The Little Red Foot

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XXV

  BURKE'S TAVERN

  Now, whether it was the wetting I got on Mayfield Creek and the chill Itook on the long night's journey to Johnstown, or if my thigh-woundbecame inflamed from that day's exertion at Fish House, Summer House,and Mayfield, I do not know for certain.

  But when at sunrise we drove up to Jimmy Burke's Tavern in Johnstown, Idiscovered that I could not move my right leg; and, to my mortification,Nick and my Indian were forced to make a swinging chair of their linkedhands, and carry me into the tavern, Penelope following forlornly, herarms full of furs and blankets.

  Here was a pretty dish! But try as I might I could not set my foot tothe ground; so they laid me upon a bed and stripped me, and my Saguenaywrapped my leg in hot blankets and laid furs over me, till I was wetwith sweat to the hair.

  Presently comes Jimmy Burke himself--that lively, lovable scamp, to whomall were friendly; for he was both kind and gay, though a greatbraggart, and few believed that he had any stomach for the deeds he saidhe meant to do in battle.

  "Faith," says he, "it's Misther Drogue, God bless him, an' in a sadplight along o' the bloody Sacandaga Tories! Wisha then, sorr, had Ibeen there it's me would ha' trimmed the hair o' them!"

  "Are you well, Jimmy?" I inquired, smiling, spite my pain.

  "Am I well? I am that! I was never fitter f'r to fight thim dirty greencoats of Sir John's. Och--the poor lad! Lave me fetch a hot brick----"

  "I'm lame as a one-legged duck, Jimmy," said I. "Send word to the Fortthat I've an account to render, and beg the Commandant to overlook mytardiness until I can be carried thither on a litter."

  "And th' yoong leddy, sorr? Will she bait here?"

  "Yes; where is she?"

  "She lies on a wolf-skin on the bed in the next chamber, foreninst thewall, sorr. There's tears on her purty face, but I think she sleeps, f'rall that. Is she hurted, too, Misther Drogue?"

  "Oh, no. When she wakes send a maid-servant to care for her. Find aloft-bed for my Indian and give him no rum--mind that, James Burke!--orwe quarrel."

  "Th' red divil gets no sup in my shabeen!" said he. "Do I lave him gorgeor no?"

  "Certainly. Let him stuff himself. And let no man use him with contempt.He is faithful and brave. He is my _friend._ Do you mark me, Jimmy?"

  "I do, sorr. And Nick Stoner--that long-legged limb of Satan!--av heplays anny thricks on Jimmy Burke may God help him--the poor littlescut!----"

  I had some faint recollection of pranks played upon Burke by Nick inthis same tavern; but what he had done to Jimmy I did not remember, savethat it had set Sir William and the town all a-laughing.

  "Nick is a good lad and my friend," said I. "Use him kindly. Your wit isa match for his, anyway, and so are your fists."

  "Is it so!" muttered Burke, casting a smouldering side-look at me. "D'yemind what he done three year come Shrove Tuesday? The day I gave out Iwas a better man than Sir William's new blacksmith? Well, then--av yedisremember--that scut of a Nick shtole me breeches, an' he put them ona billy-goat, an' tuk him to the tap-room where was company. An','Here,' says he, 'is a better Irishman than you, Jimmy Burke!--an' abetter fighter, too.' An' wid that the damned goat rares up an' butts meover; an' up I gets an' he butts me over, an' up an' down I go, an' thefive wits clean knocked out o' me, an' the company an' Sir William allyelling like loons an' laying odds on the goat----"

  I lay there convulsed with laughter, remembering now this prank of themost mischievous boy I ever knew.

  Burke licked his lips grimly at the memory of that ancient wrong.

  "Sure, he's th' bould wan f'r to come into me house wid the scoreunreckoned an' all that balance agin' him."

  "Touch pewter with him and forgive the lad," said I. "These are sternerdays, Jimmy, and we should cherish no private malice here where we maybe put to it to stand siege."

  "Is it thrue, sor, that the destructives are on the Sacandaga?"

  "Yes, it is true. Fish House, Summer House, and Fonda's Bush are inashes, Jimmy, and your late friend, Sir John, is at Buck Island with athousand Indians, regulars, and Tories, and like to pay us a call beforeplanting time."

