Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You tell him,” I said. “You must stick by me now, Jack Mount, for the Lord knows what trouble lies before me ere I shake the Pittsburg dust off my moccasins!”

  After a moment Mount said, “I suppose you don’t know where Butler is?”

  “You mean to say that Butler is back in Pittsburg?” I asked, faintly.

  “He’s in attendance on Dunmore, lad. Shemmy told me last night.”

  “Very well,” said I, smacking my suddenly parched lips. “I will kill him before I leave Pittsburg.”

  Mr. Henry rose from his seat beside Logan and came over to where I was standing by the window.

  “Mr. Cardigan,” he said, “I know from Mount something concerning your mission here. I know you to be a patriot, and I believe that your honourable guardian, Sir William Johnson, will aid us with all his heart in whatever touches the good of our country. Am I not right?”

  “Sir William’s deeds are never secret, sir,” I replied, cautiously. “All men may read his heart by that rule.”

  “Sir William has chosen in you a discreet deputy, to whom I beg to pay my sincerest compliments,” said Mr. Henry, smiling.

  “I can say this, sir,” I replied, with a bow; “that I have heard him many times commend your speeches and the public course which you pursue.”

  “Sir William is too good,” he replied, bowing.

  “Ay, sir,” I said, eagerly; “he is good! I do believe him to be the greatest and best of men, Mr. Henry. I am here as his deputy, though without orders, now that my mission to Colonel Cresap has failed. But, sir, I shall use my discretion, knowing Sir William’s mind, and this night I shall present to my Lord Dunmore a reckoning which shall not be easily cancelled!”

  “In the face of all his people?” asked Mr. Henry, curiously.

  “In the face of the whole world, sir,” I said, setting my teeth with a snap.

  He held out his finely formed hand; I took it respectfully.

  When he had gone away I drew Mount and Renard aside and asked them where Miss Warren was staying. They did not know.

  “We’ll make a tour of the town and find Shemuel; he knows,” suggested Mount.

  I assented, smiling bitterly to find myself so soon seeking Shemuel’s company; and we three, clad in our soiled buckskins, descended the stairway and sallied forth into the sunlit streets of Pittsburg, arm in arm.

  Riflemen, rangers, forest-runners, and the flotsam and jetsam from the wilderness were no rare spectacles in Pittsburg, so at first we attracted little attention. We would have attracted none at all had not Mount swaggered so, arms akimbo, fur cap over his left eye. He stopped at every tap-room, a sad habit of his in towns; and the oftener he stopped the more offensive became his swagger. The Weasel, too, strutted along, cap defiantly cocked, reaching up to tuck his arm under the elbow of his giant comrade, which at moments forced the little Weasel to march on tiptoe.

  It was strange and ludicrous, the affection between these waifs of the wilderness; what Mount did the Weasel imitated most scrupulously, drinking whatever his companion drank, swaggering when he swaggered, singing whatever catch Mount sang. And the oftener they drank the more musical they became with their eternal:

  “Diddle diddle dumpling,

  My son John!—”

  until I remonstrated so vigorously that they quieted their voices if not their deportment.

  It was on Pitt Street that we found Shemuel, trudging towards the King’s Road. A number of people gathered about him and followed him. Some bought ribbons or tablets for the races. The peddler saw us immediately, but made no sign as we approached until I asked the price of gilt buckles, and purchased three.

  Then the little Jew fumbled in his pockets and whined 226 and protested he could not make change, and I was uncertain what to say until he brightened up and begged us to follow to the “Bear and Cubs,” just opposite, where change might be had in the tap-room.

  The “Bear and Cubs” was a grizzly tavern, a squalid, unpainted house, swinging a grotesque sign which was meant to represent a she-bear suckling her young. The windows were dim with filth; the place reeked with the stale stench of malt and spirit dregs.

  Into this grewsome hostelry I followed, perforce, to the tap-room, where Mount and Renard bawled for ale while I made known my business to Shemuel, who curiously enough appeared to suspect in advance what I wanted.

  “If you hatt dold me this morning — ach! — bud I pelieved you care noddings, Mister Cardigan. She wass waiting to see you, sir, at Lady Shelton’s in the Boundary—”

  “Did you tell her I was here?” I asked, angrily.

