I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine which poured over the walls of my chamber and bathed the sweet lavender-scented sheets on my bed.
The water in the washing-bowl reflected the sunlight, and the white ceiling above me wavered with golden-netted ripples. A gentle wind moved the curtains to and fro, a brisk breeze, yet saturated with the disquieting taint of unknown odours, odours of a town whose streets are thronged with strange people. Those bred within the strip which runs along the borders of a wilderness find the air of towns confusing, as a keen hound, running perdu, enters a vast runway where a thousand pungent trails recross.
Reconnoitring the room from my sunny couch, I poked my sun-warmed muzzle out of the sheets, sniffing and inspecting the unfamiliar surroundings. Then I cautiously stretched my limbs, and finding myself supple and sound, leaped lightly onto the rag-carpet in my bare feet and stood looking out of the window.
This lodging whither Mount and Renard had piloted me when our convoy passed the ramparts of Fortress Pitt, was an inn called the "Virginia Arms," a most clean and respectable hostelry, though sometimes suspected as a trysting-place for rebels. James Rolfe, a Boston man, was our host, a thin-edged, mottled, shrewd-eyed fellow, whose nasal voice sounded continually through the house from tap-room to garret, in sarcastic comment on his servants. I heard him now as I stood at the window:
"Oh, Hiram, yew dinged sack o' shucks, the gentleman in 27 is knocking on the floor! Jonas! A pot o' small-beer for the gentleman in 17! Land o' Goshen, yew run like a frost-nipped spider! The gentleman in 6 is waiting for his wig! What's that? Waal, yew go right 'round tew the hairdresser'sand tell him tew bring that wig! Hey? Yes, the wig dressed a-lar-Francy! Don't set there rubbing yewr chin like a dumned chipimunk, Simon, while Mister Patrick Henry is waiting for them queue ribbons from Corwin's. Eh? You fetched 'em? Well, why in the name o' Virginy can't you say so? Clean them buckles for the gentleman in 20, yew darned clam!"
His penetrating, half-fretful, half-humorous voice died away towards the stables in the rear, and I parted the dainty curtains and peeped out into the streets of Pittsburg. Our inn stood on the corner of the town square, opposite the village green. Across the square rose some well-made barracks, painted white; I could see red-coated sentinels posted at the gates and walking their beats along the west stockade. A few handsome mansions faced the square, two churches and a public house completed the north side of the quadrangle. East and west shops and smaller houses lined the streets; the green bush hung in the sunshine, the barber's basin swung and glittered among a forest of gayly painted sign-boards.
But the people! Lord, how they trooped by, passing, repassing, threading the alleys, streaming across the green, soldiers in scarlet and buff, militia in brown and green, sober townsmen dressed as we dress in Johnstown, old gentlemen in snuffy smalls and big coats with broad cuffs and silver buttons, the butcher, bared of arm and head, with the wind fluttering his apron, the baker, white and sallow as his own muffins, ostlers, shop-keepers, chapmen, men in fustian shouldering pick or shovels, drovers in blue smocks carrying looped snake-whips. Now comes one in musty wig and steel spectacles, bulging umbrella under one arm, inquisitive nose buried in a Maryland newspaper—a schoolmaster!—or do I not know the breed. Anon, I see some tall, awkward riflemen, loitering idly before signs or gawking up at the county court-house, where a gilt fish swims in the sky.
Sometimes a horseman, in the uniform of Lord Dunmore's guards, trots by gracefully, with a smile and low salute for his friends and a stare at the fresh-cheeked maids who steal demurely along, basket on arm, to rifle the market for an early squash or a bunch o' green pease.
Many citizens I notice are reading the newspapers as theywalk; many men meet and stop and converse eagerly, looking behind them at times as though an eavesdropper might be near. With bell and clapper the vender of ginger and cocoa-nut pushes his cart before him; peddlers, bending under Delaware baskets or leather trays, stand in the street, calling their wares: "Colours for the races!" "Tablets!" "Pencils!" "Chains!" "Cock-gaffs—steel or brass!" "Gentlemen's fancy!" "Dog-bells!" "Ferret-bits!"
