Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “‘SILVER HEELS!’ I STAMMERED”

  “Hay-foot! Straw-foot!” simpered a cornet of dragoons behind me, and I turned on him, and gave him a look.

  “Did you say you were hungry?” I whispered, backing my horse gently against the horse of the insolent cornet.

  “Hungry?” he stammered.

  “You mentioned hay, sir,” I said, fiercely.

  He turned red as a pippin but did not reply.

  Swallowing my anger and my shame for our militia yokels, I glared at the head of Colonel Butler’s regiment, now passing, and was comforted, for the clod-hoppers marched like regulars with a solid double rank of fifers shrilling out “Down, Derry, down!” as smart as you please.

  After them came the green-coated varlets, with a good round stench of the stables from their ranks, yet footing it proudly, and their fifes ringing a barbarous tune which is lately somewhat in vogue among us, the same being called “Yankee Doodle.”

  Followed our three companies of Royal Americans, drums beating “The Huron,” a most warming march and loudly applauded by the long lines of country folk and Indians, sitting on the stone walls; and after them the inharmonious regiment in yellow and red, with two men drunk and a dog-fight in the rear, soberly observed by my Lord Dunmore, who laid a bet with our Governor, and lost on the spotted dog, they say.

  There was a sham battle of the troops, too; half a gill to every fifth man, and fifty pounds for the cannon on the hill, which cost Sir William a pretty penny, our Governor refusing to allow for the powder burned. However, it was a fine pageant, and pleased all; and I was sorry when the last cartridge 96 was spent and the brigade band played, “God Save the King.”

  We followed Sir William to the pavilion, dismounting there to ascend the stairs and pay our respects to the Governor and to Lord Dunmore.

  “Come with me, Michael,” said Sir William, wiping his face with his hanker till it glistened; and I followed the Baronet into the enclosure.

  Lord Dunmore was tricked out like a painted actor, neither old nor young, but too white and pink and without any red blood in him, as far as I could see. He wore a wig — it was said he possessed twenty and valued at six thousand pounds — and his fingers, which I could see through the lace on his cuffs, were like white bird’s claws loaded with jewels.

  When Lord Dunmore saw Sir William he fell a-tapping his snuff-box and bobbing and smiling, nor did he rise until we had made our way to him.

  “Lud! Lud!” he said, and fell a-simpering, with hands raised in feigned amazement at the magnificence of the review. “Lud! Lud! Sir William! A gallant fête! A brave defilé! Militia, not regulars, you say! Vive Dieu, Sir William, a most creditable entraining! Permettez — mes compliments le plus distinguée!”

  “My aide-de-camp, Lord Dunmore,” said Sir William, bluntly; “your Lordship will remember Captain Cardigan who died before Quebec? His son, my Lord! — and my dear kinsman, Michael Cardigan, cornet in the Borderers.”

  “Strike me!” simpered Lord Dunmore. “Strike me, now, Sir William! He has his father’s eyes — Vrai Dieu! Curse me, if he has not his father’s eyes, Sir William!”

  At this remarkable discovery I bowed and said it was an honour to be considered like my father in any particular.

  “Burn me!” murmured his Lordship, in an ecstasy at my natural response. “Burn me, Sir William, what a wit he has, now!” And he peeped at me, squeezing his eyes into two weak slits, and laid his snuff-box against his nose. Lord! What a false face he pulled at me!

  Apparently surfeited with admiration, he invited Sir William to take snuff with him, then turning to Governor Tryon, who had just come into the stall, he fell to smirking and exclaiming 97 and vapouring about God knows what, until I, weary and cloyed, glanced around me at the crowd on the seats above us.

  There were a hundred pair of bright eyes fixed on us, and without vanity I perceived a few to meet mine, but the faces were not distinct, and I found it disconcerting.

  Then a deep, pleasant voice sounded close beside me, and looking around, I saw our Governor Tryon smiling at me.

  “I knew your father,” he said; “it was a privilege, Mr. Cardigan, and one I take advantage of to address the son of so gallant a gentleman.”

  I replied warmly and gratefully, yet with military deference, and I saw Sir William observing me, well pleased at my bearing.

