Janice Meredith: A Story of the American RevolutionFord, Paul Leicester
History
Janice Meredith: A Story of the American Revolution
Ford, Paul Leicester
United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Fiction
"'T is past belief, Miss Tabitha, except they want to save
their skins by never fighting. 'T was Joe Bagby the bumpkins
chose--a fellow I've knocked down without his resenting
it. A cotswold lion, who works his way by jokes and by
hand-shakes. He 's the best friend of every one who ever
lived, and I make no doubt, if a British regiment appears,
he'll say he loves the lobsters too much to lead the 'Invincibles'
against them."
"No doubt," agreed Tibbie. "Canst tell me also who--
who--how Clarion is?"
But this question was never answered, for the squire appeared
at this point, and the sleigh was quickly speeding
towards Greenwood. It was after dark when it drew up at
its destination, for the spring thaw was beginning, and the
roads soft and deep. Janice was so stiff with the long sitting
and the cold that she needed help both in alighting and in
climbing the porch steps. This the groom gave her, and
when she was safely in front of the parlor fire, he assisted in
the removing of her wraps, while Mrs. Meredith performed a
like service for the squire in the hallway.
"Dost remember your question, Miss Janice," asked
Charles, "just as you drove away from Greenwood?"
"Yes."
"She was one of the three graces."
"Was she very beautiful?"
"The ancients so held her, but they had never seen you,
Miss Janice."
The girl had turned away as she nonchalantly asked the last
question, and so Charles could not see the charmingly demure
smile that her face assumed, nor the curve of the lips, and
perhaps it was fortunate for him that he did not. Yet all
Miss Meredith said was,--
"Not that I cared to know, but I knew Tibbie would be
curious."
XVI
A VARIETY OF CONTRACTS
The spring thaw set in in earnest the day after the
squire's return to Greenwood, and housed the
family for several days. No sooner, however, did
the roads become something better than troughs of
mud than the would-be Assemblyman set actively to work for
his canvass of the county, daily riding forth to make personal
calls on the free and enlightened electors, in accordance with
the still universal British custom of personal solicitation. What
he saw and heard did not tend to improve his temper, for
the news that the Parliament was about to vote an extension
to the whole country of the punitive measures hitherto directed
against Massachusetts had lighted a flame from one end of
the land to the other. The last election had been with difficulty
carried by the squire, and now the prospect was far
more gloomy.
When a realising sense of the conditions had duly dawned
on the not over-quick mind of the master of Greenwood, he
put pride in his pocket and himself astride of Joggles, and
rode of an afternoon to Boxley, as the Hennions' place was
named. Without allusion to their last interview, he announced
to the senior of the house that he wished to talk over the
election.
"He, he, he!" snickered Hennion. "Kinder gettin' anxious,
heigh? I calkerlated yer 'd find things sorter pukish."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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