Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You should see the escort!” said Ruyven to me. “Dragoons, cousin, in leather helmets and jack-boots, and all wearing new sabres taken from the Hessian cavalry. They’re in the quarters with Tim Murphy, of Morgan’s, and, Lord! how thirsty they appear to be!”

  “There’s the handsomest man I ever saw,” murmured Cecile to Dorothy, “Captain O’Neil, of the New York line. He’s dying to see you; he said so to Mr. Clavarack, and I heard him.”

  Dorothy looked up with heightened color.

  “Will you walk the minuet with me, Dorothy?” I whispered.

  She looked down, faintly smiling:

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “That is no answer,” I retorted, surprised and hurt.

  “I know it,” she said, demurely.

  “Then answer me, Dorothy!”

  She looked at me so gravely that I could not be certain whether it was pretence or earnest.

  “I am hostess,” she said; “I belong to my guests. If my duties prevent my walking the minuet with you, I shall find a suitable partner for you, cousin.”

  “And no doubt for yourself,” I retorted, irritated to rudeness.

  Surprise and disdain were in her eyes. Her raised brows and cool smile boded me no good.

  “I thought I was free to choose,” she said, serenely.

  “You are, and so am I,” I said. “Will you have me for the minuet?”

  We paused in the hallway, facing each other.

  She gave me a dangerous glance, biting her lip in silence.

  And, the devil possessing me, I said, “For the last time, will you take me?”

  “No!” she said, under her breath. “You have your answer now.”

  “I have my answer,” I repeated, setting my teeth.

  XII

  THE GHOST-RING

  I had bathed and dressed me in my best suit of pale-lilac silk, with flapped waistcoat of primrose stiff with gold, and Cato was powdering my hair; when Sir Lupus waddled in, magnificent in scarlet and white, and smelling to heaven of French perfume and pomatum.

  “George!” he cried, in his brusque, explosive fashion, “I like Schuyler, and I care not who knows it! Dammy! I was cool enough with him and his lady when they arrived, but he played Valentine to my Orson till I gave up; yes, I did, George, I capitulated. Says he, ‘Sir Lupus, if a painful misunderstanding has kept us old neighbors from an exchange of civilities, I trust differences may be forgotten in this graver crisis. In our social stratum there is but one great line of cleavage now, opened by the convulsions of war, sir.”

  “‘Damn the convulsions of war, sir!’ says I.

  “‘Quite right,’ says he, mildly; ‘war is always damnable, Sir Lupus.’

  “‘General Schuyler,’ says I, ‘there is no nonsense about me. You and Lady Schuyler are under my roof, and you are welcome, whatever opinion you entertain of me and my fashion of living. I understand perfectly that this visit is not a visit of ceremony from a neighbor, but a military necessity.’

  “‘Sir Lupus,’ says Lady Schuyler, ‘had it been only a military necessity I should scarcely have accompanied the General and his guests.’

  “‘Madam,’ says I, ‘it is commonly reported that I offended the entire aristocracy of Albany when I had Sir John Johnson’s sweetheart to dine with them. And for that I have been ostracized. For which ostracism, madam, I care not a brass farthing. And, madam, were I to dine all Albany to-night, I should not ignore my old neighbors and friends, the Putnams of Tribes Hill, to suit the hypocrisy of a few strangers from Albany. Right is right, madam, and decency is decency! And I say now that to honest men Claire Putnam is Sir John’s wife by every law of honor, decency, and chivalry; and I shall so treat her in the face of a rotten world and to the undying shame of that beast, Sir John!’

  “Whereupon — would you believe it, George? — Schuyler took both my hands in his and said my conduct honored me, and more of the same sort o’ thing, and Lady Schuyler gave me her hand in that sweet, stately fashion; and, dammy! I saluted her finger-tips. Heaven knows how I found it possible to bend my waist, but I did, George. And there’s an end to the whole matter!”

  He took snuff, blew his nose violently, snapped his gold snuff-box, and waddled to the window, where, below, in the early dusk, torches and rush-lights burned, illuminating the cavalry horses tethered along their picket-rope, and the trooper on guard, pacing his beat, musket shining in the wavering light.

  “That escort will be my undoing,” he muttered. “Folk will dub me a partisan now. Dammy! a man under my roof is a guest, be he Tory or rebel. I do but desire to cultivate my land and pay my debts of honor; and I’ll stick to it till they leave me in peace or hang me to my barn door!”

  And he toddled out, muttering and fumbling with his snuff-box, bidding me hasten and not keep them waiting dinner.

