Complete weird tales of.., p.176
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 176
“Tell me no more,” I stammered, all a-quiver at her voice. She shrank back as at a blow, and I, head swimming, frighted, penitent, caught her small hand in mine and drew her nearer; nor could I speak for the loud beating of my heart.
“What is it?” she murmured. “Have I pained you that you tremble so? Look at me, cousin. I can scarce see you in the dusk. Have I hurt you? I love you dearly.”
Her horse moved nearer, our knees touched. In the forest darkness I found I held her waist imprisoned, and her arms were heavy on my shoulders. Then her lips yielded and her arms tightened around my neck, and that swift embrace in the swimming darkness kindled in me a flame that has never died — that shall live when this poor body crumbles into dust, lighting my soul through its last dark pilgrimage.
As for her, she sat up in her saddle with a strange little laugh, still holding to my hand. “Oh, you are divine in all you lead me to,” she whispered. “Never, never have I known delight in a kiss; and I have been kissed, too, willing and against my will. But you leave me breathing my heart out and all a-tremble with a tenderness for you — no, not again, cousin, not yet.”
Then slowly the full wretchedness of guilt burned me, bone and soul, and what I had done seemed a black evil to a maid betrothed, and to the man whose wine had quenched my thirst an hour since.
Something of my thoughts she may have read in my bent head and face averted, for she leaned forward in her saddle, and drawing me by the arm, turned me partly towards her.
“What troubles you?” she said, anxiously.
“My treason to Sir George.”
“What treason?” she said, amazed.
“That I — caressed you.”
She laughed outright.
“Am I not free-until I wed? Do you imagine I should have signed my liberty away to please Sir George? Why, cousin, if I may not caress whom I choose and find a pleasure in the way you use me, I am no better than the winter log he buys to toast his shins at!”
Then she grew angry in her impatience, slapping her bridle down to range her horse up closer to mine.
“Am I not to wed him?” she said. “Is not that enough? And I told him so, flatly, I warrant you, when Captain Campbell kissed me on the porch — which maddened me, for he was not to my fancy — but Sir George saw him and there was like to be a silly scene until I made it plain that I would endure no bonds before I wore a wedding-ring!” She laughed deliciously. “I think he understands now that I am not yoked until I bend my neck. And until I bend it I am free. So if I please you, kiss me, ... but leave me a little breath to draw, cousin, ... and a saddle to cling to.... Now loose me — for the forest ends!”
“NOW LOOSE ME — FOR THE FOREST ENDS!”.
A faint red light grew in the woodland gloom; a rushing noise like swiftly flowing water filled my ears — or was it the blood that surged singing through my heart?
“Broadalbin Bush,” she murmured, clearing her eyes of the clouded hair and feeling for her stirrups with small, moccasined toes. “Hark! Now we hear the Kennyetto roaring below the hill. See, cousin, it is sunset, the west blazes, all heaven is afire! Ah! what sorcery has turned the world to paradise — riding this day with you?”
She turned in her saddle with an exquisite gesture, pressed her outstretched hand against my lips, then, gathering bridle, launched her horse straight through the underbrush, out into a pasture where, across a naked hill, a few log-houses reddened in the sunset.
There hung in the air a smell of sweetbrier as we drew bridle before a cabin under the hill. I leaned over and plucked a handful of the leaves, bruising them in my palm to savor the spicy perfume.
A man came to the door of the cabin and stared at us; a tap-room sluggard, a-sunning on the west fence-rail, chewed his cud solemnly and watched us with watery eyes.
“Andrew Bowman, have you seen aught to fright folk on the mountain?” asked Dorothy, gravely.
The man in the doorway shook his head. From the cabins near by a few men and women trooped out into the road and hastened towards us. One of the houses bore a bush, and I saw two men peering at us through the open window, pewters in hand.
“Good people,” said Dorothy, quietly, “the patroon sends you word of a strange smoke seen this day in the hills.”
“There’s smoke there now,” I said, pointing into the sunset.
