“Ay, and there is another variety, that peeps through farm-house windows when brave soldier lads go riding by,” Stephen suggested. “But never mind, boy,” he added, his kind voice full of warm affection, “do not blush so. Know you not that no one wishes you greater happiness than do Clotilde and I?”
“Thank you—ah, thank you, Master Sheffield,” Miles managed to get out, and with that seized the letter and made his escape.
It was not strange that Clotilde looked back upon this day as one of especial happiness. They had been so gay there in the garden, all four of them together, so little realising the changes that were to come so soon. Gerald’s returning health made him talk more and more of imposing on their hospitality no longer: a month later his exchange was effected and he made ready for departure. It was arranged that he should go back to England since he had neither the power nor, if the truth were told, the heart for further fighting. David Thurston came home on leave at just that time and it was arranged that Captain Radpath was to ride back with him as far as New York where he could take ship for home.
Stephen had whispered to Clotilde some of his suspicions as to the state of Miles’ heart and together they made very merry over the secret. When a letter came from him, sent by the hand of David, she ran with it into the garden eager to see if it contained any further hints of that suspected affair of the Quaker Lady. She was smiling as she opened the letter, smiling for the first time in many days.
Gerald Radpath was to leave in less than a week’s time. Strange to say, he too had seemed very sombre these last few days, very quiet and thoughtful and much unlike his former cheery self. Many times Stephen had caught him watching with wistful eyes as Clotilde went to and fro about the house or garden.
“Well, is it small wonder?” Stephen had said with a sigh to Mother Jeanne, whose sharp black eyes, you may be sure, had noticed the same thing. “He dared much for her and she has been a faithful nurse to him. I think that great happiness is to come out of that adventure in Skerry’s cottage.”
But, apparently, Stephen for once was wrong. He could not know that, on the morning that Miles’ letter came, Gerald had been walking long in the garden and had finally come hurrying up the path, his face bright with happy resolve. He had paused when he came upon Clotilde, seated under the linden tree, just unfolding the paper in her hands.
“A letter?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes, from Miles,” she returned with a bright smile, and, not realising that he had stopped beside her instead of going on, she began to read.
Gerald watched her as her eyes ran with eager interest from line to line, thought he could guess the reason of her being so absorbed and, with all the new happiness gone from his face, he turned away.