Читать книгу Joscelyn Cheshire - Sara Beaumont Kennedy - Страница 13

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“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

—Browning.

It was April, and the days came with a sheen of blue sky between rifts of rain.

Quick steps sounded at the Cheshire door, and the brass knocker beat like an anvil through the house, setting the maid’s feet in a run to answer it. Joscelyn came down from her room with wide eyes of curiosity to find Eustace Singleton in the parlour, a great nosegay of roses in his hand.

“From the knocking you kept up, I thought the whole Continental army must be at my door! You have brought me the first roses of the year,” she exclaimed; “how kind!” and she stretched out her hand for the flowers.

“No—they are not for you—not exactly,” he stammered, holding them out of her reach.

“Mother will appreciate them, and I shall enjoy them quite the same.”

“No, she will not, for I had her not in mind when I plucked them.”

“Oh!”

“I was thinking of—of—’n faith, Joscelyn, I was thinking of Mistress Betty Clevering.”

“Of Betty Clevering! Red roses for Betty Clevering!”

“They are not all red. See this one; it is near as buff as her own party colour.”

The girl nodded, smiling at his eagerness. He walked the length of the room, then stopped before her abruptly.

“Joscelyn, I leave for the front to-night.”

“I did not know—”

“Yes; I have but waited orders from Lord Cornwallis. This morning a messenger brought them, and I am to report at once. His lordship has been most kind because of my father’s friendship when they were boys, and I am appointed aide upon his staff.”

She held out her hand impulsively. “’Tis what we hoped for you.”

“But,” he went on hurriedly, “I cannot go without first speaking with Mistress Betty. Methinks I cannot fight against her people without first asking her pardon. Oh, of course, that sounds foolish; but will you help me, Joscelyn? It would be useless for me to go to her house; the door would be shut in my face.”

“And you want me—”

“I want you to ask her here now, and then go away upstairs like the dear girl you are, and give me a chance.”

“Aunt Clevering would never forgive me.”

“She need not know; think up some excuse for sending for Betty.”

“And Betty herself might be angry.”

“Not with you. She may turn me away. I have small hope, for she has always been so shy, and public questions and private quarrels have kept our families so far apart. You know how seldom we meet; but speak with her I must, for who knows whether I shall ever come back? My departure to-night must, of course, be in secret, for were my intentions known, I should be apprehended and held, mayhap hanged for treason. This is my one chance to see Betty; you are going to send for her, Joscelyn?”

She hesitated: she hated deception, and she loved her Aunt Clevering. Then there came to her the memory of Betty’s face when she had teased her about Eustace, and her own resolution to be the girl’s friend where so much heartache and opposition awaited her. This was her opportunity; if she refused it, she would be abetting the general harshness the girl was likely to encounter. She left the room without a word, and presently Eustace saw through the window her little maid dart across the street and into the opposite gate.

“Thank you,” he said jubilantly, taking her hand when she reëntered the room.

“Wait and see if she comes. She is here but seldom these days; partly because she is still angry with me about Richard, and partly because of the sorrow that came to her a month ago. She may not accept my invitation.”

But even as she spoke, a clear voice cried in the hall: “Joscelyn, Joscelyn, are you upstairs?”

“Nay, I am here,” and she met the girl at the door and drew her into the parlour.

Eustace came forward smiling. “Now, Mistress Betty, I call this a lucky chance to have dropped in here when you were coming to sit with Joscelyn. Fortune does sometimes favour even so humble a subject as I. Let me move this chair for you.”

Betty’s cheeks had reddened faintly, and she glanced quickly from him to Joscelyn, but found in neither face any confirmation of a suspicion that stirred in her mind. Joscelyn was turning over a great pile of coloured worsteds.

“You promised to help me sort the colours for my new cross-stitch—you have such a fine eye for contrasts. But since Eustace is here, methinks we had best put it off; men are so impatient over such matters,” she said.

“Nay, nay,” he protested; “you slander me along with the rest of my fellow-men. Mistress Betty here shall prove it, for I will hold those tangled skeins for her, and she will find that I am patience itself.”

