“A year ago to-night you and I stood in jeopardy of our lives.”
She nodded; all day she had been living over those fearful hours of which this day was the anniversary.
“Yes, a year ago to-night Tarleton held us in his toils.”
“We have never talked of that dreadful time; now I want you to tell me everything you can recall of it. Sit down.”
As she obeyed, the wide shawl fell away and left in sight the silver brocade of her gown, and her shoulders rising white and beautiful from the lace of the low bodice. He started, and raised himself upon his elbow. Was he dreaming? No; the powder and the rose were in her hair, the saucy patch at the corner of her mouth. She had not forgotten; just so had she looked when she faced Tarleton, and risked her womanhood for his own safety. He could not speak, but his eyes did full homage to her beauty.
“I knew you would send for me, so I was ready,” she said, and smiled again. So it was for him she had robed herself thus!—there was a thrill of ecstasy in his veins. And then when he still did not speak, for sheer joy of looking at her, she began to talk of that terrible day; and both of them lived over in a quick rush of memory all its hopes and fears, its uncertainties and dangers. Her fingers were icy cold, and the very tremors that had then possessed her, crept again through her veins as she went from scene to scene, and he learned for the first time all of her deceptions and trials. So absorbed was she that she did not even know he had taken her hands in his, until she felt the hot pressure at the end of her narrative. Then when there seemed nothing left to tell, and he still looked at her in a silence more eloquent than words, she grew restless and rose to go; but he caught her skirt.
“Not yet, not yet! Betty is happy with her lover in the parlour, and mother is somewhere down there acting propriety or else fast asleep. For this one evening, at least, you shall belong to me.”
And then when those hot, trembling fingers had drawn her again to her seat, he went on:—
“There is one question I have wanted to ask you all these months—” And then, for very fear of her answer, he hesitated and substituted another. “Why did you not come back to me that last night? You knew I was waiting for you, longing for you with every heart-throb.”
“It was so late.”