Chambers Robert William
The Maid-At-Arms
Captain McDonald rose, lifted the steaming kettle from the hob, and set it on a great, blue tile, and the gentlemen mixed their spirits thoughtfully, or lighted long, clay pipes.
The patroon, wreathed in smoke, lay back in his great chair and rattled his toddy-stick for attention–an unnecessary noise, for all were watching him, and even Walter Butler's gloomy gaze constantly reverted to that gross, red face, almost buried in thick tobacco-smoke, like the head of some intemperate and grotesquely swollen Jupiter crowned with clouds.
The plea of the patroon for neutrality in the war now sweeping towards the Mohawk Valley I had heard before. So, doubtless, had those present.
He waxed pathetic over the danger to his vast estate; he pointed out the conservative attitude of the great patroons and lords of the manors of Livingston, Cosby, Phillipse, Van Rensselaer, and Van Cortlandt.
"What about Schuyler?" I asked.
"Schuyler's a fool!" he retorted, angrily. "Any landed proprietor here can become a rebel general in exchange for his estate! A fine bargain! A thrifty dicker! Let Philip Schuyler enjoy his brief reign in Albany. What's the market value of the glory he exchanged for his broad acres? Can you appraise it, Sir John?"
Then Sir John Johnson arose, and, for the only moment in his career, he stood upon a principle–a fallacious one, but still a principle; and for that I respected him, and have never quite forgotten it, even through the terrible years when he razed and burned and murdered among a people who can never forget the red atrocities of his devastations.
Glancing slowly around the table, with his pale, cold eyes contracting in the candle's glare, he spoke in a voice absolutely passionless, yet which carried the conviction to all that what he uttered was hopelessly final:
"Sir Lupus complains that he hazards all, should he cast his fortunes with his King. Yet I have done that thing. I am to-day a man with a price set on my head by these rebels of my own country. My lands, if not already confiscated by rebel commissioners, are occupied by rebels; my manor-houses, my forts, my mills, my tenants' farms are held by the rebels and my revenues denied me. I was confined on parole within the limits of Johnson Hall. They say I broke my parole, but they lie. It was only when I had certain news that the Boston rebels were coming to seize my person and violate a sacred convention that I retired to Canada."
He paused. The explanation was not enough to satisfy me, and I expected him to justify the arming of Johnson Hall and his discovered intrigues with the Mohawks which set the rebels on the march to seize his person. He gave none, resuming quietly:
"I have hazarded a vast estate, vaster than yours, Sir Lupus, greater than the estates of all these gentlemen combined. I do it because I owe obedience to the King who has honored me, and for no other reason on earth. Yet I do it in fullest confidence and belief that my lands will be restored to me when this rebellion is stamped on and trodden out to the last miserable spark."
He hesitated, wiped his thin mouth with his laced handkerchief, and turned directly towards the patroon.
"You ask me to remain neutral. You promise me that, even at this late hour, my surrender and oath of neutrality will restore me my estates and guarantee me a peaceful, industrious life betwixt two tempests. It may be so, Sir Lupus. I think it would be so. But, my friend, to fail my King when he has need of me is a villainy I am incapable of. The fortunes of his Majesty are my fortunes; I stand or fall with him. This is my duty as I see it. And, gentlemen, I shall follow it while life endures."
He resumed his seat amid absolute silence. Presently the patroon raised his eyes and looked at Colonel John Butler.
"May we hear from you, sir?" he asked, gravely.
"I trust that all may, one day, hear from Butler's Rangers," he said.
"And I swear they shall," broke in Walter Butler, his dark eyes burning like golden coals.
"I think the Royal Greens may make some little noise in the world," said Captain Campbell, with an oath.
Guy Johnson waved his thin, brown hand towards the patroon: "I hold my King's commission as intendant of Indian affairs for North America. That is enough for me. Though they rob me of Guy Park and every acre, I shall redeem my lands in a manner no man can ever forget!"
