Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I’d be a belle there,” she observed. “I’d have a train o’ beaux and macaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it would please me. Think, cousin — ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me through a hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There’s doubtless some deviltry in me, as Sir Lupus says.”

  She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fan with idle fingers.

  “I suppose,” she said, more to herself than to me, “that Sir John is now close to the table’s edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark to their song, all off the key! But who cares?... so that they quarrel not.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, ... brooding on feuds nigh a hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one who treasures wrongs, ... like Walter Butler.” She looked up at me.

  “I warned you,” she said.

  “It is not easy to avoid insulting him,” I replied.

  “I warned you of that, too. Now you’ve a quarrel, and a reckoning in prospect.”

  “The reckoning is far off,” I retorted, ill-humoredly.

  “Far off — yes. Further away than you know. You will never cross swords with Walter Butler.”

  “And why not?”

  “He means to use the Iroquois.”

  I was silent.

  “For the honor of your women, you cannot fight such a man,” she added, quietly.

  “I wish I had the right to protect your honor,” I said, so suddenly and so bitterly that I surprised myself.

  “Have you not?” she asked, gravely. “I am your kinswoman.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” I muttered, and fell to plucking at the lace on my wristbands.

  The dawn’s chill was in the air, the dawn’s silence, too, and I saw the calm morning star on the horizon, watching the dark world — the dark, sad world, lying so still, so patient, under the ancient sky.

  That melancholy — which is an omen, too — left me benumbed, adrift in a sort of pained contentment which alternately soothed and troubled, so that at moments I almost drowsed, and at moments I heard my heart stirring, as though in dull expectancy of beatitudes undreamed of.

  Dorothy, too, sat listless, pensive, and in her eyes a sombre shadow, such as falls on children’s eyes at moments, leaving their elders silent.

  Once in the false dawn a cock crowed, and the shrill, far cry left the raw air emptier and the silence more profound. I looked wistfully at the maid beside me, chary of intrusion into the intimacy of her silence. Presently her vague eyes met mine, and, as though I had spoken, she said: “What is it?”

  “Only this: I am sorry you are pledged.”

  “Why, cousin?”

  “It is unfair.”

  “To whom?”

  “To you. Bid him undo it and release you.”

  “What matters it?” she said, dully.

  “To wed, one should love,” I muttered.

  “I cannot,” she answered, without moving. “I would I could. This night has witched me to wish for love — to desire it; and I sit here a-thinking, a-thinking.... If love ever came to me I should think it would come now — ere the dawn; here, where all is so dark and quiet and close to God.... Cousin, this night, for the first moment in all my life, I have desired love.”

  “To be loved?”

  “No, ... to love.”

  I do not know how long our silence lasted; the faintest hint of silver touched the sky above the eastern forest; a bird awoke, sleepily twittering; another piped out fresh and clear, another, another; and, as the pallid tint spread in the east, all the woodlands burst out ringing into song.

  In the house a door opened and a hoarse voice muttered thickly. Dorothy paid no heed, but I rose and stepped into the hallway, where servants were guiding the patroon to bed, and a man hung to the bronze-cannon post, swaying and mumbling threats — Colonel Claus, wig awry, stock unbuckled, and one shoe gone. Faugh! the stale, sour air sickened me.

  Then a company of gentlemen issued from the dining-hall, and, as I stepped back to the porch to give them room, their gray faces were turned to me with meaningless smiles or blank inquiry.

  “Where’s my orderly?” hiccoughed Sir John Johnson. “Here, you, call my rascals; get the chaises up! Dammy, I want my post-chaise, d’ ye hear?”

  Captain Campbell stumbled out to the lawn and fumbled about his lips with a whistle, which he finally succeeded in blowing. This accomplished, he gravely examined the sky.

  “There they are,” said Dorothy, quietly; and I saw, in the dim morning light, a dozen horsemen stirring in the shadows of the stockade. And presently the horses were brought up, followed by two post-chaises, with sleepy post-boys sitting their saddles and men afoot trailing rifles.

