“And so would every woman had she but thy cheeks. Ah, Miss Meredith, ’t is easy for the maid whose tints are a daily toast at the messes to blame those to whom nature has not given a transparent skin and mantling blood.”
When Mobray returned from Germantown, he at once sought out Janice and confirmed André’s action. Though he found her working on the costume, it was with so melancholy a countenance that he demanded the cause.
“T is what you know already,” moaned the girl, miserably. “Lord Clowes is pressing me for an answer, and now dadda is urgent that I give him ay.”
“Why?”
“He went to see Sir Henry, and had so cold a reception that he thinks ’t is certain he is to lose his place, let alone the report that General Clinton was heard to say Sir William’s friends were to be got rid of. What can we do?”
“But Char—Brereton assured me he had spoked the fellow’s wheel by securing the aid of—”
“’T is naught to me what he has done,” interrupted Janice, proudly; “nor did I give him the right to intervene.”
“You must not give yourself to Clowes. ’T is—ah— rather than see that I’ll speak out.”
“About what?”
“Leftenant Hennion is not dead! ’T was but another of Clowes’ lies, and your father shall know it, let him do his worst.” Without giving his courage time to cool, the young fellow dashed across the hallway to the office where the commissary and squire were sitting, and announced: “News, Mr. Meredith. Leftenant Hennion is alive, for his name was on the rebel lists of prisoners to be exchanged.”