In Stephen’s study, where Mother Jeanne, who had at last collected her wits a little, brought them breakfast, the Doctor related the story of the escape of Andrew Shadwell and the night’s adventures of Clotilde.
“She knew,” commented Stephen, when he heard of her toiling so late in the empty cottage; “she knew well indeed that, had I been here, I would never have permitted such a thing. She was making the most of my absence, the minx!”
When he heard how the English soldiers had marched past Hopewell unheard and unseen in the storm, and had brought the troublesome Tories safely away, he chuckled aloud and slapped his knee.
“We are well rid of Andrew Shadwell, the slippery rogue,” he said, “and this was, after all, the best way out of the situation. I wish the English joy of him. But when I overtook the troops from Boston this morning, I found them a disappointed set who had just learned that they had arrived a few hours too late. Their leader had naught to do but to march his men back again with as good a grace as he could, for the ship that brought the English troops was already far out to sea.”
When the Doctor reached that part of the tale dealing with the young Captain’s return to see that Clotilde was safe, he warmed to his task of storyteller.
“It was the deed of a gallant fellow,” he concluded, “and I would the boy were not so sorely hurt. I find I have a friendly feeling for him, not only on account of his courage but because of his resemblance to you. Even as he lies there, white and unconscious, he has a familiar look that strikes me as uncanny. Just go and see for yourself, if you do not believe me.”
Stephen mounted the stairs once more and stepped into the room where the wounded soldier lay. Bidding the Doctor’s servant, who watched beside the bed, to draw aside the curtain, he stood for some time gazing at the white face on the pillow. Then he turned, without a word, and went back to his waiting friend.
“I will show you why his face is so familiar,” he said.
He led the physician into the dining-room and pointed to the portrait that hung in the place of honour above the sideboard. It was a picture of Amos Bardwell, painted in England and sent many years ago to Alisoun Sheffield. As was the somewhat unnatural fashion of that day, the artist had pictured the young man on horseback, his painted steed prancing, his cloak flying out behind him and his plumed hat held aloft in his hand. Behind him was the usual background of woods and distant cliffs crowned by a castle. Face and figure were so much like the young officer’s upstairs that it was small wonder that Clotilde, when she saw him gallop down the road that October morning, had felt so sure she had seen him before. As Stephen and the Doctor looked at the portrait, both were thinking that it might have been meant for the wounded stranger himself, save that the picture was fifty years old and the young soldier was surely not half that age.