"Gentlemen," added Colonel Claus, in his bluff way, "you all make great merit of risking property and life in this wretched teapot tempest; you all take credit for unchaining the Mohawks. But you give them no credit. What have the Iroquois to gain by aiding us? Why do they dig up the hatchet, hazarding the only thing they have–their lives? Because they are led by a man who told the rebel Congress that the covenant chain which the King gave to the Mohawks is still unspotted by dishonor, unrusted by treachery, unbroken, intact, without one link missing! Gentlemen, I give you Joseph Brant, war-chief of the Mohawk nation! Hiro!"
All filled and drank–save three–Sir George Covert, Dorothy Varick, and myself.
I felt Walter Butler's glowing eyes upon me, and they seemed to burn out the last vestige of my patience.
"Don't rise! Don't speak now!" whispered Dorothy, her hand closing on my arm.
"I must speak," I said, aloud, and all heard me and turned on me their fevered eyes.
"Speak out, in God's name!" said Sir George Covert, and I rose, repeating, "In God's name, then!"
"Give no offence to Walter Butler, I beg of you," whispered Dorothy.
I scarcely heard her; through the candle-light I saw the ring of eyes shining, all watching me.
"I applaud the loyal sentiments expressed by Sir John Johnson," I said, slowly. "Devotion to principle is respected by all men of honor. They tell me that our King has taxed a commonwealth against its will. You admit his Majesty's right to do so. That ranges you on one side. Gentlemen," I said, deliberately, "I deny the right of Englishmen to take away the liberties of Englishmen. That ranges me on the other side."
A profound silence ensued. The ring of eyes glowed.
"And now," said I, gravely, "that we stand arrayed, each on his proper side, honestly, loyally differing one from the other, let us, if we can, strive to avert a last resort to arms. And if we cannot, let us draw honorably, and trust to God and a stainless blade!"
I bent my eyes on Walter Butler; he met them with a vacant glare.
"Captain Butler," I said, "if our swords be to-day stainless, he who first dares employ a savage to do his work forfeits the right to bear the arms and title of a soldier."
"Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!" broke in Colonel Claus. "Do you impeach Lord George Germaine?"
"I care not whom I impeach!" I said, hotly. "If Lord George Germaine counsels the employment of Indians against Englishmen, rebels though they be, he is a monstrous villain and a fool!"
"Fool!" shouted Colonel Campbell, choking with rage. "He'd be a fool to let these rebels win over the Iroquois before we did!"
"What rebel has sought to employ the Indians?" I asked. "If any in authority have dreamed of such a horror, they are guilty as though already judged and damned!"
"Mr. Ormond," cut in Guy Johnson, fairly trembling with fury, "you deal very freely in damnation. Do you perhaps assume the divine right which you deny your King?"
"And do you find merit in crass treason, sir?" burst out McDonald, striking the table with clinched fist.
"Treason," cut in Sir John Johnson, "was the undoing of a certain noble duke in Queen Anne's time."
"You are in error," I said, calmly.
"Was James, Duke of Ormond, not impeached by Mr. Stanhope in open Parliament?" shouted Captain McDonald.
"The House of Commons," I replied, calmly, "dishonored itself and its traditions by bringing a bill of attainder against the Duke of Ormond. That could not make him a traitor."
"He was not a traitor," broke out Walter Butler, white to the lips, "but you are!"
"A lie," I said.
With the awful hue of death stamped on his face, Walter Butler rose and faced me; and though they dragged us to our seats, shouting and exclaiming in the uproar made by falling chairs and the rush of feet, he still kept his eyes on me, shallow, yellow, depthless, terrible eyes.
"A nice scene to pass in women's presence!" roared the patroon. "Dammy, Captain Butler, the fault lies first with you! Withdraw that word 'traitor,' which touches us all!"
"He has so named himself," said Walter Butler, "Withdraw it! You foul your own nest, sir!"
A moment passed. "I withdraw it," motioned Butler, with parched lips.
"Then I withdraw the lie," I said, watching him.
"That is well," roared the patroon. "That is as it should be. Shall kinsmen quarrel at such a time? Offer your hand, Captain Butler. Offer yours, George."
"No," I said, and gazed mildly at the patroon.
Sir George Covert rose and sauntered over to my chair. Under cover of the hubbub, not yet subsided, he said: "I fancy you will shortly require a discreet friend."