  I stood before the mirror with its lighted sconces, gazing grimly at my sober face while Cato tied my queue-ribbon and dusted my silken coat-skirts. Then I fastened the brilliant buckle under my chin, shook out the deep, soft lace at throat and wristband, and took my small-sword from Cato.

  “Mars’ George,” murmured the old man, “yo’ look lak yo’ is gwine wed wif mah li’l Miss Dorry.”

  I stared at him angrily. “What put that into your head?” I demanded.

  “I dunno, suh; hit dess look dat-a-way to me, suh.”

  “You’re a fool,” I said, sharply.

  “No, suh, I ain’ no fool, Mars’ George. I done see de sign! Yaas, suh, I done see de sign.”

  “What sign?”

  The old man chuckled, looked slyly at my left hand, then chuckled again.

  “Mars’ George, yo’ is wearin’ yo’ weddin’-ring now!”

  “A ring! There is no ring on my hand, you rascal!” I said.

  “Yaas, suh; dey sho’ is, Mars’ George,” he insisted, still chuckling.

  “I tell you I never wear a ring,” I said, impatiently.

  “‘Scuse me, Mars’ George, suh,” he said, humbly. And, lifting my left hand, laid it in his wrinkled, black palm, peering closely. I also looked, and saw at the base of my third finger a circle like the mark left by a wedding-ring.

  “That is strange,” I said; “I never wore a ring in all my life!”

  “Das de sign, suh,” muttered the old man; “das de Ormond sign, suh. Yo’ pap wore de ghos’-ring, an’ his pap wore it too, suh. All de Ormonds done wore de ghos’-ring fore dey wus wedded. Hit am dess dat-a-way. Mars’ George—”

  He hesitated, looking up at me with gentle, dim eyes.

  “Miss Dorry, suh—”

  He stopped short, then dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “‘Fore Miss Dorry git up outen de baid, suh, I done tote de bre’kfus in de mawnin’. An’ de fustest word dat li’l Miss Dorry say, ‘Cato,’ she say, ‘whar Mars’ George?’ she say. ‘He ‘roun’ de yahd, Miss Dorry,’ I say. ‘‘Pears lak he gettin’ mo’ res’less an’ mis’ble, Miss Dorry.’

  “‘Cato,’ she ‘low, ‘I spec’ ma’ haid gwine ache if I lie hyah in dishyere baid mo’n two free day. Whar ma’ milk an’ co’n pone, Cato?’

  “So I des sot de salver down side de baid, suh, an’ li’l Miss Dorry she done set up in de baid, suh, an’ hole out one li’l bare arm—”

  He laid a wrinkled finger on his lips; his dark face quivered with mystery and emotion.

  “One li’l bare arm,” he repeated, “an’ I see de sign!”

  “What sign?” I stammered.

  “De bride-sign on de ring-finger! Yaas, suh. An’ I say, ‘Whar yo’ ring, Miss Dorry?’ An’ she ‘low ain’ nebber wore no ring. An’ I say, ‘Whar dat ring, Miss Dorry?’

  “Den Miss Dorry look kinder queer, and rub de ghos’-ring on de bridal-finger.

  “‘What dat?’ she ‘low.

  “‘Dasser ghos’-ring, honey.’

  “Den she rub an’ rub, but, bless yo’ heart, Mars’ George! she dess natch’ly gwine wear dat pink ghos’-ring twill yo’ slip de brid
e-ring on.... Mars’ George! Honey! What de matter, chile?... Is you a-weepin’, Mars’ George?”

  “Oh, Cato, Cato!” I choked, dropping my head on his shoulder.

  “What dey do to mah l’il Mars’ George?” he said, soothingly. “‘Spec’ some one done git saucy! Huh! Who care? Dar de sign! Dar de ghos’-ring! Mars’ George, yo’ is dess boun’ to wed, suh! Miss Dorry, she dess boun’ to wed, too—”

  “But not with me, Cato, not with me. There’s another man coming for Miss Dorry, Cato. She has promised him.”

  “Who dat?” he cried. “How come dishyere ghost-ring roun’ yo’ weddin’-finger?”

  “I don’t know,” I said; “the chance pressure of a riding-glove, perhaps. It will fade away, Cato, this ghost-ring, as you call it.... Give me that rag o’ lace; ... dust the powder away, Cato.... There, I’m smiling; can’t you see, you rascal?... And tell Tulip she is right.”

  “What dat foolish wench done tole you?” he exclaimed, wrathfully.

  But I only shook my head impatiently and walked out. Down the hallway I halted in the light of the sconces and looked at the strange mark on my finger. It was plainly visible. “A tight glove,” I muttered, and walked on towards the stairs.

