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Updated: June 24, 2025
Miss Quiney and Ruth Josselin, seated that evening in the drawing-room at Sabines, were startled at eight o'clock or thereabouts by a knocking on the front door. Miss Quiney looked up from her tambour-work, with hand and needle suspended in mid-air, and gazed across at Ruth, who, seated at the harpsichord, had been singing softly murmuring rather the notes of Ben Jonson's Charis her Triumph
She held the boy at arm's length, lovingly as Captain Hanmer came and stood by the tent door. So life might yet sound with honest laughter; ay, and at the back of laughter, with the firm tread of duty. The story of Ruth Josselin and Oliver Vyell is told.
The tall black halted a little within the doorway, saluted and stood grinning respectfully, his white teeth gleaming in the candle-light. "Yo' pardon, ladies. His Honah sends to say he entertainin' to-night. Plenty people drink his Honah's health an' long life to Sir Olivah Vyell. He wish pertick'ly Mis' Josselin drink it.
The ladies persuaded me Adam's old excuse; I can deny nothing to the sex. . . . But what have we yonder? A race?" "It would appear so." "A very hollow one, if I may criticise. That youngster moves like a deer. . . . And what is his reward to be? another glance of these bright eyes? Ah, Miss Josselin, you make fools and heroes of us all!"
Ruth turned from him to applaud young Lemuel, who came darting into the enclosure. "See old Jonathan!" panted the boy, looking back and laughing. "That's how they ran at Louisbourg. . . . Miss Josselin, you should have made it a mile and I'd have shown you some broken-winded ones." He laughed again and turned in apology to Mr. Silk.
This fight was fought on March 27, 1351, between thirty Breton gentlemen of the Blois faction, drawn from the garrison of Josselin, and a less noble but even more strenuous band of thirty English and other adventurers of the Montfort party, from the garrison of Ploermel, seven miles to the east.
She was indeed gathering up her skirts for the run, when in the hall she almost collided with the Reverend Malachi Hichens, who stood there with his nose buried in a vase of roses, while behind his back his hands interwove themselves and pulled each at the other's bony knuckles. "Ah!" He faced about with a stiff bow, and a glance up at the tall clock. "You are late this morning, Miss Josselin.
Hichens might be dry inhumanly dry and his methods repellent; but there were the books, after all, and the books held food for her hunger, wine for her thirst. So too the harpsichord held music, though Miss Quiney's touch upon it was formal and lifeless. . . . In these eighteen months Ruth Josselin had been learning eagerly, teaching herself in a hundred ways and by devices of which she wist not.
"If your passion for Ruth Josselin held an ounce of honesty, you would not be glad; for even in this world you have ruined her." "Mr. Trask, I have not." Mr. Trask glanced at him quickly. " Upon my honour as a gentleman I have not, neither do I desire it . . . Sir, twice in this half-mile you have prompted me to ask, What, here on this meadow, prevents my killing you? Wait; I know your answer.
She had left him with a promise to lay her conscience in prayer before the Lord; and, next morning, Ruth's beauty had done the rest. "Good-morning, Miss Josselin!" Ruth started and glanced up the slope with a shiver. The voice of Mr. Silk always curdled her flesh. "La! la!" went on Mr. Silk, nodding down admiration. "What a group to startle! Ha, ha!"
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