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 theglimmer of lilies and iridescent gleams of parti-coloured roses. It wasthe season of the year which Joscelyn loved best; but now the ceaselesssunshine, the mosaic marvels of the turf, the kaleidoscopic changes ofearth 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 newsof the siege of Yorktown; and the town of Hillsboro' waked to newenthusiasm and thrilled or shuddered at every alternating rumour.
And in each of those far-away armies on the York was a man who watchedthe sun go westward every eve, and sent a silent message to a girl withdark hair and sea-blue eyes who pruned her roses in a new garden of theHesperides beside the Eno. Unknown to each other, their thoughts hadyet a common Mecca. But fate was not content that they should standthus forever apart.
In Yorktown, Cornwallis had thought to be safe either to escape toClinton or be rescued by that general's fleet sailing down the Atlanticfrom New York. But instead to the east, in Lynn Haven Bay, De Grasse'sships held the passes to the sea; while on the land side--one wing onYork and one on Wormley creek--in two great crescents stretched thelines of the allied armies, with Warwick creek running darkly between.Over the tents that gleamed in the autumn sunshine there flew, side byside, the stars and stripes of the Republic and the _fleur-de-lys_ ofFrance. And there were sallies and repulses, and daily encroachments andskirmishes between the allies without and the British within.
It so happened one day that Richard's company was detailed to guard theditchers who were making a new trench, and throwing up a fresh line ofbreastworks that would enable them to draw yet nearer to the red-coatedpickets. Already these latter had been forced--by the horns of that everencroaching crescent--to withdraw twice, and now a third retreat seemedimminent. But not without a struggle would they yield their posts; andso presently, on that mellow autumn day, a flash of scarlet came in thesun as an assaulting column swept out toward the projected line wherethe shovels were at work; and the Continental guard, after dischargingtheir guns with signal success, waited with fixed bayonets to receivethe advancing column. It was a fierce contest fought almost hand tohand; then the Redcoats began to fall back, and with a quick rush theContinentals 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--thegallant English captain who had led the sally. He had seen him as hefell far in advance of his column. There the retreat had left him insidethe new lines of the Continentals, and finding him still alive, Richardturned him over softly so as not to start his wound afresh; and as hedid 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 mayget this poor fellow to my tent."
"The surgeon will find him here directly and have him moved to the fieldhospital."
"He could not stand so long a trip; see how near he is already gone withthis bullet hole in his side. Come, I have a fancy not to see him diehere in the wet grass."
So Dunn lent his aid, and the wounded man was put down in Richard'stent, murmuring again that talismanic name.
"He may possibly live till morning," the surgeon said, when at last hecame from attending to his own men, "but he cannot be moved. I will tryand send some one to look after him."
Richard touched his cap, "If you please, I am off duty to-night; I willwillingly nurse him, if so you give me directions."
And the man was left in his care; and during the slow hours, word byword and sentence by sentence, he patched together the fevered ramblingsof his patient, until he knew that the Joscelyn of his own hopes andfears and dreams was identical with the girl of this other man'sthoughts.
With the knowledge something seemed to catch at his throat, to tightenabout his heart; and he went out and stood awhile at the tent door,gazing up into the clear heavens whose steadfast stars were shining alsoon the distant Carolina hills, watching a window behind which a girl laysleeping--dreaming perhaps of the man yonder on the pallet. Had he losther 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 thedying man lay, and picked up the sword which, along with his own, waspropped against the canvas wall of the tent. It was of beautifulworkmanship with a crest on the jewelled scabbard, and below a gravenname which, by the light of the tallow dip, Richard at last spelledout:--
"Barry."
He stood thinking for a moment. Why, this then was the man for whomEllen Singleton had mistaken him that night he played the squire to herin a borrowed military cloak at the fete in Philadelphia. What strangefate had brought them thus together? "The finest officer who wears thered, and a lady-killer," Dunn had said. And that tightness gatheredagain 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 heardcoupled with Joscelyn's that night while he lay hiding in the freezingattic. "She is sitting on the stair with Captain Barry." The very tonesof the speaker came back to him, bringing again that thirsty desire toopen 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 ofhis patient. So this was the man who had won her away from the rest ofher company, the man to whom she had bent down so low that from the rearonly the dark crown of her hair could be seen as she sat on hersteps--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 manlybeauty still lingering in the suffering face. A fierce jealousy tore athis heart. Evidently, from his ramblings, Joscelyn had listened to thisother's wooing, and had written him letters, while she mocked him andsent him never so much as one little line in answer to all the pages hewrote her. He had always known that other men would love her,--it couldnot be otherwise with her sweetness and her beauty,--but always in histhoughts she had kept herself for him. Had it been a false hope; had sheloved this brave Briton who called upon her with such pathos oftenderness? If so, then was his own dream-castle in ruins.
By and by, just before the end, there came a lucid hour. The wounded manturned his eyes questioningly upon his nurse.