“Very well, we will put you to the test. What think you, Betty, will this green do for the flower stems?—You like that shade better?—Hold out your hands, Eustace. Now, Betty, wind that while I find a blue for the flowers.”

Never was anything brought about more naturally and deftly. Almost before she was aware, Betty found herself seated in front of Eustace, who was making great show of resignation.

“How does a man sometimes fall from the high estate of his manhood and dignity and become no better than a wooden frame whereon to hang a length of yarn,” he said, laughing; then coloured with pleasure as Betty bent toward the table and put her face close to the roses lying there.

“Ah, how sweet! I have only a few buds, as yet. Master Singleton brought them to you, Joscelyn?”

“On the contrary, he said expressly they were not for me. There is no blue in this lot of wools, I must have left it upstairs. ’Tis a shame I have to mount those steps again. I hope you will have that skein wound by the time I find the blue one.” At the door she paused and looked back archly at Eustace; then, blowing a kiss to Betty’s unconscious back, she went away, shutting the door softly behind her.

“God bless you, Betty dear; I hope I am acting for your happiness,” she said to herself on the stairs.

Betty added to her soft ball in unruffled silence for a minute. Then, glancing up, she met Eustace’s gaze, and her hand faltered in its winding.

“Do you know for whom I brought the roses?” he asked, bending toward her.

“Stay, Master Singleton, you are dropping the skein—and you promised to be so patient.”

“True, true; I have it all in a mess. Wind your ball up closer that we may pass it through this loop.”

And so they set themselves, with here a turn and there a backward twist, to that old task of unravelling the snarled skein. Now and then their fingers touched, and both hands trembled and both faces reddened; Eustace’s from the exquisite pleasure of the contact, for never before had they been so alone, so near together, and out of pure joy he would have prolonged the happiness. But the shadows were already lengthening backward to the east, and with nightfall he must be away. And so when Betty’s little hand was again near to his he seized it in both of his.

“Betty—sweetheart—I love you!”

The thread was snapped apart, and the ball fell to the floor, but he held her hands fast.

“Nay, you must listen to me, for this night I go away to bear my share in the war, perchance to give my life for the cause I hold to be right. But before I go I must tell you what is in my heart—tell you that I love you as a man loves the woman to whom he gives his name, with whom he leaves his honour. And not only must I tell you that, but I must hear you say that, believing as I do, you do not blame me for going to the war. You do not blame me, do you?”

Her hands lay still in his, but her head was bent so low he could not see into her eyes.

“This war means everything to me, for the enemies of the king against whom I shall have to fight are my neighbours and acquaintances, and, worse still, the near and dear relatives of my love. Under such circumstances you do not think I would fight save from principle?”

“No.”

“And you do not condemn the step I am taking, even though it sets me against your dear ones? I cannot see things as they do.”

She lifted her head and looked at him squarely for a moment. “Every man should follow the dictates of his conscience.”

“I knew your heart would recognize the justice of my case. And when it is all over, and I come back, you will not let this stand between us—you will be my wife?”

But she drew her hand away, shaking her head with downcast eyes, and his pleading was futile. “To promise you would be to go against my mother, and it were undutiful in me to add to her present distress; now that my father is dead and my brother gone to the war, my mother has only me to comfort her.”

“Then at least let me carry away the glad assurance that you care for me; that will suffice, for, if you love me, you will wait for me.”

“You—you will find me waiting,” she whispered; and then her lips trembled under the kiss that he put upon them.

But there was a sound at the door, a warning rattle of the knob, and out of consideration for her he let her go.

“Aunt Clevering is calling you, Betty,” Joscelyn said, but she did not enter. “She’ll be there directly, Aunt Clevering,” she called from the front door. And presently, when Betty passed her with Eustace’s colours flaming in her cheeks and his roses on her breast, she knew that Redcoat and not Continental had won this battle in her parlour.

“She would not promise me,” Eustace said, wringing her hand; “but I am so happy, for there are some things that are better than a spoken promise.”