Sitting in the open bow-window above the garden, my Darthea had most of the talk, while, when I dared no longer stare at her changeful face, I looked past her at the June roses swaying in the open window-space.
“Yes,” I laughed, “that is what men are for; but I have not done with you. I have also to thank you for my escape in the garden—you and Mr. Andre. He has a good memory, I fancy.”
“Oh, the fainting—yes,” said Miss Peniston, lightly. “It was fortunate it came just then. And Mr. Wynne was glad enough of it later. He said it had saved him from the most horrible regret life could bring. If he had but had time to think—or had known—”
“Known what?”
“No matter; I was in time to stop myself from saying a foolish thing. Let me give thanks for my escape. I have a restless tongue, and am apt to say what I do not mean; and I do faint at nothing.”
“It was very opportune, my dear Miss Peniston.”
“La! la! as aunt says, one would think I went faint on purpose, in place of its being the heat, and a providential accident, and very annoying too; not a woman anywhere near me.”
“It saved a worthless life,” I said; “and but for it I should have had short shrift and the gallows on the Common.”
“Hush!” she returned. “That is not pretty talk. Your cousin is unlucky, he says, to have had you fall in his way when it was impossible to escape from arresting you. He told me Mr. Andre assured him he could have done no other thing, and that it was vain to regret what was the inevitable duty of a soldier. I think Arthur was the most pleased of all when you got away. I must say you went very fast for so grave a Quaker.”
“And could you see?” said I, slyly.