  From the floor below came a breezy buzz of voices, laughter, the snap of ivory fans spreading, the whisk and rustle of petticoats. I leaned a moment over the rail which circled the stair-gallery and looked down.

  Unaccustomed cleanliness and wax and candle-light made a pretty background for all this powdered and silken company swarming below. The servants and children had gathered ground-pine to festoon the walls; stair-rail, bronze cannon, pictures, trophies, and windows were all bright with the aromatic green foliage; enormous bunches of peonies perfumed the house, and everywhere masses of yellow and white elder-bloom and swamp-marigold brightened the corners.

  Sir Lupus, standing in the hallway with a tall gentleman who wore the epaulets and the buff-and-blue uniform of a major-general, beckoned me, and I descended the stairs to make the acquaintance of that noblest and most generous of soldiers, Philip Schuyler. He held my hand a moment, scrutinizing me with kindly eyes, and, turning to Sir Lupus, said, “There are few men to whom my heart surrenders at sight, but your young kinsman is one of the few, Sir Lupus.”

  “He’s a good boy, General, a brave lad,” mumbled Sir Lupus, frowning to hide his pride. “A bit quick at conclusions, perhaps — eh, George?”

  “Too quick, sir,” I said, coloring.

  “A fault you have already repaired by confession,” said the General, with his kindly smile. “Mr. Ormond, I had the pleasure of receiving Sir George Covert the day he left for Stanwix, and Sir George mentioned your desire for a commission.”

  “I do desire it, sir,” I said, quickly.

  “Have you served, Mr. Ormond?” he asked, gravely.

  “I have seen some trifling service against the Florida savages, sir.”

  “As officer, of course.”

  “As officer of our rangers, General.”

  “You were never wounded?”

  “No, sir; ... not severely.”

  “Oh!... not severely.”

  “No, sir.”

  “There are some gentlemen of my acquaintance,” said Schuyler, turning to Sir Lupus, “who might take a lesson in modesty from Mr. Ormond.”

  “Yes,” broke out Sir Lupus— “that pompous ass, Gates.”

  “General Gates is a loyal soldier,” said Schuyler, gravely.

  “Who the devil cares?” fumed Sir Lupus. “I call a spade a spade! And I say he is at the head of that infamous cabal which seeks to disgrace you. Don’t tell me, sir! I’m an older man than you, sir! I’ve a right to say it, and I do. Gates is an envious ass, and unfit to hold your stirrup!”

  “This is a painful matter,” said Schuyler, in a low voice. “Indiscreet friendship may make it worse. I regard General Gates as a patriot and a brother soldier.... Pray let us choose a gayer topic ... friends.”

  His manner was so noble, his courtesy so charming, that there was no sting in his snub to Sir Lupus. Even I had heard of the amazing jealousies and intrigues which had made Schuyler’s life miserable — charges of incompetency, of indifference, of corruption — nay, some wretched creatures who sought to push Gates into Schuyler’s command even hinted at cowardice and treason. And none could doubt that Gates knew it and encouraged it, for he had publicly spoken of Schuyler in slighting and contemptuous terms.

  Yet the gentleman whose honor had been the target for these slanderers never uttered one word against his traducers: and, when a friend asked him whether he was too proud to defend himself, replied, serenely, “Not too proud, but too sensible to spread discord in my country’s army.”

  “Lady Schuyler desires to know you,” said the General, “for I see her fan-signal, which I always obey.” And he laid his arm on mine as a father might, and led me across the room to where Dorothy stood with Lady Schuyler on her right, surrounded by a bevy of bright-eyed girls and gay young officers.

  Dorothy presented me in a quiet voice, and I bowed very low to Lady Schuyler, who made me an old-time reverence, gave me her fingers to kiss, and spoke most kindly to me, inquiring about my journey, and how I liked this Northern climate.

  Then Dorothy made me known to those near her, to the pretty Carmichael twins, whose black eyes brimmed purest mischief; to Miss Haldimand, whose cold beauty had set the Canadas aflame; and to others of whom I have little recollection save their names. Christie McDonald and Lysbet Dirck, two fashionable New York belles, kin to the Schuylers.

  As for the men, there was young Paltz Clavarack, ensign in the Half-moon Regiment, very fine in his orange-faced uniform; and there was Major Harrow, of the New York line; and a jolly, handsome dare-devil, Captain Tully O’Neil, of the escort of horse, who hung to Dorothy’s skirts and whispered things that made her laugh. There were others, too, aides in new uniforms, a medical officer, who bustled about in the rôle of everybody’s friend; and a parcel of young subalterns, very serious, very red, and very grave, as though the destiny of empires reposed in their blue-and-gold despatch pouches.