"I found you after the fight, so far in our lines that your own men hadmissed 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 findhim."
The other smiled faintly, "My mother will perchance be a littlecomforted 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 hillcountry. I, too, know her and--love her."
And then each told something of his story to the other; and they claspedhands as brave men can when enmity and prejudice and jealousy areswallowed up in the wide sympathy that lurks forever in the precincts ofthe Great Shadow.
"And when the war is over, and I tell her again of my love," saidRichard, with that impulsive generosity that was ever one of hischaracteristics, "I will tell her also of yours--and mayhap she willchoose rather to cherish your memory than to give herself to me."
And Barry turned his face to the wall and died, whispering his love forher to the last. It was a strange scene, this midn
ight confessionalbetween two men who, all unknown to each other, had striven for the sameheart-goal--who in life would have been bitter and unrelenting rivals,but who met and parted amid the shadows of death as friends andbrothers. 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 weteyes through the star-haunted gloaming, thinking of the young life thathad gone out in the red trail of war. She missed him as it did not seempossible she could have missed any one who had been so short a while inher consciousness.
And sitting thus alone with her sorrow, she felt a hand on hers and anarm slip around her neck.
"Joscelyn, I could not stay away any longer," whispered Betty's voice inthe dark. "I had both of your notes; I know you are sorry, and I missyou so much!"
"Dear Betty, dear Betty, how glad I am you are come! I cannot tell youhow 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 nervoussobbing.
"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 andtrusted me, and I shall miss him."
"Did you wish to marry him?"
"I cannot say. Sometimes when I have been very lonely, and you allturned from me, I have thought I did. To marry him and go away to a newplace and new friends seemed best. He was strong and brave, but he wasgentle and considerate, and he never hectored me--a girl likes not tobe 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 tohumour Joscelyn more in her way of looking at things; but he had chosento 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 ifshe knows I came here," Betty said at last, rising with a sigh. ButJoscelyn held her back with both hands.
"Not yet, Betty, not yet; we can see her far down the street by thelights from the windows. Stay a little longer; it is such a comfort tohave 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 thatbrought yours. The last letter I had from Eustace was the one I sent yousome two weeks ago. Since he was then on the eve of going to New York tocarry letters to General Clinton, it is not likely he is among those inthe beleaguered city of Yorktown."
"I have been so glad to think this," Betty answered, sighing. "Do youknow, Joscelyn, I saw him in the parlour yonder for a few minutes theday the British marched?"
"Yes; I told mother to have you here, and then I sent him back fromheadquarters."
Betty kissed her gratefully. "I might have guessed it. It was such ahappy ten minutes! But, Joscelyn, mother never mentions his name exceptto remind me that his father and mine were bitter enemies."
"Wait until Richard comes home; he doubtless will look at mattersdifferently; and as he says, so will your mother do."
"Not unless you plead for me; and even that may not now avail, for hemay share mother's anger against you."
"Richard will not be angry with me when he returns," Joscelyn answeredconfidently; and Betty kissed her softly.
"Oh, Joscelyn, if it could only have been Richard instead of CaptainBarry 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 thestreet and dodged into the shadow of her own door. Her visit helpedJoscelyn immeasurably, in that it gave her a sense of sympathy. But shecould not shake off the depression of Richard's news; it was aculmination of the long strain upon her nervous system. In thesucceeding days she had fits of silent brooding which sometimes, in thesombre twilights, ended in tears. For the first time since the news ofLexington, her neighbours found her grave and preoccupied. The fearlessbadinage with which she had met every attack upon her partisan creed wassuddenly stayed, as though she heard not their thrusts and innuendoes.And Mistress Strudwick watched her with a vague uneasiness, longing tosee the old, quick passion flame up now and then.
But this frame of mind was rudely broken by the thrilling news of thefall of Yorktown. She had expected it for days, but the reality rousedall of her former spirit, and put her once more upon the defensive.
"Lord Cornwallis has surrendered?" she said calmly to Amanda Bryce andthe two gossips, who had run in to tell her the news and to gloat overher discomfiture. "'Tis most courteous of you to bring me theinformation so swiftly; you are quite out of breath with your race. Ishall immediately write my sincere condolences to his lordship thatwrong 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 wishyou 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 condescendingto her subjects; and they went away humiliated and furious.
"From the airs she gives herself, one would think Joscelyn Cheshire hadroyal blood in her veins," they said angrily. But when MistressStrudwick heard of the scene, she laughed long and heartily.
"They deserved it, the carping crones! Would I had been there to seethem routed. Thank Heaven her spirit has come back; how I love her forit, unreconstructed Tory as she is!"
Never again was Joscelyn to deck herself in her scarlet bodice in honourof an English victory; never again to tease her neighbours with hertaunting Tory ballads. The war was over; she had lost her cause; andwith her life all out of attune with her surroundings she must face theinevitable. Seeing the relief in her mother's face, she could not besorry that peace had come, though the terms were bitter; and so even inher loss was there something of compensation.