  “Ach — yess! I wass so sure you would see her—”

  Exasperated, I shook my fist at the peddler.

  “You miserable, tattling fool!” I said, fiercely. “Will you mind your own business hereafter? Who the devil are you, to pry into my affairs and spy upon your betters?”

  “It wass to hellup you, sir,” he protested, spreading his fingers and waving his hands excitedly. “I dold you she wass to marry Lord Dunmore; if you hatt asked me I could haff dold you somedings more—”

  “What?”

  “The bans will be published to-morrow from efery church in Pittsburg, Richmond, and Williamsburg!”

  I glared at him, catching my breath and swallowing.

  “Sir,” he whined, “I ask your pardon, but I haff so often seen you in Johnstown, and Miss Warren, too, and — and — I would not haff harm come to her, or you, sir; and I pelieved you — you lofed her—”

  I looked at him savagely.

  “Ach! — I will mix me no more mit kindness to nobody!” he muttered. “Shemmy, you mint your peezeness and sell dem goots in dot pasket-box!”

  “Shemuel,” I said, “what did she say when you told her I was in Fort Pitt?”

  “Miss Warren went white like you did, sir.”

  “And you said you would tell me where she was to be found?”

  “Ach! — yess.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Miss Warren wass crying, sir—”

  “What?” I asked, astonished.

  “Yess, sir; Miss Warren she only sat down under the drees, and she cry mit herselluf.”

  “And you came to get me? And my manner made you believe I did not care to see Miss Warren?”

  “Miss Warren she knew I hatt come to fetch you. I dold her so. When I passed py dot Boundary again, she wass waiting under the drees—”

  “How long since?”

  “It is an hour, sir.”

  I fumbled in my belt and pulled out a gold piece.

  “Thank you, Shemmy,” I muttered, dropping it into his greasy cap; “tell Mount and Renard where I have gone.”

  “Ach — ach, Mister Cardigan,” cried Shemuel, plucking me timidly by the sleeve, “von vort, if you please, sir. Remember, sir, I beg of you, that Miss Warren must not stay here. And if she will stay, and if she will not listen to you, sir, I beg you to gome to me at vonce.”

  “Why?” I asked, searching his agitated face.

  “Pecause I haff a knowledge that will hellup you,” he muttered.

  “Very well,” I said, calmly. “I will come to you, Shemmy, if I need you. Where is Lady Shelton’s house?”

  He led me to a back window and pointed out the Boundary, which was a tree-shaded road skirting the inner fortifications. Then he opened the rear door, pointed out the way through a filthy alley, across the market square, and then north until I came to a large, white-pillared house on a terrace, surrounded by an orchard.

  As I walked swiftly towards the Boundary my irritation increased with every stride; it appeared to me that the world was most impudently concerning itself with my private affairs. First, Mount had coolly arranged for my reception by Dunmore without a word on the subject to me; and now 228 the peddler, Shemuel, had without my knowledge or consent made a rendezvous for me with Silver Heels before I knew for certain that she still remained in Pittsburg. The free direction of my own affairs appeared to be sli
pping away from me; apparently people believed me to be incapable of either thinking or acting for myself. I meant to put an end to that.

  As for Silver Heels, no wonder the announcement to her of my presence here had frightened her into tears. She knew well enough, the little hussy, that Sir William would not endure her to wed such a man as Dunmore: she knew it only too well, and, by the publishing of the bans, it was clear enough to me that she meant to wed Dunmore in spite of Sir William and before he could interfere or forbid the bans.

  As I hastened on, biting my lip till it bled, I remembered her vow to wed rank and wealth and to be “my lady,” come what might. And now the mad child believed she was in a fair way to fulfil her vow! I would teach her to try such tricks!

  I found no great difficulty in discovering the house. Stone steps set in the hill-side led up to an orchard, through which, bordered by a garden, walks of gravel stretched to the veranda of the white-pillared house with its dormers and dignified portico.

  There was a lady in the orchard, with her back turned towards me, leaning on a stone-wall and apparently contemplating the town below. My moccasins made no noise until I stepped on the gravel; but, at the craunch of the pebbles, the lady looked around and then came hastily towards me across the grass.

