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CHAPTER III.
Robe of satin and Brussels lace,
Knots of flowers and ribbons too,
Scattered about in every place,
For the revel is through.
And there, in the midst of all this pretty disorder of satin and lace and flowers, sits Sibyl, far into the night, or rather morning, turning over and over in her mind something that effectually banishes sleep.
By and by, as she turns it over for the twentieth time, she says aloud to herself: "To think that it should be given to me to do,—made my duty! Uncle Jeffrey taught me that, as he has taught me many things these past months,—to keep my own counsel, for one thing.
"Ah, Uncle Jeffrey, you have fancied me all these months naught but a vain little puppet who could be led to forget anything in a round of routs and balls. Well, I like the routs and balls dearly, dearly, but I like something else better. I like what my father has taught us, what my dear Eph is going to fight for, and perhaps die for, far, far better. Yet I felt like a cheat to-night as I led Sir Harry on to tell me what he did,—Sir Harry, who thinks me, as all the rest do, a stanch little Tory, for I have kept my counsel indeed, and no one suspects. But oh, it is odious, it is odious, this war business; yet I have been taught how to do my duty, and I have done it. Yes, I have done my duty, for 'the reporting of important facts, however gained, in times of war, is part of war tactics.' Yes, these are your words, Uncle Jeffrey, and oh, how they flashed up to me to-night when Sir Harry told me of the British vessel, and how they fairly rung in my ears like an order, when it suddenly came to me how I could get this important fact that I had gained sent to the right quarter by means of good Anthony Styles and that parcel-box of his, through which so many messages have gone safely.
"Oh, I could laugh, I could laugh, if I didn't shiver so, when I think of it! Sir Harry, Sir Harry of all persons, dropping that message into Anthony Styles's hands,—Anthony Styles, the stanch rebel whom they think a stanch Tory! Oh, I could laugh, I could laugh! And now if everything goes well,—if everything goes well, my dear rebels will not be swept off the earth by British arms quite yet!
Sibyl's reflections
Sibyl's reflections
"But, hark! that is the clock; it is striking one, and I out of bed and gabbling to myself in this foolish way of mine, 'like a play-acting woman,' as Uncle Jeffrey would say of me. But I will not stay up a minute longer. So good-night, good-night, my dear rebels, g—ood-night!"
The clock was striking four the next afternoon when a weather-beaten man, who had a look as if he had once been a seaman, knocked at the side door of Mr. Jeffrey Merridew's mansion and asked to see young Mistress Merridew.
"It's Shoemaker Styles," the maid informed Sibyl, "and he says you must come down and try on the slipper he has brought; he's not sure about the heel. He's in the hall-room, mem."
It was with a wildly beating heart that Sibyl, obeying this summons, ran down to the little hall-room where Anthony Styles awaited her.
He stood with the slipper in his hand as she entered the room; and before he could close the door behind her, he called out in a frank, loud voice: "I thought you had better try on the shoe, miss; I wasn't sure of the heel."
The moment the door was closed, however, he came forward eagerly, and in a low tone said: "It's all right, little mistress. I heard the click of the tunnel-box last night, for I hadn't turned in, and afore many minutes I was up and off in my boat with the message in my head; I burnt the paper! There was a stiff breeze, and I reached the cutter in the quickest time I ever made, and got back afore daylight with nobody the wiser. Shoemaker Styles understands his old sailor business better than shoemaking," with a grim laugh, "and no Tory knows these waters as I do."
"And it's all right, and the end will be all right?" faltered Sibyl, anxiously.
"All right! You'll know for yourself by nightfall, perhaps; and now God bless you, little mistress. You've done a great service; and if ever Anthony Styles can sarve you, he'll do it with a whole heart,—God bless you, God bless you!" and with these words Shoemaker Styles hurried off, leaving Sibyl with the slipper still in her hand, and both of them quite oblivious of that important trying-on process.
The day after the ball was a busy one for Sir Harry Willing, and it was not until late in the afternoon that he felt himself at liberty to take his accustomed saunter about town.
As he came in sight of the gilded boot, he smilingly thought: "I wonder if Shoemaker Styles has done his duty by the little slipper; if he has, I shall dance with my lady Sibyl at Madame Boutineau's this evening."
But Sir Harry did not dance at Madame Boutineau's that evening, for when at nightfall he returned to his quarters, he was met by the disastrous tidings that the long-looked for, eagerly expected British brig, loaded with supplies for the King's army, had been captured off Lechmere's Point by the Yankee rebels.
It was not many months after this capture that the British evacuated Boston. When Sir Harry Willing took leave of Sibyl Merridew, he pleaded for some token of remembrance.
"You will not promise yourself to me," he said in reproachful accents, "but give me some token of yourself, some gage of amity at least."
"But what—what can I give you, Sir Harry?" asked Sibyl, not a little touched and troubled.
"Give me the little slipper you wore that night we danced together at the Province House."
"That—that slipper?" and Sibyl blushed and paled.
"Yes—ah, you will, you will."
A moment's hesitation; then with a strange smile, half grave, half gay, Sibyl answered, "I will."