“Begone to your home, and bide there till you learn some sense,” she cried sharply. “What’s the use in butting your brains out against a wall, when there’s room enough to go around it? There is no fool like a self-made fool! Go.” But when the girl had gone a few steps she made her return. “Promise me truly,” she whispered, “that you’ll go straight home and stay until the fire you kindled here burns down a bit—promise you will not stir from the house, or I shall not sleep to-night.”
“I promise, dear Mistress Strudwick,” Joscelyn said, kissing the big hand that patted her cheek. “You heard me say I was sorry our townsfolk were taken, and so I am.”
“Yes, yes. Harkee, tell your mother I say to be sure and send Amanda Bryce a loaf of hot bread for supper—Billy will be hungry with running so far from Monmouth,” she said, with a meaning wink. In truth, she intended the hot bread as a peace-offering to Mistress Bryce, for it was by such small acts of quiet diplomacy that she kept down the enmity against the Cheshires, or rather against Joscelyn, since she it was who aroused the resentment.
Slowly the girl went down the street thinking of the scene just passed. Mistress Strudwick was right; it was a disgrace for women to brawl thus upon the public thoroughfares; never again would she let her temper get the better of her in this way—only they should not touch her. And already half-forgetful of her resolution, she mounted her steps with flashing eyes and flaming cheeks.
Presently lights began to glimmer through the dusk, and when the dark really came every house in the town showed a candle in its window in token of the advantage won at Monmouth, for since Washington held the field they deemed him victorious. Even in those houses where grief had entered, the light shone; for true patriotism is never selfish. Only the Cheshire windows were dark, so that the house made a blot in the street. Mistress Cheshire had gone to the Cleverings to condole with them over Richard; but Joscelyn, because of her promise to Mistress Strudwick, had bided at home, though she would much have loved to comfort Betty. From porch to porch the women called to each other, and some of the girls sang snatches of song here and there, like mocking-birds hid in the shadows. But Joscelyn sat at her upper window, silent and musing, thinking what a beautiful thing Richard Clevering had done to let the little lad go free while he himself went back to captivity. Suddenly a voice below her whispered:—
“Hist! Joscelyn, Joscelyn!”
She leaned over the window-sill. “Who is it?”
“It is I—Billy Bryce. I have only a minute, for mother must not know I came, but I have a message for you.”
“From whom comes it, Billy?”
“From Richard. Come quickly.”