A barefoot child in rags offers bills for the bull-baiting and for the Theatre Royal, crying in a thin, monotonous voice: "Race-week bills, my lords and gentlemen! Race-week bills for the Theatre Royal, my lady! Plays to be played—'The Beau's Stratagem,' 'Beggar's Opera,' 'The Devil to Pay,' 'The Fair Penitent,' 'The Virgin Unmasked!' and a variety of farces and merry pantomimes—and the bills are only a penny, my lady! The tickets to be had at Jamison's Coffee-House at four shillings—the bill to be had of me, Rosalie, child of Tanner Bridewell—only a penny!"
The pitiful voice in the sunshine touched me; I opened the window and tossed a shilling to the child, then hid behind the curtains while she kissed her palm at my window.
The winding of a brass horn brought me out of my concealment to peep again down into the street, where people were flocking around a public crier, who stood on a horse-block blowing his horn.
"Attention! Attention!" he cried, unfolding a paper, and presently commenced to read his news to the crowd:
"By permission of the Right Honourable Earl of Dunmore, Governor of Virginia! Four days' sport on Roanoke Plain. The Colonial Club offering prizes of £100 and £50; the Richmond Club offering two purses of £50. Attention! Sport on the Roanoke; an even and delightsome plain, most sweet and pleasant. To-day the Nobleman's and Gentleman's Purse of £50, free for any horse except Doctor Connolly'sScimitar, who won the plate last season. Second, a silver cup worth £12. Tuesday, County Subscription Purse of £50. No person will erect a booth or sell liquor without subscribing £2 to expenses of races.
"Gentlemen fond of fox-hunting will meet at the Buckeye Tavern by daybreak during the races.
"God save the King!"
He folded his paper, picked up his horn, and stepped down from the horse-block. After a little while I heard his horn again, sounding at the north angle of the square, and his strident voice, announcing the races, came fitfully on the wind.
I turned back into the room and began my toilet. How strange to find this town, undisturbed in its rural pleasures, busy about its own affairs, while scarce a night's journey to the north the frontier was in ashes, and the dead lay in the charred embers of their own door-sills!
How strange to look out on the peace of these sunny streets, with the cinders of Cresap's camp still clinging to my hunting-shirt; with my own blood caking the sore on my arm where a Cayuga child had thrust a lighted pine-splinter into my flesh! Strange!—ay, astonishing that these people here behind their fortress, their block-housen, their earthworks and stockades, should forget those who dwelt beyond the gates, wresting the dark soil, inch by inch, from the giant pines of the wilderness.
With a knife which Cresap had given me, I sat down to scrape the mud and filth from my hunting-shirt and to pick out the burrs and docks which clotted the fringe on my leggings.
Sombre thoughts filled me; I had a hard rôle to play before Lord Dunmore; I had a harder rôle to act before Silver Heels, if she were still here in Pittsburg.
It gave me no pleasure to find myself so near her. The attitude she had assumed towards me that last night in Johnstown had hurt enough to leave a scar. But when scars appear, wounds are healed; and so was mine. It was true, I had never loved her as men love sweethearts. Her sudden and amazing appearance as a woman had aroused my curiosity; her popularity and beauty my jealousy. It was hurt pride that tempered me when the playfellow I had tolerated and protected and tormented at my pleasure, tormented, tolerated, and finally ignored me.
I did not love her when I aroused her contempt with my courtship of Mrs. Hamilton. I did not love her when I followed her to the pantry to bully her into according me herrespect once more. It was vanity: vanity when I sulked because young Bevan took her from me; vanity when I assailed the pretty ears of Mrs. Hamilton with callow cynicisms and foolish wit. I scorned myself for having deceived my own heart with the fancy that I had ever loved my cousin Silver Heels.
Now that the demon Butler had been exorcised by Sir William, and now that Sir William wished for my union with Silver Heels, and had promised me the means to maintain her as her rank required, I understood plainly that I did not love her in that way. She was only my playfellow; she had never been anything else. I meant to see her and tell her so; I meant to ask her forgiveness for offending her; I meant to seek her friendly confidence once more, to warn her that she should not tarry here in these troublous times, but return at once to Johnson Hall, where Sir William could protect her, not only from the savages, but also from that creature whose every breath of life was an offence to his Creator.
