She plucked another blade of grass, and so sat, pulling at the tender verdure, her head bent so that I could not see what her eyes were thinking, but her lips seemed graver.

  “Well,” said I, “is there news of Mr. Fonda?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Tell me,” said I, smiling, “why, when I speak, do you answer ever with a ‘sir’?”

  At that she looked up: “Are you not Lord Stormont, Mr. Drogue?” she asked innocently.

  “Why, no! That is, nobody believes it any more than did the Lords in their House so many years ago. Is that why you sometimes say ‘my lord,’ and sometimes call me ‘sir’?”

  “But you still are the Laird of Northesk.”

  “Lord!” said I, laughing. “Is it that Scottish title bothers you? Pay it no attention and call me John Drogue — or John.... Or Jack, if you will.... Will you do so?”

  “If it — pleases you.”

  She was still busy with the grass, and I watched her, waiting to see her dark eyes lift again — and see that little tremor of her lips which presaged the dawning smile.

  It dawned, presently; and all the unrest left my breast — all that heavy dullness which seemed like the flitting shadow of a pain.

  “Tell me,” said I, “are you happy?”

  “I am contented. I love my Mistress Swift. I love and pity Lady Johnson.... Yes, I am happy.”

  “I know they both love you,” said I. “So you should be happy here.... And admired as you are by all men....”

  Again she laughed in her enchanting little way, and bent her bright head. And, presently:

  “John Drogue?”

  “I hear you, Penelope.”

  “Do you wish warm woolen stockings for your men?”

  “Why — yes.”

  “I sent to Caydutta Lodge for the garments. They are in the house. You shall choose for yourself and your men before the Continentals take their share.”

  I was touched, and thanked her. And now, it being near the noon hour, we walked together to the house.

  The partition which Sir John had made for a gun-room, and which now served to enclose Penelope’s chamber, was all hung with stout woolen stockings of her own knitting; and others lay on her trundle-bed. So I admired and handled and praised these sober fruits of her diligence and foresight, and we corded up some dozen pair for my white people; and I stuffed them into my soldier’s leather sack.

  Then I took her hands and said my thanks; and she looked at me and answered, “You are welcome, John Drogue.”

  I do not know what possessed me to put my arm around her. She flushed deeply. I kissed her; and it went to my head.

  The girl was dumb and scarlet, not resisting, nor defending her lips; but there came a clatter of china dishes, and I released her as Flora and Colas appeared from below, with dinner smoking, and clattering platters.

  And presently Lady Johnson’s door opened, and she stepped out in her silk levete, followed by Claudia.

  “I invited no one else,” said Lady Johnson, “ — if that suits you, Jack.”

  I protested that it suited me, and that I desired to spend my few hours from duty with them alone.

  As we were seated, I ventured a side glance at Penelope and perceived that she seemed nothing ruffled, though her colour was still high. For she gave me that faint, enchanting smile that now began to send a thrill through me, and she answered without confusion any remarks addressed to her.

  Remembering my Indian outside, I told Flora, and Colas took food to him on the veranda.

  And so we spent a very happy hour there — three old friends together once more, and a young girl stranger whom we loved already. And I did not know in what degree I loved her, but that I did love her now seemed somewhat clear to my confused senses and excited mind, — though to love, I knew, was one thing, and to be in love was still another. Or so it seemed to me.

  My animation was presently noticed by Claudia; and she rested her eyes on me. For I talked much and laughed more, and challenged her gay conceits with a wit which seemed to me not wholly contemptible.

  “One might think you had been drinking of good news,” quoth she; “so pray you share the draught, Jack, for we have none of our own to quench our thirst.”

  “Unless none be good news, as they say,” said Lady Johnson, wistfully.

  “News!” said I. “Nenni! But the sun shines, Claudia, and life is young, and ’tis a pretty world we live in after all.”

  “If you admire a marsh,” says she, “there’s a world o’ mud and rushes to admire out yonder.”

  “Or if you admire a cabinful o’ lonely ladies,” added Lady Johnson, “you may gaze your fill upon us.”

