But however much may have been told in the privacy of the connubial chamber, one fact was not stated: That far back in the bottom drawer of the bureau in which Janice kept her clothes lay a half-finished silk purse, to which not a stitch bad been added since the day that the muttering of the guns of Brandywine had sounded through the streets of Philadelphia.
XLII
BARTER AND SALE
The first check to Janice’s full enjoyment of the novel and delightful world into which she had plunged so eagerly came early in March. “I have ill news for thee, my child,” Mr. Meredith apprised her, as he entered the room where she was sitting. “I just parted from Mr. Loring, the Commissary of Prisoners, and he asked if Philemon Hennion were not a friend of ours, and then told me that the deputy-commissary at Morristown writ him last week that the lad had died of the putrid fever.”
“I am very sorry,” the girl said, with a genuine regret in her voice. “He—I wish—I can’t but feel that ’t is something for which I am to blame.”
“Nay, don’t lay reproach on yeself, Jan,” advised the father, little recking of what was in his daughter’s mind. “If we go to blaming ourselves for the results of well-considered conduct, there is no end to sorrow. But I fear me his death will bring us a fresh difficulty. We’ll say nothing of the news to Lord Clowes, and trust that he hear not of it; for once known, he’ll probably begin teasing us to let him wed ye.”
“Dadda!” cried Janice, “you never would—would give him encouragement? Oh, no, you—you love me too much.”
“Ye know I love ye, Jan, and that whatever I do, I try to do my best for ye. But—”
“Then don’t give him any hope. Oh, dadda, if you knew how I—”
“He ’s not the man I’d pick for ye, Jan, that I grant. Clowes is—”
“He beguiled me shamefully—and he broke his parole— and he takes mean advantage whene’er he can—and he crawls half the time and bullies the rest—and when he’s polite he makes me shudder or grow cold—and when he’s—”