Doubtless, Silver Heels would go with me. Dunmore would be obliged to provide our escort; indeed, his Lordship would be glad enough to see me leave his town of Pittsburg ere I had finished with my business here.
I stood smoothing the thrums on sleeve and legging, somewhat ashamed to seek audience with anybody in such attire. I had money in my belt, enough to purchase clothing suitable to my station, but it was time that I lacked, not means or inclination.
I had laid my hand on the knob, intent on seeking breakfast below, and was about to open the door, when somebody knocked. It was Saul Shemuel, smiling and folding his hands over his belly—a greasy spectacle in sooth for a hungry stomach—and I scowled and bade him state his business quickly in the devil's name.
"Goot-day and greeding, sir," said the peddler, bowing and rubbing himself against the door like a cat. "Gott save our country, Mr. Cardigan. You are oxpected to join the gendlemens in 13, sir. Mr. Mount begs you will hold no gonversation mit strangers hereabouts, nor entertain no one until he sees you, sir."
"Who are you, anyway, Shemuel?" I asked, curiously.
"A peddler, Mr. Cardigan—only a poor peddler," he protested, spreading out his grimy fingers and peeping up cunningly. "Pray, do not look as if you knew me, sir, should you see me abroad in the streeds, sir. But if you wish to speag to me, please to buy a buckle; one buckle if I shall seek you here, two buckles if I am to follow you in the streed, sir, three buckles if you would seek me in my lodgings, Mr. Cardigan. I live at the 'Bear and Cubs Tavern,' sir, on the King's Road."
"Very well," I said, somewhat amused at the idea of my pining for Shemuel's company under any circumstances. "Where is room 13, Shemuel? Eh? Oh, you appear to know this inn. Here's sixpence for you, Shemmy. That's right, cut away now!"
"If I might speak von vort, sir," he began, hoisting his basket on his back and looking slyly up at me as I passed him.
"Well?" I said, impatiently.
"I haf often seen you, sir, at Johnson Hall."
"Well?"
"And I haf also sold gilt chains to Miss Warren."
"Well!" I demanded, sharply.
"Miss Warren iss here in Pittsburg, sir," he ventured.
"I supposed so," I said, coldly; "but that does not interest me."
"Maybe," he said, spitefully, "you don'd know somedings?"
"What things?"
"Miss Warren weds mit Lord Dunmore in July."
He was gone like a slippery lizard before I could seize him. He vanished around the corridor ere my thoughts assembled from the shock that had routed them. Now they began to rally pell-mell, and my cheeks burnt with scorn and anger, though I could not truly credit the preposterous news. That unformed child thrown into the arms of a thing like Dunmore! What possessed all these rakes and roués to go mad—stark, staring, March-mad—over my playfellow? What did an Earl want of her—even this bloodless Dunmore with his simper and his snuff and his laces and his bird's claws for fingers? What the devil had enchanted him to seek herfor his wife; to make her Countess of Dunmore and the first lady in Virginia?
And Silver Heels, had she sold her beauty for the crest on this man's coach? Had she bargained her innocence for the rank that this toothless conspirator and assassin could give her? How in God's name could she endure him? How could she listen without scorn, look at him without loathing? An old man, at least a man who might be a rotten forty or a patched and mended sixty, with his painted face and his lipless line of a mouth—horror!—if she had seen him grinning and gumming his wine-glass as I had seen him—or sprawling on the carpet, too drunk to clean his own chin!
Agitated and furious I paced the hallway, resolving to seek out my lady Silver Heels without loss of time or ceremony, and conduct her back to the nursery where the little fool belonged.
Countess, indeed! I'd bring her to her senses! And wait!—only wait until Sir William should learn of this!
Somewhat comforted at the thought of the Baronet's anger and dismay, I pocketed my excitement and began to search for the door of room 13, where, according to Shemuel, I was expected. I had forgotten the peddler's directions; besides the house was unexplored ground for me, and I wandered about several corridors until I noticed a pleasant-faced gentleman watching me from the stairs.
He doubtless noticed my perplexity, for he bowed very courteously as I passed him and made some polite observation which required a civil answer; and before I was fully aware of it, he had invited me to a morning cup with him in the tap-room.
