Complete weird tales of.., p.177
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 177
“No, there was none,” she murmured.
“Then why did you tell me that you were free till the yoke locked you to him? Why did you desire to love? Why did you bid me teach you? Why did you consent to my lips, my arms? Why did you awake me?”
“God knows,” she said, faintly.
“Is that your defence?” I asked. “Have you no defence?”
“None.... I had never loved.... I found you kind and I had known no man like you.... Every moment with you entranced me till, ... I don’t know why, ... that sweet madness came upon ... us ... which can never come again — which must never come.... Forgive me. I did not understand. Love was a word to me.”
“Dorothy, Dorothy, what have I done!” I stammered.
“Not you, but I, ... and now it is plain to me why, unwedded, I stand yoked together with my honor, and you stand apart, fettered to yours.... We have shaken our chains in play, the links still hold firm and bright; but if we break them, then, as they snap, our honor dies forever. For what I have done in idle ignorance forgive me, and leave me to my penance, ... which must last for all my life, cousin.... And you will forget.... Hush! dearest lad, and let me speak. Well, then I will say that I pray you may forget! Well, then I will not say that to grieve you.... I wish you to remember — yet not know the pain that I—”
“Dorothy, Dorothy, do you still love me?”
“Oh, I do love you!... No, no! I ask you to spare me even the touch of your hand! I ask it, I beg you to spare me! I implore — Be a shield to me! Aid me, cousin. I ask it for the Ormond honor and for the honor of the roof that shelters us both!... Now do you understand?... Oh, I knew you to be all that I adore and worship!
* * *
Our fault was in our ignorance. How could we know of that hidden fire within us, stirring its chilled embers in all innocence until the flames flashed out and clothed us both in glory, cousin? Heed me, lest it turn to flames of hell!
* * *
And now, dear lad, lest you should deem me mad to cut short the happy time we had to hope for, I must tell you what I have never told before. All that we have in all the world is by charity of Sir George. He stood in the breach when the Cosby heirs made ready to foreclose on father; he held off the Van Rensselaers; he threw the sop to Billy Livingston and to that great villain, Klock. To-day, unsecured, his loans to my father, still unpaid, have nigh beggared him. And the little he has he is about to risk in this war whose tides are creeping on us through this very night.
* * *
And when he honored me by asking me in marriage, I, knowing all this, knowing all his goodness and his generosity — though he was not aware I knew it — I was thankful to say yes — deeming it little enough to please him — and I not knowing what love meant—”
Her soft voice broke; she laid her hands on her eyes, and stood so, speaking blindly. “What can I do, cousin? What can I do? Tell me! I love you. Tell me, use me kindly; teach me to do right and keep my honor bright as you could desire it were I to be your wife!”
It was that appeal, I think, that brought me back through the distorted shadows of my passion; through the dark pit of envy, past snares of jealousy and malice, and the traps and pitfalls dug by Satan, safe to the trembling rock of honor once again.
Like a blind man healed by miracle, yet still groping in the precious light that mazed him, so I peering with aching eyes for those threads to guide me in my stunned perplexity. But when at last I felt their touch, I found I held one already — the thread of hope — and whether for good or evil I did not drop it, but gathered all together and wove them to a rope to hold by.
“What is it I must swear,” I asked, cold to the knees.
“Never again to kiss me.”
“Never again.”
“Nor to caress me.”
“Nor to caress you.”
“Nor speak of love.”
“Nor speak of love.”
“And ... that is all,” she faltered.
“No, not all. I swear to love you always, never to forget you, never to prove unworthy in your eyes, never to wed; living, to honor you; dying, with your name upon my lips.”
She had stretched out her arms towards me as though warning me to stop; but, as I spoke slowly, weighing each word and its cost, her hands trembled and sought each other so that she stood looking at me, fingers interlocked and her sweet face as white as death.
And after a long time she came to me, and, raising my hands, kissed them; and I touched her hair with dumb lips; and she stole away through the starlight like a white ghost returning to its tomb.
And long after, long, long after, as I stood there, broke on my wrapt ears the far stroke of horse’s hoofs, nearer, nearer, until the black bulk of the rider rose up in the night and Sir Lupus came to the porch.
