“True, true,” said Joscelyn, still with her air of pretence, only now it was playful; “she loves her king, but, you see, she lives not neighbours with him; and so, forsooth, she cannot compare her loaves with his on a baking day, nor ask the loan of his pie pans, nor offer her mixing bowl in return. Ah, gentlemen, there is a homely charm in proximity of which the poets wot not!”
And so the talk ran on for a few minutes, and the visitors agreed they had never found Mistress Joscelyn so charming or so witty. Then they fell to talking of the military news, of Tarleton’s determination to ferret out the hidden spy, and of the burning of the Reverend Hugh McAden’s library by that division of the army stationed at Red House, a few miles distant. To all of the first she listened with an outward show of indifference, but with an inward quaking. The other news interested her less; but for obvious reasons was also less embarrassing.
“I pray you, Captain Barry, why should the soldiers burn the reverend gentleman’s library? ’Twas innocent enough, and he himself has been dead this twelvemonth.”
“Well, they found from his books he was a Presbyterian; and being that, he must perforce be also a rebel.”
“And they consigned his books to the same fate they believed him to be enjoying—the fire? Pray you, sir, were the flames blue? Being the very essence of Presbyterianism, they should have been blue, you know.”
“Capital! I shall tell his lordship of your excellent joke.”
She hated herself for her little pleasantry, for she had sincerely admired the minister, whom she had known since childhood; but she must keep up a show of gayety, that these young men might carry a good report of her to headquarters.
With the growing cloudiness the day was visibly shortened. Joscelyn, glancing now and then at the window, watched the going of the light with secret satisfaction. Already the opposite houses were becoming indistinct, and as the shadows grew apace, just in proportion did her spirits rise; the danger was drifting away, and the man upstairs now had a chance for life. But just as she was congratulating herself that the ordeal was past, there came a trampling of hoofs at the door; and Tarleton’s voice, giving some order, made her realize that the crisis had perchance but just now come. For one awful moment the power of motion forsook her; then with a masterly effort at calmness, she said:—
“Mother, entertain the gentlemen while I see why Samuel does not bring the lights.”
She managed to walk with becoming leisure to the parlour door; but once outside she almost flew up the stairs. Down on her knees before the fire in her room, she wrote rapidly upon a scrap of paper:—