This was a trifle too friendly on short acquaintance; Shemuel's warning to hold my tongue and avoid strangers instantly occurred to me. On my guard, I prayed him to pardon my declining, with many compliments and excuses, which I heaped upon him to avoid the seeming discourtesy of refusing him my name.
He was truly a most pleasant gentleman, a stranger in Pittsburg, so he said, and bearing very gracefully the title of captain and the name of Murdy. He appeared most anxious to present me to his friend, Doctor Connolly, in thetap-room; but I begged permission to defer the honour and left him, somewhat nonplussed, on the stairway.
In a few moments I found room 13, and knocked. And, as I was ushered in, I glanced back at the stairway, and was annoyed to see my friendly Captain Murdy peering at me through the balustrade.
It was Corporal Paul Cloud who admitted me, greeting me respectfully, and immediately closing and locking the door. The room was large; a table stood in the centre, around which were gathered Jack Mount, Cade Renard, Jimmy Rolfe, the landlord of the "Virginia Arms"; my former host, Timothy Boyd; and another man whom I had never before seen. Cresap was not there, but, in a corner, wrapped to the eyes in his dark blanket, sat the bereaved Cayuga chief, Logan, staring at the floor.
The company were at breakfast, and when I approached to greet them, Mount jumped to his feet and gave me a warm handclasp, leading me to a chair beside the only man whom I did not know.
I saluted the stranger, and he bowed silently in return. He appeared to be a man of forty, elegantly yet soberly dressed, wearing his own dark hair, unpowdered, in a queue—a gentleman in bearing, in voice, in every movement—a thoroughbred to the tips of his smooth, well-ordered fingers. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore had been pushed up over his forehead; now he lowered them to the bridge of his nose again, and looked at me gravely and searchingly, yet entirely without offence. The scrutiny of certain men sometimes conveys a delicate compliment.
Mount, in a very subdued voice, asked permission to present me, and the gentleman bowed, saying he knew my name from hearing of my father.
As for his name, I think anybody in the colonies—ay, in London, too—would know it. For the gentleman beside whom I had been placed was the famous Virginian, Patrick Henry, that fiery orator who had bade our King mark well the lives of Cæsar and Charles the First to profit by their sad examples: and when the cries of "Treason!" dinned in his ears, had faced a howling Tory Legislature with the contemptuous words: "If this be treason—make the most of it!"
Sideways I admired his delicate aquiline nose, his firm chin, the refinement of every muscle, every line.
He drank sparingly; once he raised his glass to me and I had the honour of drinking a draught of cinnamon cold-mulled with him.
There was little conversation at table. Mr. Henry asked Boyd about the burning of Cresap's village, and the brave old man told the story in a few, short phrases. Once he spoke to Cloud about the militia. Presently, however, he left the table and sat down by Logan; and for a long time we watched them together, this sensitive, high-bred orator, and the sombre savage, burying his grief in the dark ruins of a broken heart. Their blended voices sounded to us like the murmur of the deep thrilling chords of a harp, touched lightly.
Mount came over beside me, and, resting his massive head on his hands, spoke low, "Cresap was arrested last night by Doctor Connolly, Dunmore's deputy, and is to be relieved of his command."
"Is Doctor Connolly Dunmore's agent?" I asked, quietly. "Then he's here in the house now."
"I know it," said Mount. "He and his fawning agent, Murdy, are watching the inn to learn who is here. By-the-way, my name is anything you please, if they ask you. It won't do for the Weasel and me to flaunt our quality in Pittsburg town. There was once a fat Tory judge walking yonder on the highway, and—well, you know, moonlight and mischief are often abroad together. Curious, too, that this same fat judge should have come to grief; for he once issued some valentines to me and the Weasel."
I looked up sharply; Mount blinked mildly as a kitten who is filled with milk.
"Why did they arrest Cresap?" I asked.
"Why? Oh, Lord, the town is full o' people blaming Dunmore for this new war. There was like to be a riot yesterday when one of Cresap's runners came in with news of the rising. So Dunmore, frightened, called in Connolly and Murdy and they went about town swearing that Dunmore was innocent and that the wicked Cresap did it all. And now Connolly has had Cresap arrested, and he swears that Dunmorewill make an example of Cresap for oppressing the poor Indians. There's your Tory Governor for you!"