“Eh! What?” he cried. “Sir George away with the Palatine rebels? Where? Gone to Stanwix? Now Heaven have mercy on him for a madman who mixes in this devil’s brew! And he’ll drown me with him, too! Dammy, they’ll say that I’m in with him. But I’m not! Curse me if I am. I’m neutral — neither rebel nor Tory — and I’ll let ’em know it, too; only desiring quiet and peace and a fair word for all. Damnation!”
* * *
And so had ended that memorable day and night; and now for two whole wretched days I had not seen Dorothy, nor heard of her save through Ruyven, who brought us news that she lay on her bed in the dark with no desire for company.
“There is a doctor at Johnstown,” he said; “but Dorothy refuses, saying that she is only tired and requires peace and rest. I don’t like it, Cousin George. Never have I seen her ill, nor has any one. Suppose you look at her, will you?”
“If she will permit me,” I said, slowly. “Ask her, Ruyven.”
But he returned, shaking his head, and I sat down once more upon the porch to think of her and of all I loved in her; and how I must strive to fashion my life so that I do naught that might shame me should she know.
Now that it was believed that factional bickering between the inhabitants of Tryon County might lead, in the immediate future, to something more serious than town brawls and tavern squabbles; and, more-over, as the Iroquois agitation had already resulted in the withdrawal to Fort Niagara of the main body of the Mohawk nation — for what ominous purpose it might be easy to guess — Sir Lupus forbade the children to go a-roaming outside his own boundaries.
Further, he had cautioned his servants and tenants not to rove out of bounds, to avoid public houses like the “Turtle-dove and Olive,” and to refrain from busying themselves about matters in which they had no concern.
Yet that very day, spite of the patroon’s orders, when General Schuyler’s militia-call went out, one-half of his tenantry disappeared overnight, abandoning everything save their live-stock and a rough cart heaped with household furniture; journeying with women and children, goods and chattels, towards the nearest block-house or fort, there to deposit all except powder-horn, flint, and rifle, and join the district regiment now laboring with pick and shovel on the works at Fort Stanwix.
As I sat there on the porch, wretched, restless, debating what course I should take in the presence of this growing disorder which, as I have said, had already invaded our own tenantry, came Sir Lupus a-waddling, pipe in hand, and Cato bearing his huge chair so he might sit in the sun, which was warm on the porch.
“You’ve heard what my tenant rascals have done?” he grunted, settling in his chair and stretching his fat legs.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“What d’ ye think of it? Eh? What d’ ye think?”
“I think it is very pitiful and sad to see these poor creatures leaving their little farms to face the British regulars — and starvation.”
“Face the devil!” he snorted. “Nobody forces ‘em!”
“The greater honor due them,” I retorted.
“Honor! Fol-de-rol! Had it been any other patroon but me, he’d turn his manor-house into a court-house, arrest ‘em, try ‘em, and hang a few for luck! In the old days, I’ll warrant you, the Cosbys would have stood no such nonsense — no, nor the Livingstons, nor the Van Cortlandts. A hundred lashes here and there, a debtor’s jail, a hanging or two, would have made things more cheerful. But I, curse me if I could ever bring myself to use my simplest prerogatives; I can’t whip a man, no! I can’t hang a man for anything — even a sheep-thief has his chance with me — like that great villain, Billy Bones, who turned renegade and joined Danny Redstock and the McCraw.”
He snorted in self-contempt and puffed savagely at his clay pipe.
“La patroon? Dammy, I’m an old woman! Get me my knitting! I want my knitting and a sunny spot to mumble my gums and wait for noon and a dish o’ porridge!... George, my rents are cut in half, and half my farms left to the briers and wolves in one day, because his Majesty, General Schuyler, orders his Highness, Colonel Dayton, to call out half the militia to make a fort for his Eminence, Colonel Gansevoort!”
“At Stanwix?”
“They call it Fort Schuyler now — after his Highness in Albany.
