Complete weird tales of.., p.194
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 194
He laid his pipe on the mantel, set his mug on a chair, and embraced me, shaking his head in solemn silence; and we sat for a space, considering one another, while Cato filled my bowl with chocolate and removed the cover from my smoking porridge-dish.
“They beat all,” said Sir Lupus, at length; “don’t they, George?”
“Do you mean our troops, sir?” I asked.
“No, sir, I don’t. I mean our women.”
He struck his fat leg with his palm, drew a long breath, and regarded me, arms akimbo.
“Mad, sir; all stark, raving mad! Look at those two chits of girls! The Legion had gone tearing off after you to Schell’s with an Oneida scout; Sir George pops in with his tale of your horrid plight, then pelts off to find his troopers and do what he could to save you. Gad, George! it looked bad for you. I — I was half out o’ my senses, thinking of you; and what with the children a-squalling and the household rushing up stairs and down, and the militia marching to the grist-mill bridge, I did nothing. What the devil was I to do? Eh?”
“You did quite right, sir,” I said, gravely.
He lay back, staring at me, shoving his fat hands into his breeches pockets.
“If I’d known what that baggage o’ mine was bent on, I’d ha’ locked her in the cellar!... George, you won’t hold that against me, will you? She’s my own daughter. But the hussy was gone with Magdalen Brant before I dreamed of it — gone on the maddest moonlight quest that mortal ever dared conceive! — one in rags cut from a red blanket, t’other in that rotten old armor that your aunt thought fit to ship from England when her father stripped the house to cross an ocean and build in the forests of a new world. George, she’s all Ormond, that girl o’ mine. A Varick would never have thought to cut such a caper, I tell you. It isn’t in our line; it isn’t in Dutch blood to imagine such things, or do ’em either!”
He seized pipe and mug, swearing under his breath.
“It was the bravest thing I ever knew,” I said, huskily.
He dipped his nose into his mug, pulled at his long pipe, and eyed me askance.
“What the devil’s this between you and Dorothy?” he growled.
“Nothing, I trust now, sir,” I answered, in a low voice.
“Oh! ‘nothing, you trust now, sir!’” he mimicked, striving to turn a sour face. “Dammy, d’ ye know that I meant her for Sir George Covert?” His broad face softened; he attempted to scowl, and failed utterly. “Thank God, the land’s clear of these bandits of St. Leger, anyhow!” he snorted. “I’ll work my mills and I’ll scrape enough to pay my debts. I suppose I’ll have you on my hands when you’ve finished with Burgoyne.”
“No,” I said, smiling, “the blow that Arnold struck at Stanwix will be felt from Maine to the Florida Keys. The blow to be delivered twenty miles north of us will settle any questions of land confiscation. No, Sir Lupus, I shall not be on your hands, but ... you may be on mine if you turn Tory!”
“You impudent rogue!” he cried, struggling to his feet; then, still clutching pipe and pewter, he embraced me, and choked and chuckled, laying his fat head on my shoulder. “Be a son to me, George,” he whimpered, sentimentally; “if you won’t, you’re a damned ungrateful pup!”
And he took himself off, sniffing, and sucking at his long clay, which had gone out.
I turned to the window, drawing in deep breaths of sweet, pure morning air. Troops were still passing in solid column, grim, dirty soldiers in heavy cowhide knapsacks, leather gaiters, and blue great-coats buttoned back at the skirts; and I heard the militia at the quarters calling across the stable-yard that these grimy battalions were some of Washington’s veterans, hurried north from West Point by his Excellency to stiffen the backbone of Lincoln’s militia, who prowled, growling and snarling, around Burgoyne’s right flank.
They were a gaunt, hard-eyed, firm-jawed lot, marching with a peculiar cadence and swing which set all their muskets and buckles glittering at one moment, as though a thousand tiny mirrors had been turned to the light, then turned away. And, pat! pat! patter! patter! pat! went their single company drums, and their drummers seemed to beat mechanically, without waste of energy, yet with a dry, rattling precision that I had never heard save in the old days when the British troops at New Smyrna or St. Augustine marched out.
“Good — mornin’, sorr,” came a hearty and somewhat loud voice from below; and I saw Murphy, Elerson, and Mount, arm in arm, swaggering past with that saunter that none but a born forest runner may hope to imitate. They were not sober.
I spoke to them kindly, however, asking them if their wants were fully supplied; and they acknowledged with enthusiasm that they could desire nothing better than Sir Lupus’s buttery ale.
“Wisha, then, sorr,” said Murphy, jerking his thumb towards the sombre column passing, “thim laads is the laads f’r to twisht th’ Dootch pigtails on thim Hissians at Half-moon. They do be pigtails on th’ Dootch a fut long in the eel-skin. Faith, I saw McCraw’s scalp— ’twas wan o’ Harrod’s men tuk it, not I, sorr! — an’ ’twas red an’ ratty, wid nary a lock to lift it, more shame to McCraw!”
Mount stood, balancing now on his heels, now on his toes, inhaling and expelling his breath like a man who has had more than a morning draught of cider.
He laid his head on one side, like an enormous bird, and regarded me with a simper, as though lost in admiration.
“Three cheers for the Colonel,” he observed, thickly, and took off his cap.
“‘Ray!” echoed Elerson, regarding the unsteadiness of Mount’s legs with an expression of wonder and pity.
I bade Mount saddle my mare and prepare to accompany me to headquarters. He saluted amiably; presently they started across the yard for their quarters, distributing morsels of wisdom and advice among the militiamen, who stared at them with awe and pointed at their beaded shot — pouches, which were, alas! adorned with fringes of coarse hair, dyed scarlet.
But Morgan must worry over that. I had other matters to stir me and set my pulses beating heavily as I walked to the door, opened it, and looked out into the hallway.
Children’s voices came from the library below; I rested my hand on the banisters, aiding my stiffened limbs in the descent, and limped down the stairs.
Cecile spied me first. She was sitting on the porch with a very, very young ensign of Half-moon militia, watching the passing troops; and she sprang to her feet and threw her arms about my neck, kissing me again and again, a proceeding viewed with concern by the very young ensign of Half-moon militia.
“You darling!” she whispered. “Dorothy’s in the library with father and the children. Lean on me, you poor boy! How you have suffered! And to think that you loved her all the time! Ah!” she whispered, sentimentally, pressing my arm, “how rare is constancy! How adorable it must be to be adored!”
There was a rush of children as we entered, and Cecile cried, “You little beasts, have you no manners?” But they were clinging to me, limb and body, and I stood there, caressing them, eyes fixed on my cousin Dorothy, who had risen from her chair.
She was very pale and quiet, and the hand she left in mine seemed lifeless as I bent to kiss it. But, upon the bridal finger, I saw the ghost-ring, a thin, rosy band, and I thrilled from head to foot with happiness unspeakable.
“Get him a chair, Harry!” said Sir Lupus. “Sit down, George; and what shall it be, my boy, cold mulled or spiced to cheer you on your journey? Or, as the Glencoe brawlers have it, ‘Wha’s f’r poonch?’”
I sank into my chair, saying I desired nothing; and my eyes never left Dorothy, who sat with golden head bent, folding and refolding the ruffled corner of her apron, raising her lovely eyes at moments to look across at me.
The morning had turned raw and chilly; a log-fire crackled on the hearth, where Benny had set a row of early harvest apples to sizzle and steam and perfume the air, the while Dorothy heard Harry, Sammy, and Benny read their morning lessons, so that they might hurry away to watch the passing army of their pet hero, Gates.
“Come,” cried the patroon, “read your lessons and get out, you young dunces! Now, Sammy!”
Dorothy looked at me and took up her book.
“If Amos gives Joseph sixteen apples, and Joseph gives Amanda two times one half of one half of the apples, how many will Amanda have?” demanded Samuel, with labored breath. “And the true answer to that is six.”
Dorothy nodded and stole a glance at me.