Horrified at such hypocrisy, I could only gasp while Mount shrugged his broad shoulders and went on:
"But this rattlesnake, Dunmore, has bitten off more than he can poison. Logan's here to demand justice on Greathouse. And now you are here to protest in Sir William's name. Oh, it's a fine pickle Dunmore will find himself swimming in."
"When is Logan to have an audience with Dunmore?" I asked.
"To-night, in the fortress. And, Mr. Cardigan, I took the liberty of announcing to the Governor's secretary, Gibson, that an envoy from Sir William Johnson had arrived with a message for Lord Dunmore. So you also are to deliver your message to the Governor of Virginia in the hall to-night."
"But," said I, puzzled, "does Dunmore expect a messenger from Sir William?"
"Haven't you heard from Shemuel?" asked Mount. "I told him to tell you that Dunmore wants to marry the beautiful Miss Warren, who's cutting such a swath here. He sent his offer by runner to Sir William, and, being a Tory, an Earl, and Governor of Virginia, he naturally expects Sir William will throw the poor girl at his head!"
I took Mount's arm in my hand and tightened my grip till he groaned.
"Mark you, Mount," I said, choking back my passion, "this night my Lord Dunmore will learn some things of which he is ignorant. One of them is that my kinswoman, Miss Warren, is betrothed to me!"
The big fellow's eyes had grown wider and bluer as I spoke. When I finished he gaped at me like a dying fish. Suddenly he seized my hand and wrung it till the whole table shook, and Mr. Henry looked at us in displeasure.
"Tell the Weasel," said Mount, gently. "Tell him, lad. It will please him. He's full o' sentiment; he'll never breathe a word, Mr. Cardigan; the Weasel's a gentleman. He dotes on love and lovers."
Lovers! Love! The words fell harshly on my ear.
I did not love Silver Heels; I did not want to wed her. But something had to be done, and that quickly, if I was to take the silly, deluded girl back to Johnstown with me.
"Won't you tell the Weasel?" said Mount, anxiously.
"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!—"
"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 whinedand 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 nowthe 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 slipping 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; Iknew 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 youdo not, by Heaven! I shall claim my prior right under 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 andother 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.
But when I related the story of my great peril, she turned so sick and pallid that I ceased, and took her frail hands anxiously.
"What is the matter, Silver Heels?" I said. "Never have I seen you like this. Have you been ill long? What is it, little comrade?"
"Oh, I don't know—I don't know, truly," she sobbed. "It has come within the few weeks, Michael. I am so old, so tired, so strangely ill of I know not what."
"Youdoknow," I said. "Tell me, Silver Heels."
She raised her eyes to me, then closed them. Neck and brow were reddening.
"You are not in love!" I demanded, aghast.
"Ay, sick with it," she said, slowly, with closed lids.
It was horrible, incredible! I attempted to picture Dunmore as an inspirer of love in any woman. The mere idea revolted me. What frightful spell had this shrunken nobleman cast over my little comrade that she should confess her love for him?
And all I could say was: "Oh, Silver Heels! Silver Heels! That man! It is madness!"
"What man?" she asked, opening her eyes.
"What man?" I repeated. "Do you not mean that you love Dunmore?"
She laughed a laugh that frightened me, so mirthless, so bitter, so wickedly bitter it rang in the summer air.
"Oh yes—Dunmore, if you wish—or any man—any man. I care not; I am sick, sick, sick! They have flattered and followed and sought me and importuned me—great and humble, young and old—and never a true man among them all—only things of powder and silks and painted smiles—and all wicked save one."
"And he?"
"Oh, he is a true man—the only one among them all—a true man, for he is stupid and vain and tyrannical and violent, eaten to the bone with self-assurance—and a fool to boot, Michael—a fool to boot. And as this man is, among them all, the only real man of bone and blood—why, I love him."
"Who is this man?" I asked, cautiously.
"Not Dunmore, Michael."
"Not Dunmore? And yet you wed Dunmore?"