  “I wonder,” murmured Dorothy, leaning towards me and speaking behind her rose-plumed fan— “I wonder why I answered you so.”

  “Because I deserved it,” I muttered,

  “Cousin I Cousin!” she said, softly, “you deserve all I can give — all that I dare not give. You break my heart with kindness.”

  I stepped to her side; all around us rose the hum of voices, laughter, the click of spurs, the soft sounds of silken gowns on a polished floor.

  “It is you who are kind to me, Dorothy,” I whispered, “I know I can never have you, but you must never doubt my constancy. Say you will not?”

  “Hush!” she whispered; “come to the dining-hall; I must look at the table to see that all is well done, and there is nobody there.... We can talk there.”

  She slipped off through the throng, and I sauntered into the gun-room, from whence I crossed the hallway and entered the dining-hall. Dorothy stood inspecting the silver and linen, and giving orders to Cato in a low voice. Then she dismissed the row of servants and sat down in a leather chair, resting her forehead in her hands.

  “Deary me! Deary me!” she murmured, “how my brain whirls!... I would I were abed!... I would I were dead!... What was it you said concerning constancy? Oh, I remember; I am never to doubt your constancy.” She raised her fair head from between her hands.

  “Promise you will never doubt it,” I whispered.

  “I — I never will,” she said. “Ask me again for the minuet, dear. I — I refused everybody — for you.”

  “Will you walk it with me, Dorothy?”

  “Yes — yes, indeed! I told them all I must wait till you asked me.”

  “Good heavens!” I said, laughing nervously, “you didn’t tell them that, did you?”

  She bent her lovely face, and I saw the smile in her eyes glimmering through unshed tears.

  “Yes
; I told them that. Captain O’Neil protests he means to call you out and run you through. And I said you would probably cut off his queue and tie him up by his spurs if he presumed to any levity. Then he said he’d tell Sir George Covert, and I said I’d tell him myself and everybody else that I loved my cousin Ormond better than anybody in the world and meant to wed him—”

  “Dorothy!” I gasped.

  “Wed him to the most, beautiful and lovely and desirable maid in America!”

  “And who is that, if it be not yourself?” I asked, amazed.

  “It’s Maddaleen Dirck, the New York heiress, Lysbet’s sister; and you are to take her to table.”

  “Dorothy,” I said, angrily, “you told me that you desired me to be faithful to my love for you!”

  “I do! Oh, I do!” she said, passionately. “But it is wrong; it is dreadfully wrong. To be safe we must both wed, and then — God knows! — we cannot in honor think of one another.”

  “It will make no difference,” I said, savagely.

  “Why, of course, it will!” she insisted, in astonishment. “We shall be married.”

  “Do you suppose love can be crushed by marriage?” I asked.

  “The hope of it can.”

  “It cannot, Dorothy.”

  “It must be crushed!” she exclaimed, flushing scarlet. “If we both are tied by honor, how can we hope? Cousin, I think I must be mad to say it, but I never see you that I do not hope. We are not safe, I tell you, spite of all our vows and promises.... You do not need to woo me, you do not need to persuade me! Ere you could speak I should be yours, now, this very moment, for a look, a smile — were it not for that pale spectre of my own self which rises ever before me, stern, inexorable, blocking every path which leads to you, and leaving only that one path free where the sign reads ‘honor.’ ... And I — I am sometimes frightened lest, in an overwhelming flood of love, that sign be torn away and no spectre of myself rise to confront me, barring those paths that lead to you.... Don’t touch me; Cato is looking at us.... He’s gone.... Wait, do not leave me.... I have been so wretched and unhappy.... I could scarce find strength and heart to let them dress me, thinking on your face when I answered you so cruelly.... Oh, cousin! where are our vows now? Where are the solemn promises we made never to speak of love?... Lovers make promises like that in story-books — and keep them, too, and die sanctified, blessing one another and mounting on radiant wings to heaven.... Where I should find no heaven save in you! Ah, God! that is the most terrible. That takes my heart away — to die and wake to find myself still his wife — to live through all eternity without you — and no hope of you — no hope!... For I could be patient through this earthly life, losing my youth and yours forever, ... but not after death! No, no! I cannot.... Better hell with you than endless heaven with him!... Don’t speak to me.... Take your hand from my hand.... Can you not see that I mean nothing of what I say — that I do not know what I am saying?... I must go back; I am hostess — a happy one, as you perceive.... Will I never learn to curb my tongue? You must forget every word I uttered — do you hear me?”