“Sir Lupus,” I said, “if it is true that the British mean to invade us here with Brant’s Mohawks, there is but one bulwark between Tryon County and the enemy, and that is Fort Stanwix. Why, in Heaven’s name, should it not be defended? If this British officer and his renegades, regulars, and Indians take Stanwix and fortify Johnstown, the whole country will swarm with savages, outlaws, and a brutal soldiery already hardened and made callous by a year of frontier warfare!
“Can you not understand this, sir? Do you think it possible for these blood-drunk ruffians to roam the Mohawk and Sacandaga valleys and respect you and yours just because you say you are neutral? Turn loose a pack of famished panthers in a common pasture and mark your sheep with your device and see how many are alive at daybreak!”
“Dammy, sir!” cried Sir Lupus, “the enemy are led by British gentlemen.”
“Who doubtless will keep their own cuffs clean; it were shame to doubt it! But if the Mohawks march with them there’ll be a bloody page in Tryon County annals.”
“The Mohawks will not join!” he said, violently. “Has not Schuyler held a council-fire and talked with belts to the entire confederacy?”
“The confederacy returned no belts,” I said, “and the Mohawks were not present.”
“Kirkland saw Brant,” he persisted, obstinately.
“Yes, and sent a secret report to Albany. If there had been good news in that report, you Tryon County men had heard it long since, Sir Lupus.”
“With whom have you been talking, sir?” he sneered, removing his pipe from his yellow teeth.
“With one of your tenants yesterday, a certain Christian Schell, lately returned with Stoner’s scout.”
“And what did Stoner’s men see in the northwest?” he demanded, contemptuously.
“They saw half a thousand Mohawks with eyes painted in black circles and white, Sir Lupus.”
“For the planting-dance!” he muttered.
“No, Sir Lupus. The castles are empty, the villages deserted. There is not one Mohawk left on their ancient lands, there is not one seed planted, not one foot of soil cultivated, not one apple-bough grafted, not one fish-line set!
“And you tell me the Mohawks are painted for the planting-dance, in black and white? With every hatchet shining like silver, and every knife ground to a razor-edge, and every rifle polished, and every flint new?”
“Who saw such things?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Christian Schell, of Stoner’s scout.”
“Now God curse them if they lift an arm to harm a Tryon County man!” he burst out. “I’ll not believe it of the British gentlemen who differ with us over taxing tea! No, dammy if I’ll credit such a monstrous thing as this alliance!”
“Yet, a few nights since, sir, you heard Walter Butler and Sir John threaten to use the Mohawks.”
“And did not heed them!” he said, angrily. “It is all talk, all threats, and empty warning. I tell you they dare not for their names’ sakes employ the savages against their own kind — against friends who think not as they think — against old neighbors, ay, their own kin!
“Nor dare we. Look at Schuyler — a gentleman, if ever there was one on this rotten earth — standing, belts in hand, before the sachems of the confederacy, not soliciting Cayuga support, not begging Seneca aid, not proposing a foul alliance with the Onondagas; but demanding right manfully that the confederacy remain neutral; nay, more, he repulsed offers of warriors from the Oneidas to scout for him, knowing what that sweet word ‘scout’ implied — God bless him I ... I have no love for Schuyler.... He lately called me ‘malt-worm,’ and, if I’m not at fault, he added, ‘skin-flint Dutchman,’ or some such tribute to my thrift. But he has conducted like a man of honor in this Iroquois matter, and I care not who hears me say it!”
He settled himself in his chair, mumbling in a rumbling voice, and all I could make out was here and there a curse or two distributed impartially ‘twixt Tory and rebel and other asses now untethered in the world.
“Well, sir,” I said, “from all I can gather, Burgoyne is marching southward through the lakes, and Clinton is gathering an army in New York to march north and meet Burgoyne, and now comes this Barry St. Leger on the flank, aiming to join the others at Albany after taking Stanwix and Johnstown on the march — three spears to pierce a common centre, three torches to fire three valleys, and you neutral Tryon men in the centre, calm, undismayed, smoking your pipes and singing songs of peace and good-will for all on earth.”
“And why not, sir!” he snapped.
“Did you ever hear of Juggernaut?”
“I’ve heard the name — a Frenchman, was he not? I think he burned Schenectady.”
“No, sir; he is a heathen god.”
