cornwallis has surrendered?" she said calmly to Amanda Bryce and the two gossips, who had run in to tell her the news and to gloat over her discomfiture. "'Tis most courteous of you to bring me the information so swiftly; you are quite out of breath with your race. I shall immediately write my sincere condolences to his lordship that wrong has triumphed over right. Will you not have a cup of tea with me, ladies?--there is no longer any tax. No? Then I have the honour to wish you a very good morning. Pray come again when you have further tidings."

She set the door open for them with the air of a sovereign condescending to her subjects; and they went away humiliated and furious.

"From the airs she gives herself, one would think Joscelyn Cheshire had royal blood in her veins," they said angrily. But when Mistress Strudwick heard of the scene, she laughed long and heartily.

"They deserved it, the carping crones! Would I had been there to see them routed. Thank Heaven her spirit has come back; how I love her for it, unreconstructed Tory as she is!"

Never again was Joscelyn to deck herself in her scarlet bodice in honour of an English victory; never again to tease her neighbours with her taunting Tory ballads. The war was over; she had lost her cause; and with her life all out of attune with her surroundings she must face the inevitable. Seeing the relief in her mother's face, she could not be sorry that peace had come, though the terms were bitter; and so even in her loss was there something of compensation.