  "Oh, my God," says Burke, "the divil take Sir John an' the black heartof him av he comes back here to murther his old neighbors! Sorra the daywe let him scape!--him an' Alex White, an' Toby Tice an' moody WallyButler,--an' ould John, an' Indian Claus, an' Black Guy!--may the diviltake the whole Tory ruck o' them!----"

  He checked himself; behind him, through the door, entered a ContinentalCaptain; and I sat up in bed to do him courtesy.

  As I suspected, here proved to be our Commandant come to learn of me mynews; and it presently appeared that Nick had run to the jail with anaccount of how I lay here crippled.

  Well, the Commandant was a simple, kindly man, whose present anxietymade little of military custom. And so he had come instantly to learn mynews of me; and we talked there alone for an hour.

  At his summons a servant fetched paper, ink, pen and sand; and, whilsthe looked on, I wrote out my report to him.

  Also, I made for him a drawing of the Drowned Lands from Fish House toMayfield, marking all roads and paths and trails, and all canoe water,carries, and cleared land. For, as Brent-Meester, no man had moreaccurate knowledge of Tryon than had I; and it was all clearly in mymind, so that to make a map of it proved no task at all.

  I asked him if I was to remain detached and with authority to raise acompany of rangers--as had once been given me--or whether, perhaps, theLine lacked commissioned officers, saying that it was all one to me andthat I wished only to serve where most needed.

  He replied that, unless I went to Morgan's corps of Virginia Riflemen,concerning which detail he had heard some talk, my full value lay in mywoodcraft and in my wide, personal knowledge of the wilderness.

  "Who better than you, Mr. Drogue, could take a scout to this same BuckIsland, where Sir John's hordes are gathering? Who better than yourselfcould undertake a swift and secret mission to any point within theconfines of this vast desolation of mountain, lake, and forest, whichpromises soon to be the theatre of a most bloody struggle?

  "Champlain already spews red-coats upon us in the North. Sir Johnthreatens in the West. A great army menaces the Highland Forts andAlbany from the South. And only such officers as you, sir, arecompetent to discover and dog the march of enemy marauders, come totouch with their scouts, follow and ambush them, and lead others tovital points across an uncharted world of woods when there are raidersto check or communications to threaten and cut."

  He rose, hooked up his sword, and shook hands with me.

  "I have asked Colonel Willett," said he, "to use your talents in thismanner, and he has very kindly consented. Johnstown will remain yourbase, therefore, and your employment is certain as soon as you are ableto walk."

  I thanked him and said very confidently that I should be rid of alllameness and pain within a day or so.

  * * * * *

  That night I had a fever; and for pearly four weeks my leg remainedswollen and red, and the pain was such that I could not bear the weightof a linen sheet, and Nick made a frame for my bed-covers, like a tent,so that they should not touch me.

  Dr. Younglove came from the Flatts,--who was surgeon in GeneralHerkimer's brigade of militia--and he said it was a perniciousrheumatism consequent upon the cold wetting I got upon a wound stillgreen.

  Further, he concluded, there was naught to do save that I must lie on myback until my trouble departed of its own accord; but he could not sayhow soon that might me--whether within a day or two or as many months,or more.

  He recommended hot blankets and some draughts which they sent me fromthe pharmacy at the Fort, but I think they did me neither good nor evil,but were pleasant and spicy and cooled my throat.

  So that was now the dog's life I led during the early summer inJohnstown,--a most vexatious and inglorious career, laid by the heels ata time when, from three points o' the compass, three separate stormswere brewing and
darkening the heavens, and a tempest more frightfulthan man could conceive was threatening to shatter Tryon, sweep thewhole Mohawk Valley, and leave Johnstown but a whirl of whitened ashesin the evening winds.

  We were comfortably established at Burke's Inn, and, as always, baitedwell where food and bed were ever clean and good.

  Penelope had the chamber next to mine; Nick slept in the little bedroomon my left; and the Saguenay haunted the kitchen, with a perpetualappetite never damaged by gorging.

  All the news of town and country was fetched me by word o' mouth, bypenny broadsides, by journals, so that I never wanted for gossip toentertain or alarm me.

  Town tattle, rumours from West and North, camp news conveyed byCoureurs-du-Bois, by runners, by expresses, all this came to my chamberwhere I lay impatient, brought sometimes by Burke, often by Nick, moreoften by Penelope.