“That doesn’t sound quite right to me,” said Sir Lupus, wrinkling his brows and counting on his fingers. “Is that the answer, Dorothy?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured, eyes fixed on me.
Sir Lupus glared at Dorothy, then at me. Then he stuffed his pipe full of tobacco and sat in grim silence while Benny repeated:
“Theven timeth theven ith theventy-theven; theven timeth eight ith thixty-thix.” While Dorothy nodded absently and plaited the edges of her lace apron, and looked at me under lowered lashes. And Benny lisped on: “Theven timeth nine ith theventy-thix; theven—”
“Stop that nonsense!” burst out Sir Lupus. “Take ’em away, Cecile! Take ’em out o’ my sight!”
The children, only too delighted to escape, rushed forth with whoops and hoots, demanding to be shown their hero, General Gates. Sir Lupus looked after them sardonically.
“We’re a race o’ glory — mongers these days,” he said. “Gad, I never thought to see offspring o’ mine chasing the drums! Look at ’em now! Ruyven hunting about Tryon County for a Hessian to knock him in the head; Cecile sitting in rapture with every cornet or ensign who’ll notice her; the children yelling for Lafayette and Washington; Dorothy, here, playing at Donna Quixota, and you starting for Stillwater to teach that fool, Gates, how to catch Burgoyne. Set an ass to catch an ass — eh, George?—”
He stopped, his small eyes twinkling with a softer light.
“I suppose you want me to go,” he said.
We did not reply.
“Oh, I’m going,” he added, fretfully; “I’m no company for a pair o’ heroes, a colonel, and—”
“Touching the colonelcy,” I said, “I want to make it plain that I shall refuse the promotion. I did nothing; the confederacy was split by Magdalen Brant, not by me; I did nothing at Oriskany; I cannot understand how General Schuyler should think me deserving of such promotion. And I am ashamed to take it when such men as Arnold are passed over, and such men as Schuyler are slighted—”
“Folderol! What the devil’s this?” bawled Sir Lupus. “Do you think you know more than your superior officers — hey? You’re a colonel, George. Let well enough alone, for if you make a donkey of yourself, they’ll make you a major-general!”
With a spasmodic effort he got on his feet, seized glass and pipe, and waddled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
In the ringing silence a charred log broke and fell in a shower of sparks, tincturing the air with the perfume of sweet birch smoke.
“A STRANGE SHYNESS SEEMED TO HOLD US APART”.
I rose from my chair. Dorothy rose, too, trembling. A strange shyness seemed to hold us apart. She stood there, the forced smile stamped on her lips, watching me with the fascination of fear; and I steadied myself on the arm of my chair, looking deep into her eyes, seeking to recognize in her the child I had known.
The child had gone, and in her place stood this lovely, silent stranger, with all the mystery of woman-hood in her eyes — that sweet light, exquisitely prophetic, divinely sad.
“Dorothy,” I said, under my breath. “All that is brave and adorable in you, I love and worship. You have risen so far above me — and I am so weak and — and broken, and unworthy—”
“I love you,” she faltered, her lips scarcely moving. Then the color surged over brow and throat; she laid her hands on her hot cheeks; I took her in my arms, holding her imprisoned. At my touch the color faded from her face, leaving it white as a flower.
“I fear you — maid spiritual, maid militant — Maid-at-Arms!” I stammered.
“And I fear you,” she murmured, looking at me. “What lover does the whole world hold like you? What hero can compare with you? And who am I that I should take you away from the whole world? Sweetheart, I am afraid.”
“Then fear no more,” I whispered, and bent my head. She raised her pale face; her arms crept up around my neck and tightened, clinging closer as her closing lips met mine.
There came a tapping at the door, a shuffle of felt-shod feet —
“Mars’ Gawge, suh, yo’ hoss done saddle’, suh.”
THE END
The Maids of Paradise
CONTENTS
PREFACE
PART FIRST
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
PART SECOND
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
PART THIRD
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
PREFACE
AS FAR AS the writer knows, no treasure-trains were actually sent to the port of Lorient from the arsenal at Brest. The treasures remained at Brest.