  “In these times,” said the Governor, clasping his cloak over his epaulets, “it is a pleasure to meet with modest loyalty in the younger generation. Loyal to parent, loyal to King! I predict we shall hear from you, Mr. Cardigan.”

  “Please God, sir,” I replied, blushing scarlet; for into my mind crept that wavering doubt which, since Sir William had talked with me, haunted me like a shadow.

  The Governor passed by with his clanking dragoons, among them the young jackanapes who had presumed to sneer at our yeomanry, and we delivered a pair of scornful glances at each other which crossed like broadswords.

  And now my Lord Dunmore’s boudoir on wheels drove up, and his purring Lordship minced off in the midst of his flame-coloured Virginians, for all the world like a white cat dancing through hell fire.

  The ladies were rising, tying on sun-masks, standing in rows between the seats, and the officers loitered and whispered and played with their snuff-boxes, while the silent Mohawk chiefs looked on, standing like statues till the crowd gave them their liberty.

  One lady there was, in a mask and silvery cloak, who looked at me so long through the eye-holes that I felt my heart begin a-beating; and another, too, in mask and rose mantle, who lifted the linen a trifle, displaying a fresh, sweet, smiling mouth. This one in rose turned twice to look at me, and it 98 amused me to feel my heart go a-bumping at my ribs so loud, for she did truly resemble Marie Livingston.

  Sir William and Colonel Claus had joined Lord Dunmore in his coach; Sir John and Colonel Butler attached themselves to our Governor Tryon. I, abandoned, rode back to the Hall with a company of Virginians and dragoons, wondering if ever I might acquire such horsemanship as the Southerners displayed.

  Coming to the Hall, I met Sir William, whose smiling face grew haggard at sight of me, and he drew me apart, asking of news from Quider.

  “He is not yet dead, sir,” I replied, my heart aching for Sir William.

  For a moment he stood staring at the ground, then bidding me report to Mr. Duncan at the block-house, walked away to disguise his anxious visage again with the oldest mask in the world — a smile.

  That night Sir William provided two great banquets for our guests, one at the court-house in Johnstown, the other at Johnson Hall.

  The splendid banquet at the court-house was given to all the visiting officers except Lord Dunmore, Governor Tryon, and their particular aides. To it were invited the Virginians, the New-Yorkers, the important Mohawk, Seneca, and Onondaga sachems, and chiefs of the Long House. Also were bidden the officers of our Royal Americans, such officers of the Border House as had come with Governor Tryon, and all gentlemen of distinction who had brought their ladies.

  Colonel Claus and his lady presided as host and hostess, representing Sir William and Mistress Molly, and our brigade band played in the gallery during the banquet, and later on the portico of the court-house, where a great crowd of people had collected to cheer.

  The other banquet was given at the same hour in our house, to honour Lord Dunmore and Governor Tryon.

  There were gathered in the hallway and on the stairs a vast company of ladies and gentlemen when I came down from my little chamber to wait on Sir William. Here was the great Earl of Dunmore in a ring of fluttering ladies, peering, bobbing, tapping his snuff-box, preening the lace on 99 his cuffs — and I thought he resembled one of those irksome restless birds from the Canaries in a painted cage.

  There was our Governor Tryon in purple silk from head to foot, with the broad sash and star on his breast, leaning over, hands clasped behind his back, to whisper jest or flattery to a young girl who tapped at him with her f
an. There was my kinsman, Sir John Johnson, with his indifferent eyes and ungracious carriage, and old Colonel Butler watching the gay company as hawks, from sheer habit, watch peacocks, meaning no attack. There also strolled my impudent dragoon lad who had offended at the pavilion, and I will not deny he appeared to be an elegant and handsome officer, possessing those marked characteristics of fashion and assurance which one observes in all gentlemen from the city of New York.

  Making my way carefully amid rustling petticoats and a forest of painted fans all waving like the wings of a swarm of moths drawn by the candle-light, I passed Mistress Molly on the arm of Sir William, touching my lips to her pretty fingers, which she held out to me behind her back.

