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The Maid-At-Arms, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 6. Dawn |
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_ CHAPTER VI. DAWN I had stepped from the dining-hall out to the gun-room. Clocks in the house were striking midnight. In the dining-room the company had now taken to drinking in earnest, cheering and singing loyal songs, and through the open door whirled gusts of women's laughter, and I heard the thud of guitar-strings echo the song's gay words. All was cool and dark in the body of the house as I walked to the front door and opened it to bathe my face in the freshening night. I heard the whippoorwill in the thicket, and the drumming of the dew on the porch roof, and far away a sound like ocean stirring--the winds in the pines. The Maker of all things has set in me a love for whatsoever He has fashioned in His handiwork, whether it be furry beast or pretty bird, or a spray of April willow, or the tiny insect-creature that pursues its dumb, blind way through this our common world. So come I by my love for the voices of the night, and the eyes of the stars, and the whisper of growing things, and the spice in the air where, unseen, a million tiny blossoms hold up white cups for dew, or for the misty-winged things that woo them for their honey. Now, in the face of this dark, soothing truce that we call night, which is a buckler interposed between the arrows of two angry suns, I stood thinking of war and the wrong of it. And all around me in the darkness insects sang, and delicate, gauzy creatures chirked and throbbed and strummed in cadence, while the star's light faintly silvered the still trees, and distant monotones of the forest made a sustained and steady rushing sound like the settling ebb of shallow seas. That to my conscience I stood committed, I could not doubt. I must draw sword, and draw it soon, too--not for Tory or rebel, not for King or Congress, not for my estates nor for my kin, but for the ancient liberties of Englishmen, which England menaced to destroy. That meant time lost in a return to my own home; and yet--why? Here in this county of Tryon one might stand for liberty of thought and action as stanchly as at home. Here was a people with no tie or sympathy to weld them save that common love of liberty--a scattered handful of races, without leaders, without resources, menaced by three armies, menaced, by the five nations of the great confederacy--the Iroquois. To return to the sea islands on the Halifax and fight for my own acres was useless if through New York the British armies entered to the heart of the rebellion, splitting the thirteen colonies with a flaming wedge. At home I had no kin to defend; my elder brother had sailed to England, my superintendent, my overseers, my clerks were all Tory; my slaves would join the Minorcans or the blacks in Georgia, and I, single-handed, could not lift a finger to restrain them. But here, in the dire need of Tryon County, I might be of use. Here was the very forefront of battle where, beyond the horizon, invasion, uncoiling hydra folds, already raised three horrid, threatening crests. Ugh!--the butcher's work that promised if the Iroquois were uncaged! It made me shudder, for I knew something of that kind of war, having seen a slight service against the Seminoles in my seventeenth year, and against the Chehaws and Tallassies a few months later. Also in November of 1775 I accompanied Governor Tonyn to Picolata, but when I learned that our mission was the shameful one of securing the Indians as British allies I resigned my captaincy in the Royal Rangers and returned to the Halifax to wait and watch events. And now, thoughtful, sad, wondering a little how it all would end, I paced to and fro across the porch. The steady patter of the dew was like the long roll beating--low, incessant, imperious--and my heart leaped responsive to the summons, till I found myself standing rigid, staring into the darkness with fevered eyes. The smothered, double drumming of a guitar from the distant revel assailed my ears, and a fresh, sweet voice, singing: "My grenadier he said to me.
In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, and I heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:
"Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle to clan Campbell, the heather to the McDonalds! An't--Arm, chlanna!" And a great shout answered him: "The army! Sons of the army!" Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length sat down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands. And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me, fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of roses still clinging to her silken skirts. "Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously. "They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breath and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyes fixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war in this quiet paradise of silence?" I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They're off to Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughed wickedly. "I don't mean their ladies, cousin." "How could you?" I protested, grimly. "Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill; Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But nobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour." "Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked. "A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none dare stop her." "A real hag? You mean a ghost?" "No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could choke an ox." "Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused. "Why? Who knows? She is always seen running." "Where does she run to?" "I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they say no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he after her, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse. But she ran on." "Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?" "Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare at me with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?" "How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?" "They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know. Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they say. Once it rained blood on our front porch." "Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "I have seen red showers in Florida." "I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raising her starry eyes, she caught me laughing. "Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me if you choose." "Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening. "Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin." Astonishment was followed by annoyance as she coolly disqualified me with a careless wave of her fan, wafting the word "cousin" into my very teeth. "Suppose I paid court to you and gained your affections?" I said. "You have them," she replied, serenely. "I mean your heart?" "You have it." "I mean your--love, Dorothy?" "Ah," she said, with a faint smile, "I wish you could--I wish somebody could." I was silent. "And I never shall love; I know it, I feel it--here!" She pressed her side with a languid sigh that nigh set me into fits o' laughter, yet I swallowed my mirth till it choked me, and looked at the stars. "Perhaps," said I, "the gentle passion might be awakened with patience ... and practice." "Ah, no," she said. "May I touch your hand?" Indolently fanning, she extended her fingers. I took them in my hands. "I am about to begin," I said. "Begin," she said. So, her hand resting in mine, I told her that she had robbed the skies and set two stars in violets for her eyes; that nature's one miracle was wrought when in her cheeks roses bloomed beneath the snow; that the frosted gold she called her hair had been spun from December sunbeams, and that her voice was but the melodies stolen from breeze and brook and golden-throated birds. "For all those pretty words," she said, "love still lies sleeping." "Perhaps my arm around your waist--" "Perhaps." "So?" "Yes." And, after a silence: "Has love stirred?" "Love sleeps the sounder." "And if I touched your lips?" "Best not." "Why?" "I'm sure that love would yawn." Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play an interest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers. "Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when you say you never mean to wed." "But I don't say it," she protested. "What? You have a mind to wed?" "Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing. "Then what the deuce do you say?" "Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely." "I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said. "Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as to wedlock, I am betrothed." "Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not think why. "Yes--pledged." "To whom?" "To a man, silly." "A man!" "With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin." "You ... love him?" "No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day." "You don't love him?" "No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently. "And you mean to wed him?" "Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I am betrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those who break paroles." "Oh ... you are now free on parole." "Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o' punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon." "Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?" "I'd like to," she said, sincerely. "But--but what would you do then?" "Love, silly!" "And ... marry?" "Marry him whom I have promised." "But you would be wretched!" "Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think. I--if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me--not with gloves." "You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say." "Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; I adored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!" "I wish I'd been there," I muttered. She, waving her fan to and fro, continued: "I often think of splendid men, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them. But always these day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, and plan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping.... Heigho! I'm yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned back against a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said. But I knew no more than she. "I'd be a belle there," she observed. "I'd have a train o' beaux and macaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it would please me. Think, cousin--ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me through a hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There's doubtless some deviltry in me, as Sir Lupus says." She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fan with idle fingers. "I suppose," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is now close to the table's edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark to their song, all off the key! But who cares?... so that they quarrel not.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, ... brooding on feuds nigh a hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one who treasures wrongs, ... like Walter Butler." She looked up at me. "I warned you," she said. "It is not easy to avoid insulting him," I replied. "I warned you of that, too. Now you've a quarrel, and a reckoning in prospect." "The reckoning is far off," I retorted, ill-humoredly. "Far off--yes. Further away than you know. You will never cross swords with Walter Butler." "And why not?" "He means to use the Iroquois." I was silent. "For the honor of your women, you cannot fight such a man," she added, quietly. "I wish I had the right to protect your honor," I said, so suddenly and so bitterly that I surprised myself. "Have you not?" she asked, gravely. "I am your kinswoman." "Yes, yes, I know," I muttered, and fell to plucking at the lace on my wristbands. The dawn's chill was in the air, the dawn's silence, too, and I saw the calm morning star on the horizon, watching the dark world--the dark, sad world, lying so still, so patient, under the ancient sky. That melancholy--which is an omen, too--left me benumbed, adrift in a sort of pained contentment which alternately soothed and troubled, so that at moments I almost drowsed, and at moments I heard my heart stirring, as though in dull expectancy of beatitudes undreamed of. Dorothy, too, sat listless, pensive, and in her eyes a sombre shadow, such as falls on children's eyes at moments, leaving their elders silent. Once in the false dawn a cock crowed, and the shrill, far cry left the raw air emptier and the silence more profound. I looked wistfully at the maid beside me, chary of intrusion into the intimacy of her silence. Presently her vague eyes met mine, and, as though I had spoken, she said: "What is it?" "Only this: I am sorry you are pledged." "Why, cousin?" "It is unfair." "To whom?" "To you. Bid him undo it and release you." "What matters it?" she said, dully. "To wed, one should love," I muttered. "I cannot," she answered, without moving. "I would I could. This night has witched me to wish for love--to desire it; and I sit here a-thinking, a-thinking.... If love ever came to me I should think it would come now--ere the dawn; here, where all is so dark and quiet and close to God.... Cousin, this night, for the first moment in all my life, I have desired love." "To be loved?" "No, ... to love." I do not know how long our silence lasted; the faintest hint of silver touched the sky above the eastern forest; a bird awoke, sleepily twittering; another piped out fresh and clear, another, another; and, as the pallid tint spread in the east, all the woodlands burst out ringing into song. In the house a door opened and a hoarse voice muttered thickly. Dorothy paid no heed, but I rose and stepped into the hallway, where servants were guiding the patroon to bed, and a man hung to the bronze-cannon post, swaying and mumbling threats--Colonel Claus, wig awry, stock unbuckled, and one shoe gone. Faugh! the stale, sour air sickened me. Then a company of gentlemen issued from the dining-hall, and, as I stepped back to the porch to give them room, their gray faces were turned to me with meaningless smiles or blank inquiry. "Where's my orderly?" hiccoughed Sir John Johnson. "Here, you, call my rascals; get the chaises up! Dammy, I want my post-chaise, d' ye hear?" Captain Campbell stumbled out to the lawn and fumbled about his lips with a whistle, which he finally succeeded in blowing. This accomplished, he gravely examined the sky. "There they are," said Dorothy, quietly; and I saw, in the dim morning light, a dozen horsemen stirring in the shadows of the stockade. And presently the horses were brought up, followed by two post-chaises, with sleepy post-boys sitting their saddles and men afoot trailing rifles. Colonel Butler came out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was half asleep, and aided her to a chaise. Guy Johnson followed with Betty Austin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir John brought Claire Putnam to the other chaise, entering it himself behind her. And the post-boys wheeled their horses out through the stockade, followed at a gallop by the shadowy horsemen. And now the Butlers, father and son, set toe to stirrup; and I saw Walter Butler kick the servant who held his stirrup--why, I do not know, unless the poor, tired fellow's hands shook. Up into their saddles popped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell swore an oath and dismounted to look for Colonel Claus; and presently two blacks carried him out and set him in his saddle, which he clung to, swaying like a ship in distress, his riding-boots slung around his neck, stockinged toes clutching the stirrups. Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; fainter and fainter sounded the clink, clink of their horses' hoofs, then died away. In the silence, the east reddened to a flame tint. I turned to the open doorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, withered hands clasped, peaceful eyes on me. "Mawnin', suh," he said, sweetly. "Yaas, suh, de night done gone and de sun mos' up. H'it dat-a-way, Mars' George, suh, h'it jess natch'ly dat-a-way in dishyere world--day, night, mo' day. What de Bible say? Life, def, mo' life, suh. When we's daid we'll sho' find it dat-a-way." _ |
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