“And what the devil, sir, has Tryon County to do with heathen gods!” he bawled.
“You shall see — when the wheels pass,” I said, gloomily.
He folded his fat hands over his stomach and smoked in obstinate silence. I, too, was silent; again a faint disgust for this man seized me. How noble and unselfish now appeared the conduct of those poor tenants of his who had abandoned their little farms to answer Schuyler’s call! — trudging northward with wives and babes, trusting to God for bread to fall like manna in this wilderness to save the frail lives of their loved ones, while they faced the trained troops of Great Britain, and perhaps the Iroquois.
And here he sat, the patroon, sucking his pipe, nursing his stomach; too cautious, too thrifty to stand like a man, even for the honor of his own roof-tree! Lord! how mean, how sordid did he look to me, sulking there, his mottled double-chin crowded out upon his stock, his bow-legs wide to cradle the huge belly, his small eyes obstinately a-squint and partly shut, which lent a gross shrewdness to the expanse of fat, almost baleful, like the eye of a squid in its shapeless, jellied body!
“What are your plans?” he said, abruptly.
I told him that, through Sir George, I had placed my poor services at the State’s disposal.
“You mean the rebel State’s disposal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are ready to enlist?”
“Quite ready, Sir Lupus.”
“Only awaiting summons from Clinton and Schuyler?” he sneered.
“That is all, sir.”
“And what about your properties in Florida?”
“I can do nothing there. If they confiscate them in my absence, they might do worse were I to go back and defy them. I believe my life is worth something to our cause, and it would be only to waste it foolishly if I returned to fight for a few indigo-vats and canefields.”
“While you can remain here and fight for other people’s hen-coops, eh?”
“No, sir; only to take up the common quarrel and stand for that liberty which we inherited from those who now seek to dispossess us.”
“Quite an orator!” he observed, grimly. “The Ormonds were formerly more ready with their swords than with their tongues.”
“I trust I shall not fail to sustain their traditions,” I said, controlling my anger with a desperate effort.
He burst out into a hollow laugh.
“There you go, red as a turkey-cock and madder than a singed tree-cat! George, can’t you let me plague you in comfort! Dammy, it’s undutiful! For pity’s sake! let me sneer — let me gibe and jeer if it eases me.”
I glared at him, half inclined to laugh.
“Curse it!” he said, wrathfully, “I’m serious. You don’t know how serious I am. It’s no laughing matter, George. I must do something to ease me!” He burst out into a roar, swearing in volleys.
“D’ ye think I wish to appear contemptible?” he shouted. “D’ ye think I like to sit here like an old wife, scolding in one breath and preaching thrift in the next? A weak-kneed, chicken-livered, white-bellied old bullfrog that squeaks and jumps, plunk! into the puddle when a footstep falls in the grass! Am I not a patroon? Am I not Dutch? Granted I’m fat and slow and a glutton, and lazy as a wolverine. I can fight like one, too! Don’t make any mistake there, George!”
His broad face flushed crimson, his little, green eyes snapped fire.
“D’ ye think I don’t love a fight as well as my neighbor? D’ ye think I’ve a stomach for insults and flouts and winks and nudges? Have I a liver to sit doing sums on my thumbs when these impudent British are kicking my people out of their own doors? Am I of a kidney to smile and bow, and swallow and digest the orders of Tory swashbucklers, who lay down a rule of conduct for men who should be framing rules of common decency for them? D’ ye think I’m a snail or a potato or an empty pair o’ breeches? Damnation!”
Rage convulsed him. He recovered his self-command slowly, smashing his pipe in the interval; and I, astonished beyond measure, waited for the explanation which he appeared to be disposed to give.
“If I’m what I am,” he said, hoarsely, “an old jack-ass he-hawing ‘Peace! peace! thrift! thrift!’ it is because I must and not because the music pleases me.... And I had not meant to tell you why — for none other suspects it — but my personal honor is at stake. I am in debt to a friend, George, and unless I am left in peace here to collect my tithes and till my fields and run my mills and ship my pearl-ashes, I can never hope to pay a debt of honor incurred — and which I mean to pay, if I live, so help me God!