  Next I encountered Mr. Butler and honoured him with a scowl, which displayed my country breeding, it being the fashion among quality to greet one’s enemy with more elaborate courtesy than one accords to friends.

  People passed and repassed with laughter and whisper, and the scented wind from their fans swept my cheek.

  Suddenly it seemed as though the voice of Silver Heels sounded in my ears, and for a moment I stared about me, astonished that she should be here. But I could not find her. Then her voice sounded again, clear as a pebbled spring in all that chatter, and turning, I saw it came from a young girl standing behind me. She was very delicate and pretty in her powder and patches, truly somewhat pale and lacking in plumpness, but with a pair of great hazel eyes like Silver Heels’s, and the child’s full lips. Certainly she had Silver Heels’s voice, and her trick of widening her eyes, too, for now she perceived me, and —

  “Why, Micky!” she cried.

  “Silver Heels!” I stammered, striving to believe my eyes. What miracle of miracles had set her to grow tall and turn into a woman in a single week?

  I stared almost piteously at her, trying to find my own familiar comrade in this whispering shower of silk and ribbon, this delicate stranger, smiling breathlessly at me with sparkling teeth set on the edge of her painted fan.

  In her triumph she laughed that laugh of silver which sounded ever of woodlands and birds, the same laugh, the same gray eyes, and the same satin fingers laid on my wrist.

  “Silly,” she whispered, “I told you so. And it has come true; my gown is silk, my stockings silk, my shoes are Paddington’s make and silken to the soles!”

  “How did you grow?” I gasped.

  “Have I grown? Oh, my gown and shoes count, too, and my hair rolled by Betty till I vowed she meant to scalp me! See my egrettes! Are they straight, Micky?”

  Ere I could attempt to compose my thoughts, comes mincing my impudent dragoon, who seemed to know her, for he brought her a ribbon to tie above her elbow, explaining it was a new conceit from New York.

  “It’s this way,” he explained, utterly ignoring my presence; “I tie this bow of blue above your elbow, so! — with your gracious consent. Now for a partner to lead you to the table I seek some gentleman and tie a blue bow to his sword-hilt.”

  “Pray tie it to Mr. Cardigan’s,” said Silver Heels, mischievously. “I have much to say to him for his peace of mind.”

  The dragoon and I, face to face, regarded each other with menacing composure.

  “To deprive you of such an honour, sir,” said he, coolly, “I protest reduces me to despair; but the light blue bows have already been awarded, Mr. Cardigan.”

  Instinctively I glanced at his own sword-hilt, and there fluttered a light blue ribbon. At the same moment I perceived that Silver Heels had been perfectly aware of this.

  Mortified as I was, and stinging under the dragoon’s impudence, I controlled myself sufficiently to congratulate him and courteously deplore my own ill fortune, without a grimace, though it stuck in my throat to say it.

  “Let not your lady hear that!” said Silver Heels, with 101 her fan hiding her lips. “How do you know, sir, which partner fate and Mr. Bevan may allot you?”

  Mr. Bevan and I regarded each other in solemn hostility.

  “May I have the honour of attaching this ribbon to your hilt, sir?” he asked, stiffly.

  “You may, sir,” said I, still more stiffly, “if it is necessary.”

  He tied a red bow-knot to my hilt; we bowed to each other, then with a smile and a word to Silver Heels which I did not catch, he saluted us again and strolled off with his nose in the air and his hands full of ribbons of every hue — the fop!

  “Who is that pitiful ass?” I said, turning to Silver Heels.

  “Why, Michael!” she protested, reproachfully, yet smiling, too.

  “Oh, if he’s one of your friends, I ask indulgence,” said I, mad enough to pluck the blue knot from her arm.

  “Truly, Michael,” she sniffed, “you are still very young.”

  She seated herself by the big clock; I sat beside her, sullenly, and for a time I peered at her sideways. Verily, the impossible had overtaken us; she appeared to be fully as tall as half the ladies gathered around us; her self-possession and obvious indifference to me completed my growing discomfort. I looked at her small, silk-covered toes pushing out under her petticoat.

  “Is the dandelion juice on them yet?” I asked, with piteous playfulness.