  “Are you a runner from Johnstown?” she asked, sharply.

  I stood still. The lady was Silver Heels. She did not know me.

  She did not know me, nor I her, at first. It was only when she spoke. And this change had come to us both within four weeks’ time!

  That she did not recognize me was less to be wondered at. The dark mask of the sun, which I now wore, had changed me to an Indian; anxiety, fatigue, and my awful peril in the Cayuga camp had made haggard a youthful face, perhaps scored and hollowed it. In these weeks I had grown tall; I 229 knew it, for my clothes no longer fitted in leg or sleeve. And I was thin as a kestrel, too; my added belt holes told me that.

  But that I had not recognized her till she spoke distressed me. She, too, had grown tall; her face and body were shockingly frail; she had painted her cheeks and powdered her hair, and by her laces and frills and her petticoat of dentelle, she might have been a French noblewoman from Quebec. It were idle to deny her beauty, but it was the beauty of death itself.

  “Silver Heels,” I said.

  Her hand flew to her bosom, then crept up on her throat, which I saw throbbing and whitening at every breath. Good cause for fear had she, the graceless witch!

  After a moment she turned and walked into the orchard. ‘Deed I scared her, too, for her dragging feet told of the shock I had given her, and her silk kirtle trembled to her knees. She leaned on the wall, looking out over the town as I had first seen her, and I followed her and rested against the wall beside her.

  “Silver Heels,” I asked, “are you afraid to see me?”

  “No,” she said, but the tears in her throat stopped her. Lord! how I had frightened her withal!

  “Do you know why I am here?” I demanded, impressively, folding my arms in solemn satisfaction at the situation.

  To my amazement she tossed her chin with a hateful laugh, and shrugged her shoulders without looking at me.

  “Do you realize why I am here?” I repeated, in displeasure.

  She half turned towards me with maddening indifference in voice and movement.

  “Why you are here? Yes, I know why.”

  “Why, then?” I snapped.

  “Because you believed that Marie Hamilton was here,” she said, and laughed that odd, unpleasant laugh again. “But you come too late, Micky,” she added, spitefully; “your bonnie Marie Hamilton is a widow, now, and already back in Albany to mourn poor Captain Hamilton.”

  My ears had been growing hot.

  “Do you believe—” I began.

  But she turned her back, saying, “Oh, Micky, don’t lie.”

  “Lie!” I cried, exasperated.

  “Fib, then. But you should have arrived in time, my poor friend. Last week came the news that Captain Hamilton had been shot on the Kentucky. Boone and Harrod sent a runner with the names of the dead. If you had only been here! — oh dear; poor boy! Pray, follow Mrs. Hamilton to Albany. She talked of nobody but you; she treated Mr. Bevan to one of her best silk mittens—”

  “What nonsense is this?” I cried, alarmed. “Does Mrs. Hamilton believe I am in love with her?”

  “Believe it? What could anybody believe after you had so coolly compromised her—”

  “What?” I stammered.

  “You kissed her, didn’t you?”

  “Who — I?”

  “Perhaps I was mistaken; perhaps it was somebody else.”

  I fairly glared at my tormentor.

  “Let me see,” said Silver Heels, counting on her fingers. “There were three of us there — Marie Hamilton, I, and Black Betty. Now I’m sure it was not me you kissed, and if it was not Marie Hamilton — why — it was Betty!”

  “Silver Heels,” said I, angrily, “do you suppose I am in love with Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Why did you court her?” demanded Silver Heels, looking at me with bright eyes.

  “Why? Oh, I — I fancied I was in love with you — and — and so I meant to make you jealous, Silver Heels. Upon my honour, that was all! I never dreamed she might think me serious.”

  The set smile on Silver Heels’s lips did not relax.

  “So you fancied you loved me?” she asked.

  “I — oh — yes. Silver Heels, I was such a fool—”

  “Indeed you were,” she motioned with her lips.

  How thin she had grown. Even the colour had left her lips now.