"Because I love the other, Michael, who uses me like a pedigreed hound, scanning and planning his kennel-list to mate me with a blooded mate to his taste. Because I hate him as I love him, and shall place myself beyond his power to shame me. Because I am dying of the humiliation, Michael, and would wish to die so high in rank that even death cannot level me to him. Now, tell me who I love."
"God knows!" I said, in my amazement.
"True," she said, "God knows I love a fool."
"But who is this fellow?" I insisted. "What man dares attempt to mate you to his friends? The insolence, the presumption—why, I thought I was the only man who might do that!"
How she laughed at me as I stood perplexed and scowling and fingering the fringe on my leggings, and how her laughter cut, with its undertone ringing with tears. What on earth had changed her to a woman like this, talking a language that dealt in phrases which one heard and marked and found meant nothing, with a sting in their very emptiness?
"Very well," said I, "you shall not have Dunmore for spite of a fool unworthy of you; and as for that, you shall not have the fool either!"
"I am not likely to get him," she said.
"You could have him for the wish!" I cried, jealously. "I'd like to see the man who would not crawl from here to Johnstown to kiss your silken shoe!"
"Wouldyou?"
"It pleases you to mock me," I said; "but I'll tell you this: If I loved you as a sweetheart I'd do it! I'll have the world know it is honoured wherever you touch it with your foot!"
"Do you mean it?" she asked, looking at me strangely.
"Mean it! Have you ever doubted it?"
The colour in her face surged to her hair.
"You speak like a lover," she said, with a catch in her breath.
"I speak like a man, proud of his kin!" said I, suspiciously, alert to repel ridicule. Lover! What did she mean by that? Had I not asked pardon for my foolishness in Johnson Hall? And must she still taunt me?
If she read my suspicions I do not know, but I think she did, for the colour died out in her face and she set her lips together as she always did when meaning mischief.
"I pray you, dear friend," she said, wearily, "concern yourself with your kin as little as I do. Bid me good-bye, now. I am tired, Michael—tired to the soul of me."
She held out her slim hand. I took it, then I bent to touch it with my lips.
"You will not wed Dunmore?" I asked.
She did not reply.
"And you will come with me to Johnstown on the morrow, Silver Heels?"
There was no answer.
"Silver Heels?"
"If you are strong enough to take me from Dunmore, take me," she said, in a dull, tired voice.
"And—and from the other—the one you love—the fool?"
"He will leave me—when you leave me," she answered.
"You mean to say this pitiful ass will follow you and me to Johnstown!" I cried, excited.
"Truly, he will!" she said, hysterically, and covered her face with her hands. But whether she was laughing or crying or doing both together I could not determine; and I stalked wrathfully away, determined to teach this same fool that his folly was neither to my taste nor fancy.
And as I passed swiftly southward through the darkening town I heard the monotonous call of the town watchman stumping his beat:
"Lanthorn, and a whole candle-light! Hang out your lights here! Light—ho! Maids, hang out your light, and see your lamp be clear and bright!"
I had learned from our host of the "Virginia Arms" that the so-called "Governor's Hall," which stood within the limits of the fortifications, had been built by the French in 1755. Poor Braddock's brief début before Fort Duquesne in that same year interrupted the building of "Governor's Hall," which was called by the French "La Fortresse de la Reine," and which, with the exception of our stone fort at Johnstown, was the only formidable and solidly fortified edifice of stone west of the Hudson.
When in '58 our troops seized Fort Duquesne and razed it, they not only spared La Fortresse de la Reine, but completed it—in exceeding poor taste—set the arms of Virginia over the portal, ran up their red, powder-stained flag, and saluted "Governor's Hall" with hurrahs of satisfaction, drums and fifes playing "The White Cockade."
Now the hall served sometimes as a court-house, sometimes as a temporary jail, often as a ballroom, occasionally as the Governor's residence when he came to Fort Pitt from Williamsburg.
In it he gave audiences to all plaintiffs, white or Indian; in it he received deputies from other colonies or from England.
The Governor of Virginia lived on the second floor while sojourning at Pittsburg; under his white and gold apartments stretched a long, blank, stone hall, around the walls of which ran a wooden balcony half way between the stone flagging and the ceiling of massive buckeye beams.