At that moment Peter Van Horn galloped up, halted, and turned his head, following the direction of my outstretched arm. Others came, blinking into the ruddy evening glow, craning their necks to see, and from the wretched tavern a lank lout stumbled forth, rifle shouldered, pewter a-slop, to learn the news that had brought us hither at that hour.
“It is mist,” said a woman; but her voice trembled as she said it.
“It is smoke,” growled Van Horn. “Read it, you who can.”
Whereat the fellow in the tavern window fell a-laughing and called down to his companion: “Francy McCraw! Francy McCraw! The Brandt-Meester says a Mohawk fire burns in the north!”
“I hear him,” cried McCraw, draining his pewter.
Dorothy turned sharply. “Oh, is that you, McCraw? What brings you to the Bush?”
The lank fellow turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then gazed at the smoke. Some of the men scowled at him.
“Is that smoke?” I asked, sharply. “Answer me, McCraw!”
“A canna’ deny it,” he said, with a mad chuckle.
“Is it Indian smoke?” demanded Van Horn.
“Aweel,” he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head impudently— “aweel, a’ll admit that, too. It’s Indian smoke; a canna deny it, no.”
“Is it a Mohawk signal?” I asked, bluntly.
At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.
“What does he say?” called out the man from the tavern. “What does he say, Francy McCraw?”
“He says it maun be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock.”
“And what if it is?” blustered Redstock, shouldering his way to McCraw, rifle in hand. “Keep your black looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman. What have we to do with your Mohawk fires?”
“Herman Salisbury!” cried Bowman to a neighbor, “do you hear what this Tory renegade says?”
“Quiet! Quiet, there,” said Redstock, swaggering out into the road. “Francy McCraw, our good neighbors are woful perplexed by that thread o’ birch smoke yonder.”
“Then tell the feckless fools tae watch it!” screamed McCraw, seizing his rifle and menacing the little throng of men and women who had closed swiftly in on him. “Hands off me, Johnny Putnam — back, for your life, Charley Cady! Ay, stare at the smoke till ye’re eyes drop frae th’ sockets! But no; there’s some foulk ‘ill tak’ nae warnin’!”
He backed off down the road, followed by Redstock, rifles cocked.
“An’ ye’ll bear me out,” he shouted, “that there’s them wha’ hear these words now shall meet their weirds ere a hunter’s moon is wasted!”
He laughed his insane laugh and, throwing his rifle over his shoulder, halted, facing us.
“Hae ye no heard o’ Catrine Montour?” he jeered. “She’ll come in the night, Andrew Bowman! Losh, mon, but she’s a grewsome carlin’, wi’ the witch-locks hangin’ to her neck an’ her twa een blazin’!”
“You drive us out to-night!” shouted Redstock. “We’ll remember it when Brant is in the hills!”
“The wolf-yelp! Clan o’ the wolf!” screamed McCraw. “Woe! Woe to Broadalbane! ’Tis the pibroch o’ Glencoe shall wake ye to the woods afire! Be warned! Be warned, for ye stand knee-deep in ye’re shrouds!”
In the ruddy dusk their dark forms turned to shadows and were gone.
Van Horn stirred in his saddle, then shook his shoulders as though freeing them from a weight.
“Now you have it, you Broadalbin men,” he said, grimly. “Go to the forts while there’s time.”
In the darkness around us children began to whimper; a woman broke down, sobbing.
“Silence!” cried Bowman, sternly. And to Dorothy, who sat quietly on her horse beside him, “Say to the patroon that we know our enemies. And you, Peter Van Horn, on whichever side you stand, we men of the Bush thank you and this young lady for your coming.”
And that was all. In silence we wheeled our horses northward, Van Horn riding ahead, and passed out of that dim hamlet which lay already in the shadows of an unknown terror.
Behind us, as we looked back, one or two candles flickered in cabin windows, pitiful, dim lights in the vast, dark ocean of the forest. Above us the stars grew clearer. A vesper-sparrow sang its pensive song. Tranquil, sweet, the serene notes floated into silver echoes never-ending, till it seemed as if the starlight all around us quivered into song.