  Colonel Butler came out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was half asleep, and aided her to a chaise. Guy Johnson followed with Betty Austin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir John brought Claire Putnam to the other chaise, entering it himself behind her. And the post-boys wheeled their horses out through the stockade, followed at a gallop by the shadowy horsemen.

  And now the Butlers, father and son, set toe to stirrup; and I saw Walter Butler kick the servant who held his stirrup — why, I do not know, unless the poor, tired fellow’s hands shook.

  Up into their saddles popped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell swore an oath and dismounted to look for Colonel Claus; and presently two blacks carried him out and set him in his saddle, which he clung to, swaying like a ship in distress, his riding-boots slung around his neck, stockinged toes clutching the stirrups.

  Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; fainter and fainter sounded the clink, clink of their horses’ hoofs, then died away.

  In the silence, the east reddened to a flame tint. I turned to the open doorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, withered hands clasped, peaceful eyes on me.

  “Mawnin’, suh,” he said, sweetly. “Yaas, suh, de night done gone and de sun mos’ up. H’it dat-a-way, Mars’ George, suh, h’it jess natch’ly dat-a-way in dishyere world — day, night, mo’ day. What de Bible say? Life, def, mo’ life, suh. When we’s daid we’ll sho’ find it dat-a-way.”

  VII

  AFTERMATH

  Cato at my bedside with basin, towel, and razor, a tub of water on the floor, and the sun shining on my chamber wall. These, and a stale taste on my tongue, greeted me as I awoke.

  First to wash teeth and mouth with orris, then to bathe, half asleep still; and yet again to lie a-thinking in my arm-chair, robed in a banyan, cheeks all suds and nose sniffing the scented water in the chin-basin which I held none too steady; and I said, peevishly, “What a fool a man is to play the fool! Do you hear me, Cato?”

  He said that he marked my words, and I bade him hold his tongue and tell me the hour.

  “Nine, suh.”

  “Then I’ll sleep again,” I muttered, but could not, and after the morning draught felt better. Chocolate and bread, new butter and new eggs, put me in a kinder humor. Cato, burrowing in my boxes, drew out a soft, new suit of doeskin with new points, new girdle, and new moccasins.

  “Oh,” said I, watching him, “am I to go forest-running to-day?”

  “Mars’ Varick gwine ride de boun’s,” he announced, cheerfully.

  “Ride to hounds?” I repeated, astonished. “In May?”

  “No, suh! Ride de boun’s, suh.”

  “Oh, ride the boundaries?”

  “Yaas, suh.”

  “Oh, very well. What time does he start?”

  “‘Bout noontide, suh.”

  The old man strove to straighten my short queue, but found it hopeless, so tied it close and dusted on the French powder.

  “Curly head, curly head,” he muttered to himself. “Dess lak yo’ pap’s!... an’ Miss Dorry’s. Law’s sakes, dishyere hair wuf mo’n eight dollar.”

  “You think my hair worth more than eight dollars?” I asked, amused.

  “H’it sho’ly am, suh.”

  “But wh
y eight dollars, Cato?”

  “Das what the redcoats say; eight dollars fo’ one rebel scalp, suh.”

  I sat up, horrified. “Who told you that?” I demanded.

  “All de gemmen done say so — Mars’ Varick, Mars’ Johnsing, Cap’in Butler.”

  “Bah! they said it to plague you, Cato,” I muttered; but as I said it I saw the old slave’s eyes and knew that he had told the truth.

  Sobered, I dressed me in my forest dress, absently lacing the hunting-shirt and tying knee-points, while the old man polished hatchet and knife and slipped them into the beaded scabbards swinging on either hip.

  Then I went out, noiselessly descending the stairway, and came all unawares upon the young folk and the children gathered on the sunny porch, busy with their morning tasks.

  They neither saw nor heard me; I leaned against the doorway to see the pretty picture at my ease. The children, Sam and Benny, sat all hunched up, scowling over their books.

  Close to a fluted pillar, Dorothy Varick reclined in a chair, embroidering her initials on a pair of white silk hose, using the Rosemary stitch. And as her delicate fingers flew, her gold thimble flashed like a fire-fly in the sun.

  At her feet, cross-legged, sat Cecile Butler, velvet eyes intent on a silken petticoat which she was embroidering with pale sprays of flowers.

  Ruyven and Harry, near by, dipped their brushes into pans of brilliant French colors, the one to paint marvellous birds on a silken fan, the other to decorate a pair of white satin shoes with little pink blossoms nodding on a vine.

  Loath to disturb them, I stood smiling, silent; and presently Dorothy, without raising her eyes, called on Samuel to read his morning lesson, and he began, breathing heavily:

  “I know that God is wroth at me

  For I was born in sin;

  My heart is so exceeding vile

  Damnation dwells therein;

  Awake I sin, asleep I sin,

  I sin with every breath,

  When Adam fell he went to hell

  And damned us all to death!”

  He stopped short, scowling, partly from fright, I think.

  “That teaches us to obey God,” said Ruyven, severely, dipping his brush into the pink paint-cake.

  “What’s the good of obeying God if we’re all to go to hell?” asked Cecile.

  “We’re not all going to hell,” said Dorothy, calmly. “God saves His elect.”

  “Who are the elect?” demanded Samuel, faintly hopeful.

  “Nobody knows,” replied Cecile, grimly; “but I guess—”

  “Benny,” broke in Dorothy, “read your lesson! Cecile, stop your chatter!” And Benny, cheerful and sceptical, read his lines:

  “When by thpectators I behold

  What beauty doth adorn me,

  Or in a glath when I behold

  How thweetly God did form me.

  Hath God thuch comeliness bethowed

  And on me made to dwell? —

  What pity thuch a pretty maid

  Ath I thoud go to hell!”

  And Benny giggled.

  “Benjamin,” said Cecile, in an awful voice, “are you not terrified at what you read?”

  “Huh!” said Benny, “I’m not a ‘pretty maid’; I’m a boy.”

  “It’s all the same, little dunce!” insisted Cecile.

  “Doeth God thay little boyth are born to be damned?” he asked, uneasily.

  “No, no,” interrupted Dorothy; “God saves His elect, I tell you. Don’t you remember what He says?

  “‘You sinners are, and such a share

  As sinners may expect;

  Such you shall have; for I do save

  None but my own elect.’

  “And you see,” she added, confidently, “I think we all are elect, and there’s nothing to be afraid of. Benny, stop sniffing!”

  “Are you sure?” asked Cecile, gloomily.

  Dorothy, stitching serenely, answered: “I am sure God is fair.”

  “Oh, everybody knows that,” observed Cecile. “What we want to know is, what does He mean to do with us.”

  “If we’re good,” added Samuel, fervently.

  “He will damn us, perhaps,” said Ruyven, sucking his paint-brush and looking critically at his work.

  “Damn us? Why?” inquired Dorothy, raising her eyes.

  “Oh, for all that sin we were born in,” said Ruyven, absently.

  “But that’s not fair,” said Dorothy.

  “Are you smarter than a clergyman?” sneered Ruyven.

  Dorothy spread the white silk stocking over one knee. “I don’t know,” she sighed, “sometimes I think I am.”

  “Pride,” commented Cecile, complacently. “Pride is sin, so there you are, Dorothy.”

  “There you are, Dorothy!” said I, laughing from the doorway; and, “Oh, Cousin Ormond!” they all chorused, scrambling up to greet me.

  “Have a care!” cried Dorothy. “That is my wedding petticoat! Oh, he’s slopped water on it! Benny, you dreadful villain!”

  “No, he hasn’t,” said I, coming out to greet her and Cecile, with Samuel and Benny hanging to my belt, and Harry fast hold of one arm. “And what’s all this about wedding finery? Is there a bride in this vicinity?”

  Dorothy held out a stocking. “A bride’s white silken hose,” she said, complacently.

  “Embroidered on the knee with the bride’s initials,” added Cecile, proudly.

  “Yours, Dorothy?” I demanded.

  “Yes, but I shall not wear them for ages and ages. I told you so last night.”

  “But I thought Dorothy had best make ready,” remarked Cecile. “Dorothy is to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the white silk stockings when she weds Sir George.”

  “Sir George who?” I asked, bluntly.

  “Why, Sir George Covert. Didn’t you know?”

  I looked at Dorothy, incensed without a reason.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, ungraciously.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?” she replied, a trifle hurt.

  I was silent.

  Cecile said: “I hope that Dorothy will marry him soon. I want to see how she looks in this petticoat.”

  “Ho!” sneered Harry, “you just want to wear one like it and be a bridesmaid and primp and give yourself airs. I know you!”

  “Sir George Covert is a good fellow,” remarked Ruyven, with a patronizing nod at Dorothy; “but I always said he was too old for you. You should see how gray are his temples when he wears no powder.”

  “He has fine eyes,” murmured Cecile.

  “He’s too old; he’s forty,” repeated Ruyven.

  “His legs are shapely,” added Cecile, sentimentally.

  Dorothy gave a despairing upward glance at me. “Are these children not silly?” she said, with a little shrug.

  “We may be children, and we may be silly,” said Ruyven, “but if we were you we’d wed our cousin Ormond.”

  “All of you together?” inquired Dorothy.

  “You know what I mean,” he snapped.

  “Why don’t you?” demanded Harry, vaguely, twitching Dorothy by the apron.

  “Do what?”

  “Wed our cousin Ormond.”

  “But he has not asked me,” she said, smiling.

  Harry turned to me and took my arm affectionately in his.

  “You will ask her, won’t you?” he murmured. “She’s very nice when she chooses.”

  “She wouldn’t have me,” I said, laughing.

  “Oh yes, she would; and then you need never leave us, which would be pleasant for all, I think. Won’t you ask her, cousin?”

  “You ask her,” I said.

  “Dorothy,” he broke out, eagerly. “You will wed him, won’t you? Our cousin Ormond says he will if you will. And I’ll tell Sir George that it’s just a family matter, and, besides, he’s too old—”

  “Yes, tell Sir George that,” sneered Ruyven, who had listened in an embarrassment that certai
nly Dorothy had not betrayed. “You’re a great fool, Harry. Don’t you know that when people want to wed they ask each other’s permission to ask each other’s father, and then their fathers ask each other, and then they ask each—”

  “Other!” cried Dorothy, laughing deliciously. “Oh, Ruyven, Ruyven, you certainly will be the death of me!”

  “All the same,” said Harry, sullenly, “our cousin wishes to wed you.”

  “Do you?” asked Dorothy, raising her amused eyes to me.

  “I fear I come too late,” I said, forcing a smile I was not inclined to.

  “Ah, yes; too late,” she sighed, pretending a doleful mien.

  “Why?” demanded Harry, blankly.

  Dorothy shook her head. “Sir George would never permit me such a liberty. If he would, our cousin Ormond and I could wed at once; you see I have my bride’s stockings here; Cecile could do my hair, Sammy carry my prayer-book, Benny my train, Ruyven read the service—”

  Harry, flushing at the shout of laughter, gave Dorothy a dark look, turned and eyed me, then scowled again at Dorothy.

  “All the same,” he said, slowly, “you’re a great goose not to wed him.... And you’ll be sorry ... when he’s dead!”

  At this veiled prophecy of my approaching dissolution, all were silent save Dorothy and Ruyven, whose fresh laughter rang out peal on peal.

  “Laugh,” said Harry, gloomily; “but you won’t laugh when he’s killed in the war, ... and scalped, too.”

  Ruyven, suddenly sober, looked up at me. Dorothy bent over her needle-work and examined it attentively.

  “Are you going to the war?” asked Cecile, plaintively.

  “Of course he’s going; so am I,” replied Ruyven, striking a careless pose against a pillar.

  “On which side, Ruyven?” inquired Dorothy, sorting her silks.

  “On my cousin’s side, of course,” he said, uneasily.

  “Which side is that?” asked Cecile.

  Confused, flushing painfully, the boy looked at me; and I rescued him, saying, “We’ll talk that over when we ride bounds this afternoon. Ruyven and I understand each other, don’t we, Ruyven?”