  She was very kind and patient with me. In the first feverish andagonizing days of my illness I had sent for her, and begged her to takethe first convenient waggon and escort into Albany, where surely DouwFonda would now care for her and the Patroon's household would welcomeand shelter her until the oncoming storm had passed and her aged chargeshould again return to Caughnawaga.

  She would not go, but gave no reason. And, my sickness making mepeevish, I was often fretful and short with her; and so badgered andbullied her that one night, in desperation, she wrote a letter to DouwFonda at my request, offering to go to Albany and care for him if hedesired it.

  But presently there came a polite letter in reply, writ kindly to her bythe young Patroon himself, who very delicately revealed how it was withMr. Fonda. And it appeared that he had become childish from great age,and seemed now to retain no memory of her, and desired not to be caredfor by anybody--as he said--who was a stranger to him.

  Which was sad to know concerning so good and wise and gallant an oldgentleman as had been Mr. Douw Fonda,--a fine, honourable, educated andcultivated man, whose chiefest pleasure was in his books and garden, andwho never in all his life had uttered an unkind word.

  This news, too, was disturbing in another manner; for Mr. Fonda hadwished, as all knew, to adopt Penelope and make provision for her. Andnow, if his mind had begun to cloud and his memory betray him, noprovision was likely to be made to support this young girl who wasutterly alone in the world, and entirely without fortune.

  * * * * *

  On an afternoon late in May I was feeling less pain, and could permitthe covers to rest on me, and was impatient for a dish o' porridge.About five o'clock Penelope brought me a bowl of chocolate. When she hadseated herself near me, she took her sewing from her apron pocket, andstitched away busily whilst I drank my sweet, hot brew, and watched herover the blue bowl's edge.

  "Are you better this afternoon, sir?" she inquired presently, notlifting her eyes.

  I told her, fretfully, that I was but a lame dog and fit only to beknocked on the head by some obliging Tory. "I'm sick o' life," said I,"where no one heeds me, and I am left alone all day without food orcompanionship, to play at twiddle-thumb."

  At that she looked at me in sweet concern, but, seeing me wear a wrygrin, smiled too.

  "Poor lad," said she, "it is nearly a month you lie there so patiently."

  "Not patiently; no! And if I knew more oaths than I think up all daylong it might ease me to endure more meekly this accursed sickness....What is it you sew?"

  "Wrist-bands."

  "Whose?"

  As she offered no reply I supposed that she was making a pair o' bandsfor Nick.

  "Do you hear further from Albany?" I inquired.

  "No, sir."

  "Then it is sure that Mr. Fonda has become childish and his memory isgone," said I, "because if he comprehended your present situation andyour necessity he would surely have sent for you long since."

  "He always was kind," she said simply.

  I lay on my pillows, sipping chocolate and watching her fingers so deftwith thread and needle. After a long silence I asked her rather bluntlywhy she had not long ago consented to the necessary legal steps offeredher by Mr. Fonda, which would have secured her always against want.

  As she made me no answer, I looked hard at her over my bowl, and saw hereyes very faintly glimmering with tears.

  "The news of Mr. Fonda's condition has greatly saddened you," said I.

  "Yes. He was kind to me."

  "Why, then, did you evade his expressed wishes?" I repeated. "He mustsurely have loved you like a father to offer you adoption."

  "I could not accept," she said in a low voice, sewing rapidly the while.

  "Why not?"

  "I scarcely know. It was because of pride, perhaps.... I was hisservant. He paid me well. I could not permit him to overpay my poorservices.... And he has other children, and grandchildren, with whoseproper claims I would not permit myself--or him--to interfere. No, itwas unthinkable--however kindly meant----"

  "That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubbornconscience, does it not, Penelope?"

  "Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature toaccept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return."

  "Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independencewhich, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment ratherthan accept the divided cloak of charity.

  And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no passive accepterof bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined andashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and hadoffered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from agood old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so dealby one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden.

  "Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity forease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."

  She smiled at me: "There is a family saying, 'A Grant grants but neveraccepts'.... I have youth, health, two arms, two legs, and a pair ofsteady eyes. If these can not keep me alive through the world's journey,then I ought to perish and make room for another."

  "What do you meditate to keep you?" I asked uneasily.

  "For the present," said she, still smiling, "what I am doing is wellenough to keep me in food and clothes and lodging."

  At first I did not understand her, then an odd suspicion seized me; forI remembered during the last two weeks, when I lay sick, hearing strangevoices in her ante-chamber, and strange people coming and going in thepassageway.

