“Slip away up to mother’s room and write her a note; I will see that she gets it this night,” and, mollified, he went.
Upstairs in the attic, shivering under the blankets behind the big chest, Richard hearkened to the subdued echoes of gayety from below and went over thoughtfully the events of the day. All the morning and afternoon he had felt the nets closing about him, and when he read Joscelyn’s hasty warning he knew that death stood at his elbow. Not that hope died, but what could hope do in such straights? He made ready as she bade him, folding the blankets and straightening the carpet, putting his boots into a barrel under a lot of old shoes and odds and scraps. Then with his ear to the door, he had waited for what seemed a dragging age. Always his care was for Joscelyn. Even when, during the search, the door was opened, and he stood crushed against the wall with his would-be captors and murderers not six feet away, the uppermost thought in his mind was for her, anxiety for her safety, admiration for her magnificent courage. Slipping out of the room in that momentary darkness, he had felt like a traitor deserting the thing on earth dearest to him, and had cursed the fate that sent him away. But the supreme moment came when, crouching by her bed, he saw through the tester curtain the British officer pause in the door with his lifted light. One step out into the room, and the flimsy curtain could not have hidden the figure of the man behind it. On that one more step hung life or death. Breathless, Richard waited, his unsheathed dirk in his hand. He knew this man,—hated as no other Englishman was hated through the length and breadth of the land,—standing thus unconscious of any danger, was utterly within his power. One strong upward blow where the heart was left uncovered by the lifted arm, and the cause of American liberty would lose one of its deadliest enemies. But the guards below, the soldiers swarming in the street—and Joscelyn! At thought of her the murderous instinct in his soul was quelled, and without so much as a relaxed muscle, he saw Tarleton turn from the room. Then he had hidden himself more carefully and waited for her coming. Mistaking for her the maid who came to light the fire, he was near to self-betrayal; and he could not remember how he had gotten out of sight when later on Mary burst into the room; but lying now at full length under the sloping rafters, he smiled at the measures Joscelyn had used to dispose of her, recognizing that subtle loyalty which would, in dire straits, give up a friend’s love secret to another, but would not without an effort sacrifice that friend’s modesty.
Brave girl, what a spirit and resolution were hers! And yet he had seen her cry over a dead wren and flinch from the sight of his hunting-gun. And how many trials and perils he had drawn upon her by his presence, although if taken he had resolved to live only long enough to proclaim her blameless. Well, when the revel down below should be over, he would steal away, for he would be a source of danger to her no more. And, besides, Greene needed his information. He must face his fate and take what chances he might; that was a scout’s fate and duty; and so he planned his course. By and by he left his couch and stood at the door to try and separate Joscelyn’s voice from the medley of sounds that made their way up to him; the least scrap of a sentence would be as balm to his aching heart. But he listened long in vain; all was a confused babble; then suddenly a voice called her, and she answered clearly that she was sitting on the stair with Captain Barry. And somebody said, “Of course.” And then there was a general laugh that somehow set Richard’s blood in a strange tingle of pain.
So she was sitting there just below him, within sight if he but dared to crack the door. And such a longing came upon him that he did turn the key and made a little opening, and saw the back of her head and her scarlet bodice as she bent down to some one sitting below her. A keen jealousy smote him; who was her companion, was he handsome or homely? Of course he was making love to her; no one could look that close into her eyes and not love her. And she,—was she smiling with the sweet shyness he loved but wanted no other man to see? It was only by a supreme effort of will that he dragged himself away and fastened the door again. Would they never go, those idle gossiping people with their thoughts absorbed by pleasure and merriment—never go and let her come to him for just one minute of divine joy? How he hated them all for staying; and above all, how he hated that man on the stairs whispering his heart into her ear.
Presently there came the clatter of dishes, and then he remembered he had had no supper and it must be close upon midnight. With the coming of the dark the wind had risen and the garret was bitterly cold; but busy with plans for his escape and with thoughts of her, he scarcely noticed how stiff and numb his limbs were.
An hour later there were calls of “good-by,” and the sound of opening and closing doors below, mingled with shrill feminine voices calling for wraps, and out in the street the stamping of horses. Then silence reigned, and he knew the guests had departed. Presently there was a slow tread upon the stairs, and Mistress Cheshire called back some directions to those below. Then a lighter, quicker step followed, and Mary Singleton went singing to Joscelyn’s room. Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes of intense silence went by, and then a slender thread of light shone under the door; and so faint as to be almost inaudible, a tap fell on the panel. Quickly as possible he drew the bolt and opened the door, but only just in time to see Joscelyn enter her own room and close the door. On a table, in reach of his hand, stood a shaded candle and beside it was his supper. It was for this she had called him; but hungry as he was, he forgot it in his bitter disappointment that he was not to speak to her. Time pressed, however, and soon he was back in the attic, devouring the food she had left. Particularly grateful to him was the mug of steaming hot tea.
“Tax or no tax, it cheers me up, temptress that you are, sweet Joscelyn. Perchance a Continental toast may override the Royalist poison lurking in it, and so I pledge Nathaniel Greene and his trusted scout—particularly the scout.” He laughed softly as he drained the cup.
Physically he was strengthened and warmed for the flight before him, but his heart was heavy with disappointment and dread. Once he abandoned the idea of attempting to escape; the house had been searched and the guard removed, therefore he was safer here than anywhere else, and he must see her before he went. But more unselfish council prevailed; it was not his safety only that must be considered. The knowledge he had gained would be of inestimable value to Greene; the going of the guard left the way open to him, and it was duty, not personal inclination, that must dictate his course.
He waited until the tall clock below chimed one, and then made ready for his departure. He had resolved not to tell Joscelyn of his plans even if he might have spoken with her, for he wanted her sleep troubled by no anxiety for him; but the yearning of his heart found expression in the farewell he left upon the senseless panels of her door. Then, boots in hand, he crept downstairs and into the dining room. Here the rear door fastened with a latch, the string of which was drawn inside at night. Softly he stepped out, closing it behind him, and stood a moment pushing the string back through its hole, that those behind might be safe; then, hugging the fence, he crept to the gate and was soon in the alley outside. The darkness, the soft mud, and the howling wind were all in his favour. He knew his way even in the gloom, and so, making now and then a detour to avoid a public street or a possible sentry post, he came at last to the outskirts of the town, keeping always in the direction opposite the British camp. The bridge he knew must be well guarded, and so must the road over the mountains; hence he kept directly across the fields to where the river bends under the cliff called “Lovers’ Leap.” Ahead of him, behind a clump of bushes, burned a low fire, and he crept up on hands and knees to hear what the two men sitting there were saying. One of them was surlily poking the fire:—
“If we break camp to-morrow, how the devil can we march over such soggy roads?”