Concerning the German armored cruiser Augusta, the following are the facts: About the middle of December she forced the blockade at Wilhelmshafen and ran for Ireland, where, owing to the complaisance of the British authorities, she was permitted to coal.
From there she steamed towards Brest, capturing a French merchant craft off that port, another near Rochefort, and finally a third. That ended her active career during the war; a French frigate chased her into the port of Vigo and kept her there.
To conclude, certain localities and certain characters have been sufficiently disguised to render recognition improbable. This is proper because “The Lizard” is possibly alive to-day, as are also the mayor of Paradise, Sylvia Elven, Jacqueline, and Speed, the latter having barely escaped death in the Virginius expedition. The original of Buckhurst now lives in New York, and remains a type whose rarity is its only recommendation.
Those who believe they recognize the Countess de Vassart are doubtless in error. Mornac, long dead, is safe in his disguise; Tric-Trac was executed on the Place de la Roquette, and celebrated in doggerel by an unspeakable ballad writer. There remains Scarlett; dead or alive, I wish him well.
Robert W. Chambers.
Ormond, Florida, Feb. 7, 1902.
PART FIRST
THE MAIDS OF PARADISE
I
AT THE TELEGRAPH
ON THE THIRD day of August, 1870, I left Paris in search of John Buckhurst.
On the 4th of August I lost all traces of Mr. Buckhurst near the frontier, in the village of Morsbronn. The remainder of the day I spent in acquiring that “general information” so dear to the officials in Paris whose flimsy systems of intelligence had already begun to break down.
On August 5th, about eight o’clock in the morning, the military telegraph instrument in the operator’s room over the temporary barracks of the Third Hussars clicked out the call for urgency, not the usual military signal, but a secret sequence understood only by certain officers of the Imperial Military Police. The operator on duty therefore stepped into my room and waited while I took his place at the wire.
I had been using the code-book that morning, preparing despatches for Paris, and now, at the first series of significant clicks, I dropped my left middle finger on the key and repeated the signal to Paris, using the required variations. Then I rose, locked the door, and returned to the table.
“Who is this?” came over the wire in the secret code; and I answered at once: “Inspector of Foreign Division, Imperial Military Police, on duty at Morsbronn, Alsace.”
After considerable delay the next message arrived in the Morse code: “Is that you, Scarlett?”
And I replied: “Yes. Who are you? Why do you not use the code? Repeat the code signal and your number.”
The signal was repeated, then came the message: “This is the Tuileries. You have my authority to use the Morse code for the sake of brevity. Do you understand? I am Jarras. The Empress is here.” Instantly reassured by the message from Colonel Jarras, head of the bureau to which I was attached, I answered that I understood. Then the telegrams began to fly, all in the Morse code:
Jarras. “Have you caught Buckhurst?”
I. “No.”
Jarras. “How did he get away?”
I. “There’s confusion enough on the frontier to cover the escape of a hundred thieves.”
Jarras. “Your reply alarms the Empress. State briefly the present position of the First Corps.”
I. “The First Corps still occupies the heights in a straight line about seven kilometres long; the plateau is covered with vineyards. Two small rivers are in front of us; the Vosges are behind us; the right flank pivots on Morsbronn, the left on Neehwiller; the centre covers Wörth. We have had forty-eight hours’ heavy rain.”
Jarras. “Where are the Germans?”
I. “Precise information not obtainable at headquarters of the First Corps.”
Jarras. “Does the Marshal not know where the Germans are?”
I. “Marshal MacMahon does not know definitely.”
Jarras. “Does the Marshal not employ his cavalry? Where are they?”
I. “Septeuil’s cavalry of the second division lie between Elsasshausen and the Grosserwald; Michel’s brigade of heavy cavalry camps at Eberbach; the second division of cavalry of the reserve, General Vicomte de Bonnemain, should arrive to-night and go into bivouac between Reichshofen and the Grosserwald.”
There was a long pause; I lighted a cigar and waited. After a while the instrument began again:
Jarras. “The Empress desires to know where the château called La Trappe is.”