  “Don’t talk like that!” she said, sharply, drawing her feet in. And with that petulant movement the playmate I had so often bullied, slipped away from me forever, leaving in her place a dainty thing of airs and laces to flout me, whom I knew not, but whom I meant to be avenged on; for at moments, as I sat there, I could have yelled aloud in my vexation.

  Lord! how they all ogled her, and came a-mincing, gentlemen and ladies, old and young, and I heard whispers around me that she was a beauty and would be rich one day. My Lord Dunmore, too, came a-dancing pit-pat! till I thought to hear his bones creak inside his white silk; and the dragoon jackanapes was there, having tied up everything with his ribbons save his own long ears, and it infuriated me to see 102 him standing guard protector over Silver Heels, with jealous smiles for all who approached.

  Now what the devil had seized all these gentlemen to set them smirking and vapouring over Silver Heels, I did not know, or rather, I knew perfectly well, because it was as plain as a Mohawk moccasin on a spotted trail that Silver Heels had suddenly become a beauty. Even I could see that. Granted her bosom lacked somewhat in fulness, granted a childish leanness of arm and neck, granted even a pallor which adorned her not, and which, to tell the truth, I knew came from fright, there was something in the frail moulding of her that drew eyes, something in the arm’s slim contours that touched even me.

  I might have taken a pride in her, had not all these bobbing pigeons come crowding about to share openly my unconfessed admiration. But they bowed and strutted and posed and flattered, pressing closer until she was shut from my sight by a circle of coat-skirts, tilted swords, and muscular calves in silken stockings.

  Presently our fiddlers and bassoons started the “Huron;” there was a flutter to find ribbons that matched, and a world of bustle and laughter, with gentlemen and ladies comparing colours and bowing and curtseying without regard to neighbors’ toes and petticoats — the tittering popinjays!

  Truly, if this mode of choosing one’s lady prevailed in New York, I at least found it smacked something of silliness and French frivolity.

  I had now been crowded up against our tall clock in the hall, and stood there striving to get a glimpse of Silver Heels, completely forgetting that somewhere in the crush a lady with a scarlet ribbon on her arm might be waiting for me. And doubtless I should have remained there, gnawing my lip, till doomsday, had not Silver Heels espied me and come fluttering through the crowd with:

  “Oh, Micky! Have you seen your lady? Your old friend Marie Livingston! But she is wedded now; she is that pretty Mrs. Hamilton from Saint Sacrement. Oh, you lucky boy! All the officers are raving over her! But I asked her if she remembered you, and she said she didn’t, so there!”

  “Silver Heels,” I began, with the first appealing glance I 103 had ever bestowed on a woman; “Silv
er Heels, I want to tell you something.”

  I do not believe she was listening, or perhaps the chatter around us drowned my voice, which was husky and over-fond, for she cried: “You must not detain me, Michael. Mr. Bevan is waiting for me.”

  And with that she was gone into the whirl, leaving me high and dry against my clock, and furious over I knew not what. For truly I myself did not know what it was I had been about to say to Silver Heels. As for this Mrs. Hamilton, it madded me to hear of her. I had long forgotten Marie Livingston — save as a name to goad Silver Heels withal.

  Mrs. Hamilton, forsooth! What the foul fiend had I to do with another man’s wife, whether Hamilton or Smith or Jones I cared not, while that ape of a New-Yorker had set himself in my rightful place beside Silver Heels! And what stabbed deepest was that Silver Heels found pleasure in his foolish company — ay, plainly preferred him to me — the ungrateful minx! I prayed fervently she might live to repent it. I pictured her remorse when she came to her senses. And in a moment more I had slipped into one of my waking dreams wherein justice was dealt out by the jugful all around, and I emerged from some scenes of carnage, calm, triumphant, gently forgiving Silver Heels the accumulated sins of her misspent life.

  Sullenly dreaming there under the tall clock, and happening to lift my eyes towards heaven for some of its spare vengeance, I perceived on the stairs that same lady who had half raised her sun-mask at the review — I mean the one in the rose mantle, not the other in the silvery cloak, whom I now knew had been Silver Heels.