  “I should never be done or have my fill of beauty if I sat here a thousand years, Polly,” said I.

  “A thousand years and a dead fish outshines our beauty,” smiled Lady Johnson. “If you truly admire our beauty, Jack, best prove it now.”

  “To which of us the Golden Apple?” inquired Claudia, offering one of the winter russets which had been picked at the Point.

  “Ho!” said I, “you think to perplex and frighten me? Non, pas! Polly Johnson shall not have it, because, if she ever makes me wise, wisdom is its own reward and needs no other. And you shall not have it, Claudia!”

  “Why not?”

  “Mere beauty cannot claim it.”

  “Why not? Venus received the apple cast by Eris.”

  “But only because Venus promised Love! Do you promise me the reward of the shepherd?”

  “Myself?” she asked impudently.

  “Venus,” said Lady Johnson, “made that personal exception, and so must you, Claudia. The goddess promised beauty; but not herself.”

  “Then,” said I, “Claudia has nothing to offer me. And so I give the apple to Penelope!”

  She refused it, shyly.

  “Industry is the winner,” said I. “Thrift triumphs. I already have her gift. I have a dozen pair of woolen stockings for my men, knitted by this fair Penelope of today. And, as she awaits no wandering lord, though many suitors press her, then she should have at least this golden apple of Eris to reward her. And so she shall.”

  And I offered it again.

  “Take it, my dear,” said Claudia, laughing, “for this young man has given you a reason. Pallas offered military glory; you offer military stockings! What chance have Hera and poor Aphrodite in such a contest?”

  We all were laughing while the cloth was cleared, and Flora brought us a great dish of wild strawberries.

  These we sopped in our wine and tasted at our ease, there by the open windows, where a soft wind blew the curtains and the far-spreading azure waters sparkled in the sun.

  How far away seemed death!

  I looked out upon the mountains, now a pale cobalt tint, and their peaks all denting the sky like blue waves on Lake Erie against the horizon.

  Low over the Vlaie Water flapped a giant heron, which alighted not far away and stood like a sentry, motionless at his post.

  A fresh, wild breath of blossoms grew upon the breeze — the enchanting scent of pinxters. From the mainland, high on a sugar-maple’s spire, came the sweet calling of a meadow-lark.

  Truly, war seemed far away; and death farther still in this dear Northland of ours. And I fell a-thinking there that if kings could only see this land on such a day, and smell the pinxters, and hear the sweetened whistle of our lark, there would be no war here, no slavery, no strife where liberty and freedom were the very essence of the land and sky.

  * * *

  My Lady Johnson wished to rest; and there was a romance out of France awaiting her in gilt binding in her chamber.

  She went, when the board was cleared, linking her arm in Claudia’s.

  Penelope took up her knitting with a faint smile at me.

  “Will you tell me a story to amuse me, sir?” she said in her shy way.

  “You shall tell me one,” said I.

  “I? What story?”

  “Some story you have lived.”

  “I told you all.”

  “No,” said I, “not any story concerning this very pest of suitors which plague you — or, if not you, then me! — as the suitors of the first Penelope plagued Telemachus.”

  Now she was laughing, and, at one moment, hid her face in her yarn, still laughing.

  “Does this plague you, John Drogue?” she asked, still all rosy in her mirth.

  “Well,” said I, “they all seem popinjays to me in their blue and gold and buff. But it was once red-coats, too, at Caughnawaga, or so I hear.”

  “Oh. Did you hear that?”

  “I did. They sat like flies around a sap-pan.”

  “Deary me!” she exclaimed, all dimples, “who hath gossiped of me at Cayadutta Lodge?”

  “Penelope?”

  “I am attentive, sir.”

  “I suppose all maids enjoy admiration.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Hum! And do you?”

  “La, sir! I am a maid, also.”

  “And enjoy it?”

  “Yes, sir.... Do not you?”

  “What?”

  “Do not you enjoy admiration? Is admiration displeasing to young men?”

  “Well — no,” I admitted. “Only it is well to be armed with experience — hum-hum! — and discretion when one encounters the flattery of admiration.”

  “Yes, sir.... Are you so armed, Mr. Drogue?”

  At a loss to answer, her question being unexpected — as were many of her questions — and answers also — I finally admitted that flattery was a subtle foe and that perhaps experience had not wholly armed me against that persuasive enemy.

  “Nor me,” said she, with serene candour. “And I fear that I lack as much in knowledge and experience as I do in years, Mr. Drogue. For I think no evil, nor perhaps even recognize it when I meet it, deeming the world kind, and all folk unwilling to do me a wrong.”

  “I — kissed you.”

  “Was that a wrong you did me?”

  “Have not others kissed you?” said I, turning red and feeling mean.

  But she laughed outright, telling me that it concerned herself and not me what she chose to let her lips endure. And I saw she was a very child, all unaccustomed, yet shyly charmed by flatteries, and already vaguely aware that men found her attractive, and that she also was not disinclined toward men, nor averse to their admiration.

  “How many write you verses?” I asked uneasily.

  “Gentlemen are prone to verses. Is it unbecoming of me to encourage them to verse?”

  “Why, no....”

  “Did you think the verses fine you heard in the orchard?”

  “Oh, yes,” said I, carelessly, “but smacking strong of Major André’s verses to his several Sacharissas.”

  “Oh. I thought them fine.”

  “And all men think you fine, I fear — from that soldier who pricked your name on his powder-horn at Mayfield fort to Bully Jock Gallopaway of the Border Horse at Caughnawaga, and our own little Jack-boots in the orchard yonder.”

  “Only Jack Drogue dissents,” she murmured, bending over her knitting.

  At that I caught her white hand and kissed it; and she blushed and sat smiling in absent fashion at the water, while I retained it.

  “You use me sans façon,” she murmured at last. “Do you use other women so?”

  Now, I had used some few maids as wilfully, but none worse, yet had no mind to admit it, nor yet to lie.

  “You ask me questions,” said I, “but answer none o’ mine.”

  At that her gay smile broke again. “What a very boy,” quoth she, “to be Laird o’ Northesk! For it is cat’s-cradle talk between us two, and give and take to no advancement. Will you tell me, my lord, if it gives you pleasure to touch my lips?”

  “Yes,” said I. “Does it please you, too?”

  “I wonder,” says she, and was laughing again out of half-shy eyes at me.

  But, ere I could speak again, comes an express a-galloping; and we saw him dismount at the mainland gate and come swiftly across the orchard.

  “My orders,” said I, and went to the edge of the veranda.

  The letter he handed me was from Colonel Dayton. It commended me, enjoined secrecy, approved my Oneidas and my Saguenay, but warned me to remain discreetly silent concerning these red auxiliaries, because General Schuyler did not approve our employing savages.

  Further, he explained, several full companies of Rangers had now been raised and were properly officered and distributed for employment. Therefore, though I was to retain my commission, he preferred that I command my present force as a scout, and not attempt to recruit a Ranger company.

  “For,” said he, “we have great need of such a scout under an officer who, like yourself, has been Brent-Meester in these forests.”

  However, the letter went on to say, I was ordered to remain on the Sacandaga trail with my scout of ten until relieved, and in the meanwhile a waggon with pay, provisions, and suitable clothing for my men, and additional presents for my Indians, was already on its way.

  I read the letter very carefully, then took my tinder-box and struck fire with flint and steel, blowing the moss to a glow. To this I touched the edge of my letter, and breathed on the coal till the paper flamed, crinkled, fell in black flakes, and was destroyed.

  For a few moments I stood there, considering, then dismissed the express; but still stood a-thinking.

  And it seemed to me that there was indecision in my commander’s letter, where positive and virile authority should have breathed action from every line.

  I know, now, that Colonel Dayton proved to be a most excellent officer of Engineers, later in our great war for liberty. But I think now, and thought then, that he lacked that energy and genius which meets with vigour such a situation as was ours in Tryon County.... God knows to what sublime heights Willett soared in the instant agony of black days to come!... And comparisons are odious, they say.... So Colonel Dayton occupied Johnstown, garrisoned Summer House Point and Fish House, and was greatly embarrassed what to do with his prisoner, Lady Johnson.... A fine, brave, loyal officer — who made us very good forts.

  But, oh, for the dead of Tryon! — and the Valley in ashes from end to end; and the whole sky afire! — Lord! Lord! — what sights I have lived to see, and seeing, lived to tell!

  * * *

  My memories outstrip my quill.

  * * *

  So, when I came out of my revery, I turned and walked back slowly to Penelope, who lifted her eyes in silence, clasping her fair hands over idle needles.

  “I go back tonight,” said I.

  “To the forest?”

  “To the trail by the Drowned Lands.”

  “Will you come soon again?”

  “Do you wish it?”

  “Why, yes, John Drogue,” she said; and I saw the smile glimmer ere it dawned.

  And now comes my Lady Johnson and her Abagail for a dish of tea on the veranda, where a rustic table was soon spread by Colas, very fine in his scarlet waistcoat and a new scratch-wig.

  Now, to tea, comes sauntering our precious plague of suitors, one by one, and two by two, from the camp on the mainland. And all around they sit them down — with ceremony, it’s true, but their manners found no favour with me either. And I thought of Ulysses, and of the bow that none save he could bend.

  Well, there was ceremony, as I say, and some subdued gaiety, not too marked, in deference to Lady Johnson’s political condition.

  There was tea, which our officers and I forbore to taste, making a civil jest of refusal. But there was an eggnog for us, and a cooled punch, and a syllabub and cakes.

  Toward sundown a young officer brought his fiddle from camp and played prettily enough.

  Others sang in acceptable harmony a catch or two, and a romantic piece for concerted voices, which I secretly thought silly, yet it pleased Lady Johnson.

  Then, at Claudia’s request, Penelope sang a French song made in olden days. And I thought it a little sad, but very sweet to hear there in the gathering dusk.

  Other officers came up in the growing darkness, paid their respects, tasted the punch. Candles glimmered in the Summer House. Shadowy forms arrived and departed or wandered over the grassy slope along the water.

  I missed Claudia. Later, I saw Penelope rise and give her hand to a man who came stalking up in a watch cloak; and presently they strolled away over the lawn, with her arm resting on his.

  Major Westfall and Lady Johnson were conversing gravely on the north porch. Others, dimly visible, chatted around me or moved with sudden clank of scabbard and spur.

  Penelope did not come back. At first I waited calmly enough, then with increasing impatience.

  Where the devil had she gone with her Captain Spatter-dash? Claudia I presently discovered with men a-plenty around her; but Penelope was not visible. This troubled me.

  So I went down to the orchard, carelessly sauntering, and not as though in search of anybody. And so encountered Penelope.

  She and her young man in the watch-cloak passed me, moving slowly under the trees. He wore black spatter-dashes. And, as we saluted, it came to me that this was one of the officers from the Canajoharie Regiment; but in the starlight I knew him no better than I had by day.

  “Strange,” thought I, “that young Spatter-dashes seems so familiar to my eyes, yet I can not think who he may be.”

  Then, looking after him, I saw his comrade walking toward me from the well, and with him was Colas, with a lantern, which shined dimly on both their faces.

  And, suddenly: “Why, sir!” I blurted out in astonishment, “are you not Captain Hare?”

  “No, sir,” said he, “my name is Sims, and I am captain in the Canajoharie militia.” And he bowed civilly and walked on, Colas following with the lantern, leaving me there perplexed and still standing with lifted cap in hand.

  I put it on, pondered for a space, striving to rack my memory, for that man’s features monstrously resembled Lieutenant Hare’s, as I saw him at supper that last night at Johnson Hall, when he came there with Hiokatoo and Stevie Watts, and that Captain Moucher, whom I knew a little and trusted less, for all his mealy flatteries.

  Well, then, I had been mistaken. It was merely a slight resemblance, if it were even that. I had not thought of Hare since that evening, and when I saw this man by lantern light, as I had seen him by candles, why, I thought he seemed like Hare.... That was all.... That certainly was all there could be to it.

 

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