"Not at all, sir," I replied, aloud. "If the war spares Mr. Butler and myself, then I shall call on you. I've another quarrel first." All turned to look at me, and I added, "A quarrel touching the liberties of Englishmen." Sir John Johnson sneered, and it was hard to swallow, being the sword-master that I am.
But the patroon broke out furiously. "Mr. Ormond honors himself. If any here so much as looks the word 'coward,' he will answer to me–old and fat as I am! I've no previous engagement; I care not who prevails, King or Congress. I care nothing so they leave me my own! I'm free to resent a word, a look, a breath–ay, the flutter of a lid, Sir John!"
"Thanks, uncle," I said, touched to the quick. "These gentlemen are not fools, and only a fool could dream an Ormond coward."
"Ay, a fool!" cried Walter Butler. "I am an Ormond! There is no cowardice in the blood. He shall have his own time; he is an Ormond!"
Dorothy Varick raised her bare, white arm and pointed straight at Walter Butler. "See that your sword remains unspotted, sir," she said, in a clear voice. "For if you hire the Iroquois to do your work you stand dishonored, and no true man will meet you on the field you forfeit!"
"What's that?" cried Sir John, astonished, and Sir George Covert cried:
"Brava! Bravissima! There speaks the Ormond through the Varick!"
Walter Butler leaned forward, staring at me. "You refuse to meet me if I use our Mohawks?"
And Dorothy, her voice trembling a little, picked up the word from his grinning teeth. "Mohawks understand the word 'honor' better than do you, Captain Butler, if you are found fighting in their ranks!"
She laid her hand on my arm, still facing him.
"My cousin shall not cross blade with a soiled blade! He dare not–if only for my own poor honor's sake!"
Then Colonel Claus rose, thumping violently on the table, and, "Here's a pretty rumpus!" he bawled, "with all right and all wrong, and nobody to snuff out the spreading flame, but every one a-flinging tallow in a fire we all may rue! My God! Are we not all kinsmen here, gathered to decent council how best to save our bacon in this pot a-boiling over? If Mr. Ormond and Captain Butler must tickle sword-points one day, that is no cause for dolorous looks or hot words–no! Rather is it a family trick, a good, old-fashioned game that all boys play, and no harm, either. Have I not played it, too? Has any gentleman present not pinked or been pinked on that debatable land we call the field of honor? Come, kinsmen, we have all had too much wine–or too little."
"Too little!" protested Captain Campbell, with a forced laugh; and Betty Austin loosed her tongue for the first time to cry out that her mouth was parched wi' swallowing so many words all piping-hot. Whereat one or two laughed, and Colonel John Butler said:
Neither Mr. Ormond nor Sir George Covert are rebels. They differ from us in this matter touching on the Iroquois. If they think we soil our hands with war-paint, let them keep their own wristbands clean, but fight for their King as sturdily as shall we this time next month."
"That is a very pleasant view to take," observed Sir George, with a smile.
"A sensible view," suggested Campbell.
"Amiable," said Sir George, blandly.
"Oh, let us fill to the family!" broke in McDonald, impatiently. "It's dry work cursing your friends! Fill up, Campbell, and I'll forget Glencoe … while I'm drinking."
"Mr. Ormond," said Walter Butler, in a low voice, "I cannot credit ill of a man of your name. You are young and hot-blooded, and you perhaps lack as yet a capacity for reflection. I shall look for you among us when the time comes. No Ormond can desert his King."
"Let it rest so, Captain Butler," I said, soberly. "I will say this: when I rose I had not meant to say all that I said. But I believe it to be the truth, though I chose the wrong moment to express it. If I change this belief I will say so."
And so the outburst of passion sank to ashes; and if the fire was not wholly extinguished, it at least lay covered, like the heart of a Seminole council-fire after the sachems have risen and departed with covered heads.
Drinking began again. The ladies gathered in a group, whispering and laughing their relief at the turn affairs were taking–all save Dorothy, who sat serenely beside me, picking the kernels from walnut-shells and sipping a glass of port.
Sir John Johnson found a coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaning half over the table, began to draw on the table-cloth a rude map of Tryon County.
"All know," he said, "that the province of New York is the key to the rebel strength. While they hold West Point and Albany and Stanwix, they hold Tryon County by the throat. Let them occupy Philadelphia. Who cares? We can take it when we choose. Let them hold their dirty Boston; let the rebel Washington sneak around the Jerseys. Who cares? There'll be the finer hunting for us later. Gentlemen, as you know, the invasion of New York is at hand–has already begun. And that's no secret from the rebels, either; they may turn and twist and double here in New York province, but they can't escape the trap, though they saw it long ago."
He raised his head and glanced at me.
"Here is a triangle," he said; "that triangle is New York province. Here is Albany, the objective of our three armies, the gate of Tryon County, the plague-spot we are to cleanse, and the military centre. Now mark! Burgoyne moves through the lakes, south, reducing Ticonderoga and Edward, routing the rats out of Saratoga, and approaches Albany–so. Clinton moves north along the Hudson to meet him–so–forcing the Highlands at Peekskill, taking West Point or leaving it for later punishment. Nothing can stop him; he meets Burgoyne here, at Albany."
Again he looked at me. "You see, sir, that from two angles of the triangle converging armies depart towards a common objective."
"I see," I said.
"Now," he resumed, "the third force, under Colonel Barry St. Leger–to which my regiment and the regiment of Colonel Butler have the honor to be attached–embarks from Canada, sails up the St. Lawrence, disembarks at Oswego, on Lake Erie, marches straight on Stanwix, reduces it, and joins the armies of Clinton and Burgoyne at Albany."
He stood up, casting his bit of wood-coal on the cloth before him.
"That, sir," he said to me, "is the plan of campaign, which the rebels know and cannot prevent. That means the invasion of New York, the scouring out of every plague-spot, the capture and destruction of every rebel between Albany and the Jerseys."
He turned with a cold smile to Colonel Butler. "I think my estates will not remain long in rebel hands," he said.
"Do you not understand, Mr. Ormond?" cried Captain Campbell, twitching me by the sleeve, an impertinence I passed, considering him overflushed with wine. "Do you not comprehend how hopeless is this rebellion now?"
"How hopeless?" drawled Sir George, looking over my shoulder, and, as though by accident, drawing Campbell's presumptuous hand through his own arm.
"How hopeless?" echoed Campbell. "Why, here are three armies of his Majesty's troops concentrating on the heart of Tryon County. What can the rebels do?"
"The patroons are with us, or have withdrawn from the contest," said Sir John; "the great folk, military men, and we of the landed gentry are for the King. What remains to defy his authority?"
"Of what kidney are these Tryon County men?" I asked, quietly. Sir John Johnson misunderstood me.
"Mr. Ormond," said Sir John, "Tryon County is habited by four races. First, the Scotch-Irish, many of them rebels, I admit, but many also loyal. Balance these against my Highlanders, and cross quits. Second, the Palatines–those men whose ancestors came hither to escape the armies of Louis XIV. when they devastated the Palatinate. And again I admit these to be rebels. Third, those of Dutch blood, descended from brave ancestors, like our worthy patroon here. And once more I will admit that many of these also are tainted with rebel heresies. Fourth, the English, three-quarters of whom are Tories. And now I ask you, can these separate handfuls of mixed descent unite? And, if that were possible, can they stand for one day, one hour, against the trained troops of England?"
"God knows," I said.
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:
"As at my door I chanced to be
A-spinning,
Spinning,
A grenadier he winked at me
A-grinning,
Grinning!
As at my door I chanced to be
A grenadier he winked at me.
And now my song's begun, you see!
"My grenadier he said to me.
So jolly,
Jolly,
'We tax the tea, but love is free,
Sweet Molly,
Molly!'
My grenadier he said to me,
'We tax the tea, but love is free!'
And so my song it ends, you see,
In folly,
Folly!"
I listened angrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered that she had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip was already on her people's throats.
In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, and I heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:
"–Rally your men!
Campbell and Cameron,
Fox-hunting gentlemen,
Follow the Jacobite back to his den!
Run with the runaway rogue to his runway,
Stole-away!
Stole-away!
Gallop to Galway,
Back to Broadalbin and double to Perth;
Ride! for the rebel is running to earth!"
And the shrill, fierce Highland cry, "Gralloch him!" echoed the infamous catch, till the night air rang faintly in the starlight.
"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."