I touched Dorothy, riding beside me, white as a spirit in the pale radiance, and she turned her sweet, fearless face to mine.
“There is a sound,” I whispered, “very far away.”
She laid her hand in mine and drew bridle, listening. Van Horn, too, had halted.
Far in the forest the sound stirred the silence; soft, stealthy, nearer, nearer, till it grew into a patter. Suddenly Van Horn’s horse reared.
“It’s there! it’s there!” he cried, hoarsely, as our horses swung round in terror.
“Look!” muttered Dorothy.
Then a thing occurred that stopped my heart’s blood. For straight through the forest came running a dark shape, a squattering thing that passed us ere we could draw breath to shriek; animal, human, or spirit, I knew not, but it ran on, thuddy-thud, thuddy-thud! and we struggling with our frantic horses to master them ere they dashed us lifeless among the trees.
“Jesu!” gasped Van Horn, dragging his powerful horse back into the road. “Can you make aught o’ yonder fearsome thing, like a wart-toad scrabbling on two legs?”
Dorothy, teeth set, drove her heels into her gray’s ribs and forced him to where my mare stood all a-quiver.
“It’s a thing from hell,” panted Van Horn, fighting knee and wrist with his roan. “My nag shies at neither bear nor wolf! Look at him now!”
“Nor mine at anything save a savage,” said I, fearfully peering behind me while my mare trembled under me.
“I think we have seen a savage, that is all,” fell Dorothy’s calm voice. “I think we have seen Catrine Montour.”
At the name, Van Horn swore steadily.
“If that be the witch Montour, she runs like a clansman with the fiery cross,” I said, shuddering.
“And that is like to be her business,” muttered Van Horn. “The painted forest-men are in the hills, and if Senecas, Cayugas, and Onondagas do not know it this night, it will be no fault of Catrine Montour.”
“Ride on, Peter,” said Dorothy, and checked her horse till my mare came abreast.
“Are you afraid?” I whispered.
“Afraid? No!” she said, astonished. “What should arouse fear in me?”
“Your common-sense!” I said, impatiently, irritated to rudeness by the shocking and unearthly spectacle which had nigh unnerved me. But she answered very sweetly:
“If I fear nothing, it is because there is nothing that I know of in the world to fright me. I remember,” she added, gravely, “‘A thousand shall fall at my side and ten thousand at my right hand. And it shall not come nigh me.’ How can I fear, believing that?”
She leaned from her saddle and I saw her eyes searching my face in the darkness.
“Silly,” she said, tenderly, “I have no fear save that you should prove unkind.”
“Then give yourself to me, Dorothy,” I said, holding her imprisoned.
“How can I? You have me.”
“I mean forever.”
“But I have.”
“I mean in wedlock!” I whispered, fiercely.
“How can I, silly — I am promised!”
“Can I not stir you to love me?” I said.
“To love you?... Better than I do?... You may try.”
“Then wed me!”
“If I were wed to you would I love you better than I do?” she asked.
“Dorothy, Dorothy,” I begged, holding her fast, “wed me; I love you.”
She swayed back into her saddle, breaking my clasp.
“You know I cannot,” she said.... Then, almost tenderly: “Do you truly desire it? It is so dear to hear you say it — and I have heard the words often enough, too, but never as you say them.... Had you asked me in December, ere I was in honor bound.... But I am promised; ... only a word, but it holds me like a chain.... Dear lad, forget it.... Use me kindly.... Teach me to love, ... an unresisting pupil, ... for all life is too short for me to learn in, ... alas!... God guard us both from love’s unhappiness and grant us only its sweetness — which you have taught me; to which I am — I am awaking, ... after all these years, ... after all these years without you.
* * *
Perhaps it were kinder to let me sleep.... I am but half awake to love.
* * *
Is it best to wake me, after all? Is it too late?... Draw bridle in the starlight. Look at me.... It is too late, for I shall never sleep again.”
