Part 7 (1/2)
”So dear, Rebecca.”
”She must be wondrous happy, Ramsay.” A tumult of effort. ”If I could only take her place----”
”Take her place, Rebecca?”
”My father hath the key--if--if--if I took her place, she might go free.”
”Take her place, child! What folly is this--dear, kind Rebecca? Would 't be any better to send you to the rope than Hortense? No--no--dear child!”
At that her agitation abated, and she puzzled as if to say more.
”Dear Rebecca,” said I, comforting her as I would a sister, ”dear child, run home. Forget not little Hortense in thy prayers.”
May the angel of forgiveness spread a broader mantle across our blunders than our sins, but could I have said worse?
”I have cooked dainties with my own hands. I have sent her cakes every day,” sobbed Rebecca.
”Go home now, Rebecca,” I begged.
But she stood silent.
”Rebecca--what is it?”
”You have not been to see me for a year, Ramsay.”
I could scarce believe my ears.
”My father is away to-night. Will you not come?”
”But, Rebecca----”
”I have never asked a thing of you before.”
”But, Rebecca----”
”Will you come for Hortense's sake?” she interrupted, with a little sharp, hard, falsetto note in her baby voice.
”Rebecca,” I demanded, ”what do you mean?”
But she snapped back like the peevish child that she was: ”An you come not when I ask you, you may stay!” And she had gone.
What was she trying to say with her dark hints and overnice scruples of a Puritan conscience? And was not that Jack Battle greeting her outside in the dark?
I tore after Rebecca at such speed that I had cannoned into open arms before I saw a hulking form across the way.
”Fall-back--fall-edge!” roared Jack, closing his arms about me. ”'Tis Ramsay himself, with a sword like a butcher's cleaver and a wit like a broadaxe!”
”Have you not heard, Jack?”
”Heard! s.h.i.+p ahoy!” cried Jack. ”Split me to the chin like a cod!