Part 21 (2/2)
”Oh, the lending is nothing! 'Twas your look and action when I read his name. 'Tis your look now, your look of guilt. Oh, to see that flush of discovered shame on _your_ face! You care for this man, I can see that!”
”Well, what if I do?”
”Then you confess it? Oh, can it be you that say this?--you that stand there with eyes that drop before mine for shame--nay, eyes that you raise with defiance! Brazen--oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d, tell me 'tis all a mistake! Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my Margaret, my Madge--little Madge, that found me a home that day I came to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on Ned's account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and--always--”
He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering his face with his hands. When he next looked up, with haggard countenance, he saw her lips twitching and tears in her eyes.
”Ah!” he exclaimed, with a flash of hope, and half rose to go to her.
”No, no! Let me alone!” she cried, escaping narrowly from that surrender to her feelings which would have meant forfeiting the fruits of her long planning.
His mood changed.
”I'll not endure this,” he cried, rising and pacing the floor. ”You'll find I'm no such weakling, though I can weep for my wife when I lose her love. _He_ shall find it so, too! I understand now what you meant by 'to-night of all nights.' He was to meet you to-night. He's quartered in the house, you say. He was to slink up, no doubt, when all were out of the way--your father divines little of this, I'll warrant. Well, he may come--but he shall find _me_ waiting at my wife's door!”
”You'll wait in vain, then. He is very far from here to-night.”
”I'll believe that when it's proven. I find 'tis well that I, 'of all men,' came here to-night.”
”Nay, you're mistaken. You had been more like to find him to-night where you came from, than where you've come to.”
How true it is that a woman may always be relied on to say a word too much--whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of giving an apt answer, I presume not to decide.
”What can that mean?” said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her tone and look. ”Find him where I came from? Why, that's our camp. What does he do there, 'to-night of all nights?' Explain yourself.”
”Nothing at all. I spoke without thinking.”
”The likelier to have spoken true, then! So your--acquaintance--might be found in our camp to-night? Charles Falconer, a British officer. I can't imagine--not as a spy, surely. Oho! is there some expedition?
Some attack, some midnight surprise? This requires looking into.”
”I fear you will not find out much. And if you did, it would be too late for you to carry a warning.”
”The expedition has too great a start of me--is that what you mean?
That's to be seen. I might beat Mr. Falconer in this, as he has beaten me--elsewhere. I know the Jersey roads better than I have known my wife's heart, perchance. What is this expedition?”
”Do you think I would tell you--if there were one?”
”I'm satisfied there is some such thing. But I doubt no warning of mine is needed, to defeat it. Our army is alert for these night attempts. We've had too many of 'em. If there be one afoot to-night, so much the worse for those engaged in it.”
This irritated her; and she never used the skill to guard her speech, at her calmest; so she answered quickly:
”Not if it's helped by traitors in your camp!”
”What?--But how should you, a woman, know of such a matter?”
”You'll see, when the honours are distributed.”
”This is very strange. You are in this officer's confidence, perhaps.
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