* * *
X
TWO LESSONS
FOR TWO WHOLE days I did not see my cousin Dorothy, she lying abed with hot and aching head, and the blinds drawn to keep out all light. So I had time to consider what we had said and done, and to what we stood committed.
Yet, with time heavy on my hands and full leisure to think, I could make nothing of those swift, fevered hours together, nor what had happened to us that the last moments should have found us in each other’s arms, her tear-stained eyes closed, her lips crushed to mine. For, within that same hour, at table, she told Sir Lupus to my very face that she desired to wed Sir George as soon as might be, and would be content with nothing save that Sir Lupus despatch a messenger to the pleasure house, bidding Sir George dispose of his affairs so that the marriage fall within the first three days of June.
I could not doubt my own ears, yet could scarce credit my shocked senses to hear her; and I had sat there, now hot with anger, now in cold amazement; not touching food save with an effort that cost me all my self-command.
As for Sir Lupus, his astonishment and delight disgusted me, for he fell a-blubbering in his joy, loading his daughter with caresses, breaking out into praises of her, lauding above all her filial gratitude and her constancy to Sir George, whom he also larded and smeared with compliments till his eulogium, buttered all too thick for my weakened stomach, drove me from the table to pace the dark porch and strive to reconcile all these warring memories a-battle in my swimming brain.
What demon possessed her to throw away time, when time was our most precious ally, our only hope! With time — if she truly loved me — what might not be done? And here, too, was another ally swiftly coming to our aid on Time’s own wings — the war! — whose far breath already fanned the Mohawk smoke on the northern hills! And still another friendly ally stood to aid us — absence! For, with Sir George away, plunged into new scenes, new hopes, new ambitions, he might well change in his affections. An officer, and a successful one, rising higher every day in the esteem of his countrymen, should find all paths open, all doors unlocked, and a gracious welcome among those great folk of New York city, whose princely mode of living might not only be justified, but even titled under a new régime and a new monarchy.
These were the half-formed, maddened thoughts that went a-racing through my mind as I paced the porch that night; and I think they were, perhaps, the most unworthy thoughts that ever tempted me. For I hated Sir George and wished him a quick flight to immortality unless he changed in his desire for wedlock with my cousin.
Gnawing my lips in growing rage I saw the messenger for the pleasure house mount and gallop out of the stockade, and I wished him evil chance and a fall to dash his senses out ere he rode up with his cursed message to Sir George’s door.
Passion blinded and deafened me to all whispers of decency; conscience lay stunned within me, and I think I know now what black obsession drives men’s bodies into murder and their souls to punishments eternal.
Quivering from head to heel, now hot, now cold, and strangling with the fierce desire for her whom I was losing more hopelessly every moment, I started aimlessly through the starlight, pacing the stockade like a caged beast, and I thought my swelling heart would choke me if it broke not to ease my breath.
So this was love! A ghastly thing, God wot, to transform an honest man, changing and twisting right and wrong until the threads of decency and duty hung too hopelessly entangled for him to follow or untwine. Only one thing could I see or understand: I desired her whom I loved and was now fast losing forever.
Chance and circumstance had enmeshed me; in vain I struggled in the net of fate, bruised, stunned, confused with grief and this new fire of passion which had flashed up around me until I had inhaled the flames and must forever bear their scars within as long as my seared heart could pulse.
As I stood there under the dim trees, dumb, miserable, straining my ears for the messenger’s return, came my cousin Dorothy in the pale, flowered gown she wore at supper, and ere she perceived me I saw her searching for me, treading the new grass without a sound, one hand pressed to her parted lips.
When she saw me she stood still, and her hands fell loosely to her side.
“Cousin,” she said, in a faint voice.
And, as I did not answer, she stepped nearer till I could see her blue eyes searching mine.
“What have you done!” I cried, harshly.
“I do not know,” she said.
“I know,” I retorted, fiercely. “Time was all we had — a few poor hours — a day or two together. And with time there was chance, and with chance, hope. You have killed all three!”
“No; ... there was no chance; there is no longer any time; there never was any hope.”
“There was hope!” I said, bitterly.