  “There’s one thing certain,” I said. “I don’t feel bound in honour to wed Mrs. Hamilton. I like her; she’s pretty and sweet. I might easily fall in love with her, but I don’t want to wed anybody. I could wed you if I chose, now, for Sir William wishes it, and he promised me means to maintain you.”

  “I thank Sir William — and you!” said Silver Heels, paler than ever.

  “Oh, don’t be frightened,” I muttered. “I can’t have you, and — and my country too. Silver Heels, I’m a rebel!”

  She did not answer.

  “Or, at least, I’m close to it,” I went on. “I’m here to seek Lord Dunmore.”

  As I pronounced his name I suddenly remembered what I had come for, and stopped short, scowling at Silver Heels.

  “Well, Micky?” she said, serenely. “What of Lord Dunmore?”

  I bent my head, looking down at the grass, and in a shamed voice I told her what I had heard. She did not deny it. When I drew for her a portrait of the Earl of Dunmore in all his proper blazonry, she only smiled and set her lips tight to her teeth.

  “What of it?” she asked. “I am to marry him; you and Sir William will not have him to endure.”

  “It’s a disgraceful thing,” I said, hotly. “If you are in your senses and cannot perceive the infamy of such a marriage, then I’ll do your thinking for you and stop this shameful betrothal now!”

  “You will not, I suppose, presume to interfere in my affairs?” she demanded, icily.

  “Oh yes, I will,” said I. “You shall not wed Dunmore. Do you hear me, Silver Heels?”

  “I shall wed Dunmore in July.”

  “No, you won’t!” I retorted, stung to fury. “Sir William has betrothed you to me. And, by Heaven! if it comes to that, I will wed you myself, you little fool!”

  The old wild-cat light flickered in her eyes, and for a moment I thought she meant to strike me.

  “You!” she stammered, clinching her slender hands. “Wed you! Not if I loved you dearer than hope of heaven, Michael Cardigan!”

  “I do not ask you to love me,” I retorted, sullenly. “I do not ask you to wed me, save as a last resort. But I tell you, I will not suffer the infamy of such a match as you mean to make. Renounce Dunmore and return with me to Johnstown, and I promise you I will not press my suit. But if you 232 do not, by Heaven! I shall claim my prior right un
der our betrothal, and I shall take you with me to Johnstown. Will you come?”

  “Lord Dunmore will give you your answer,” she said, looking wicked and shaking in every limb.

  “And I will give him his!” I cried. “Pray you attend to-night’s ceremony in the fortress, and you will learn such truths as you never dreamed!”

  I wiped my hot forehead with my sleeve, glaring at her.

  “Doubtless,” said I, sneeringly, “my attire may shock your would-be ladyship and your fashionable friends. But what I shall have to say will shock them more than my dirty clothes. True, I have not a bit of linen to clean my brow withal, and I use my sleeve as you see. But it’s the sleeve of an honest man that dries the sweat of a guiltless body, and all the laces and fine linen of my Lord Dunmore cannot do the like for him!”

  “I think,” said she, coldly, “you had best go.”

  “I think so too,” I sneered. “I ask your indulgence if I have detained you from the races, for which I perceive you are attired.”

  “It is true; I remained here for you, when I might have gone with the others.”

  Suddenly she broke down and laid her head in her arms.

  Much disturbed I watched her, not knowing what to say. Anger died out; I leaned on the wall beside her, speaking gently and striving to draw her fingers from her face. In vain I begged for her confidence again; in vain I recalled our old comradeship and our thousand foolish quarrels, which had never broken the strong bond between us until that last night at Johnstown.

  As I spoke all the old tenderness returned, the deep tenderness and affection for her that lay underneath all my tyranny and jealousy and vanity and bad temper, and which had hitherto survived all quarrels and violence and sullen resentment for real or imaginary offence.

  I asked pardon for all wherein I had hurt her, I prayed for her trustful comradeship once more as few men pray for love from a cold mistress.

  Presently she answered a question; other questions and 233 other answers followed; she raised her tear-marred eyes and dried them with a rag of tightly fisted lace.

  To soothe and gain her I told her bits of what I had been through since that last quarrel in Johnstown. I asked her if she remembered that sunset by the river, where she had spoken charms to the tiny red and black beetles, so that when they flew away the charm would one day save me from the stake.