It was in this naked and gloomy hall, damp and rank with the penetrating odour of mortar and dropping, mouldy plaster, that my Lord Dunmore consented to receive the old Cayuga chief, Logan, of the clan of the Wolf, and by right of birth—whichcounts not with chiefs unless they be sachems, too—the chief also of the Oquacho of the Oneida nation.
Towards dusk a company of red-coated British infantry, with drummers leading, left the barracks opposite our inn, the "Virginia Arms," and marched away towards "Governor's Hall," drummers beating "The Huron." A crowd of men and boys trailed along on either flank of the column, drawn by curiosity to catch a glimpse of Logan, "The White Man's Friend," who was to ask justice this night of the most noble Governor of Virginia, the great Earl of Dunmore.
When the distant batter of the drums, echo and beat, had died away down the dark vista of the King's Road, I left my window in the "Virginia Arms" and descended the stairway into the street below, where Jack Mount and the Weasel ruffled it bravely and swaggered to and fro, awaiting my coming.
Mulled wine and sundry cups of cider, mixed rashly with long libations of James Rolfe's humming ale, had set their heads and tongues a-buzzing. They were glorious in their dingy buckskins, coon-skin caps cocked over their left ears, thumbs hooked jauntily under their arm-pits. They now occupied the middle of the street and patrolled it gayly, singing and shouting and interrupting traffic, returning a jest for a gibe, a laugh for a smile, or a terrible threat for any wayfarer who dared complain of being hustled or trodden on.
Men instinctively accorded them the room they seemed to desire; women understood them better, and took right of way, smiling the reproof which always brought the swaggerers up, cap-tails sweeping the street in extravagant salute. For there appeared, in those two graceless bibbers of wines, that gravity and politeness of intoxication which so grotesquely parodies the dignity of gallantry, and with which it is almost hopeless for sober people to contend.
However, I spoke to them so cuttingly that they relapsed into injured silence and ambled along on either side of me without serious offence to passing citizens.
We soon found ourselves in a crowd, the current of which swept down the King's Road towards the fortress; and we followed in the wake, while past us rode companies of officers,gentlemen, and sometimes squads of the Governor's horse—those same gay, flame-coloured Virginians whom I had so admired at Johnstown a month ago.
Coaches passed us, too, rolling towards the fortress, and through the glass windows we caught glimpses of ladies in cloaks of swan's-down, with their plumes and jewels shining in the rays of the coach-lamps. Gilded sedan-chairs began to appear, gayer and more painted and polished than our chairs in Johnstown, and the bearers often in handsome liveries, with a major-domo leading the way and footmen to heel, and my lady peeping out at us shabby foot-farers plodding along in the street beside her.
Cresap's men were plentiful among the crowd, some of them sullen and muttering, others loud in their demands for Cresap's release, threatening trouble for those who had jailed their leader, and careless who heard them. There were a few forest-runners dressed as we were, numbers of riflemen in green capes and gray wool shirts, and rangers in brown and yellow deer-skins, with thrums dyed scarlet or purple.
A short, thick-set fellow, wearing a baldrick fringed with scalps, was pointed out by people as one of Boone's and Harrod's dare-devils; and truly he looked his part, though the scalp-belt pleased me not.
I heard him boasting that the trophies were Wyandotte scalps, which news, if true, meant one more ally for the Cayuga and one more enemy for the colonies when the breach with England came. It sickened me to hear the great fool boast.
The bulk of the throng, however, was made up of sober, peaceful citizens, men of the quiet classes, in homespun and snuffy hats, guiltless of the silver buckle on knee or shoe, silent, reserved, thoughtful men of moderate gesture and earnest eyes, whose rare voices disturbed no one and whose inoffensive conduct rebuked the rufflers as no words could do.
Jack Mount, who at first appeared inclined to play the rôle of a marching orator and distribute morsels of his wit and learning to all who would pay him the fee of their attention, subsided of his own accord among the quiet company wherein we now found ourselves and contented himself and theWeasel with a series of prodigious yawns, at which they both never seemed to tire of laughing.
They also sang in a subdued chorus: