Complete weird tales of.., p.132
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 132
“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 her 220 for 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 the 221 tap-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 Dunmore 223 will 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!—”
until I remonstrated so vigorously that they quieted their voices if not their deportment.
It was on Pitt Street that we found Shemuel, trudging towards the King’s Road. A number of people gathered about him and followed him. Some bought ribbons or tablets for the races. The peddler saw us immediately, but made no sign as we approached until I asked the price of gilt buckles, and purchased three.
Then the little Jew fumbled in his pockets and whined 226 and protested he could not make change, and I was uncertain what to say until he brightened up and begged us to follow to the “Bear and Cubs,” just opposite, where change might be had in the tap-room.
The “Bear and Cubs” was a grizzly tavern, a squalid, unpainted house, swinging a grotesque sign which was meant to represent a she-bear suckling her young. The windows were dim with filth; the place reeked with the stale stench of malt and spirit dregs.
Into this grewsome hostelry I followed, perforce, to the tap-room, where Mount and Renard bawled for ale while I made known my business to Shemuel, who curiously enough appeared to suspect in advance what I wanted.
“If you hatt dold me this morning — ach! — bud I pelieved you care noddings, Mister Cardigan. She wass waiting to see you, sir, at Lady Shelton’s in the Boundary—”
“Did you tell her I was here?” I asked, angrily.
“Ach — yess! I wass so sure you would see her—”
Exasperated, I shook my fist at the peddler.
“You miserable, tattling fool!” I said, fiercely. “Will you mind your own business hereafter? Who the devil are you, to pry into my affairs and spy upon your betters?”
“It wass to hellup you, sir,” he protested, spreading his fingers and waving his hands excitedly. “I dold you she wass to marry Lord Dunmore; if you hatt asked me I could haff dold you somedings more—”
“What?”
“The bans will be published to-morrow from efery church in Pittsburg, Richmond, and Williamsburg!”
I glared at him, catching my breath and swallowing.
“Sir,” he whined, “I ask your pardon, but I haff so often seen you in Johnstown, and Miss Warren, too, and — and — I would not haff harm come to her, or you, sir; and I pelieved you — you lofed her—”
I looked at him savagely.
“Ach! — I will mix me no more mit kindness to nobody!” he muttered. “Shemmy, you mint your peezeness and sell dem goots in dot pasket-box!”
“Shemuel,” I said, “what did she say when you told her I was in Fort Pitt?”
“Miss Warren went white like you did, sir.”
“And you said you would tell me where she was to be found?”
“Ach! — yess.”
“What did she say?”
“Miss Warren wass crying, sir—”
“What?” I asked, astonished.
“Yess, sir; Miss Warren she only sat down under the drees, and she cry mit herselluf.”
“And you came to get me? And my manner made you believe I did not care to see Miss Warren?”
“Miss Warren she knew I hatt come to fetch you. I dold her so. When I passed py dot Boundary again, she wass waiting under the drees—”
“How long since?”
“It is an hour, sir.”
I fumbled in my belt and pulled out a gold piece.
“Thank you, Shemmy,” I muttered, dropping it into his greasy cap; “tell Mount and Renard where I have gone.”
“Ach — ach, Mister Cardigan,” cried Shemuel, plucking me timidly by the sleeve, “von vort, if you please, sir. Remember, sir, I beg of you, that Miss Warren must not stay here. And if she will stay, and if she will not listen to you, sir, I beg you to gome to me at vonce.”
“Why?” I asked, searching his agitated face.
“Pecause I haff a knowledge that will hellup you,” he muttered.
“Very well,” I said, calmly. “I will come to you, Shemmy, if I need you. Where is Lady Shelton’s house?”
He led me to a back window and pointed out the Boundary, which was a tree-shaded road skirting the inner fortifications. Then he opened the rear door, pointed out the way through a filthy alley, across the market square, and then north until I came to a large, white-pillared house on a terrace, surrounded by an orchard.
As I walked swiftly towards the Boundary my irritation increased with every stride; it appeared to me that the world was most impudently concerning itself with my private affairs. First, Mount had coolly arranged for my reception by Dunmore without a word on the subject to me; and now 228 the peddler, Shemuel, had without my knowledge or consent made a rendezvous for me with Silver Heels before I knew for certain that she still remained in Pittsburg. The free direction of my own affairs appeared to be 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.
