Joscelyn was deeply moved, as she always was, to wound her mother; but she put the best face possible on it in order to cheer the disconsolate old lady.
“There, mother dear, ’tis not worth crying over. Not go to see Aunt Clevering because I cannot go? Why, that is nonsense. Of course you will go, and she will come here just the same. I will keep out of her way until she forgives me—for she will forgive me, never you fear. I am not surprised at her anger, but it will all come out right in the end; so don’t cry, little mother, you break my heart with your tears.”
But in her heart was serious question whether she would ever again be received upon friendly footing in the house over the way, which had been to her as a second home. She would never tell that she had made that speech to turn inquiry from her own house, where Richard was hiding; and she now doubted much if he would escape to tell the story himself. She sang no more that afternoon, but sat silently over her knitting. The weather did not tend to mend her spirits; for the drizzle of the morning had turned into a steady downpour, and the wind moaned about the gables and up the throat of the wide chimney like a lost spirit hopelessly seeking its reincarnation. Her mother was still brooding over the break with the Cleverings, and now and then lifting her kerchief to her face in a gesture that was a reproach to Joscelyn, who strove not to see it; and yet she watched for it persistently out of the tail of her eye. She grew more miserable each moment; and so hailed with delight the entrance of Barry and a fellow-officer, who had come to bask in the warmth of her smile.
“Your visit is a charity, gentlemen,” she said gayly, as she gave them chairs; “this weather serves one’s spirits and one’s ruffles alike, in that it leaves them both limp and frowsy.”
“Your mother seems more out of sorts than you.”
“Yes; mother is doing penance for my sin of last night, Captain Barry.”
“Your sin? Why, methinks you never committed anything more heinous than a misdemeanour. Come, make me your confessor, and I promise you complete and immediate absolution.”
“’Tis not your absolution, but Mistress Clevering’s that I need; she has excommunicated me for telling of the attic closet,” she spoke with an air of mock penitence that set her visitors off in a roar.
But Mistress Cheshire stopped them with a fresh burst of tears, “’Tis no matter for jesting with me, sirs. I am a subject of King George and wish him well, but he cannot take the place of Ann Clevering in my heart!”