"
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! Ship ahoy!" cried Jack.
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