  Seeing me perplexed and frowning, she laughed and took the empty bowlfrom my hands, and set it aside. Then she smoothed my pillow.

  "I am employed by the garrison," said she, "to work for them with needleand shears. I do their mending; I darn, stitch, sew, and alter. I patchshirts and under-garments; I also make shirts, and devise officers'neck-cloths, stocks, and wrist-bands at request.

  "Also, I now employ a half-breed Oneida woman as tailoress; and shefirst measures and then I cut out patterns of coats, breeches,rifle-frocks, and watch-coats, which she then takes home and sews, thentries on her customers, and finally finishes,--I sewing on all galons,laces, and braids.... And so you see I pay my way, Mr. Drogue, and am inno stress for the present at any rate."

  "Good heavens!" said I amazed, "I never dreamed that you were soemployed!"

  "But I am obliged to eat, John Drogue!"

  "I have sufficient for both," I muttered. "I thought it wasunderstood----"

  "That I should live on your bounty, my lord?"

  "Will you ever have done with lording me?" I said angrily. "I think youdo it to plague me."

  "I ask forgiveness," she murmured, still smiling. "Also, I crave pardonfor refusing to live on your kind bounty."

  "I do not mean it that way!" said I sharply. "Besides, you kept SummerHouse for us, and did all things indoors and most things outdoor; andhad no pay for the labour----"

  "I had food and a bed. And your protection.... And most excellen
tcompany," she added, smiling saucily upon me. "You owe me nothing, JohnDrogue. Nor do I mean to owe you,--or any man,--more than that properdebt of kindness which kindness to me begets."

  I lay back on my pillows, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl. ThatPenelope had become a tailoress and sempstress to the garrison did notpleasure me at all; and it was as though I had lost some advantage orinfluence over this girl, whose present situation and whose future didnow considerably begin to concern me.

  Yet, what was I to say against this business, or what offer make herthat her modesty and pride could consider?

  It was perfectly clear to me that she never had intended to be obligedto me for anything, and never would be. And now her saucy smile andgentle mockery confirmed this conclusion and put me out of countenance.

  I cast a troubled glance at her from my pillow, where she sat by my bedsewing on a pair of wrist-bands for some popinjay of the garrison--Godknew who he might be!--and, as I regarded her, further and further sheseemed to be slipping out of my influence and out of the care which,mentally at least, I had felt it my duty to give to her.

  She troubled me. She troubled me deeply. Her independence, hersufficiency, her beauty, her sly and pretty mockery of me, all conspiredto give me a new concern for her, and I had not experienced the likesince Steve Watts kissed her by the lilacs.

  I had seen her in many phases, but never before in this phase, and Iknew not what face to put on such a disturbing situation.

  * * * * *

  For a while I lay there frowning and sulky, and spoke not. Shetranquilly finished her wrist-bands, went to her chamber, returned witha dozen stocks, all cut out and basted, and picked up one to fit a plainmilitary frill to it.

  From my window, near where my head rested, I saw a gold sunset betweenthe maple trees and the roofs across the street. Birds sang theirevening carols,--robins on every fence post, orioles in the elms, andfar away a wood-thrush filled the quiet with his liquid ecstasies.

  And suddenly it seemed to me horrible and monstrous that this heavenlytranquillity should be shattered by the red blast of war!--that mencould actually be planning to devastate this quiet land where alreadythe new harvest promised, tender and green; where cattle grazed inblossoming meadows; where swallows twittered and fowls clucked; wheresmoke drifted from chimneys and the homely sights and sounds of apeaceful town sweetened the evening silence.

  Then the thought of my own helplessness went through me like a spear,and I groaned,--not meaning to,--and turned over on my pillow.... Andpresently felt her hand lightly on my shoulder.

  "Is it pain?" she asked softly.

  "No, only the weariness of life," I muttered.

  She was silent, but presently her hand smoothed back my hair, and passedin a sort of gentle rhythm across my forehead and my hair.

  "If I lie here long enough," said I bitterly, "I may have to beg a crustof you. So get you to your sewing and see that you earn enough against abeggared cripple's need."

  "You mock me," she said in a low voice.

  "Why, no," said I. "If I am to remain crippled my funds will dwindle andgo, and one day I shall sit in the sun like any poor old soldier, withpalm lifted for alms----"

  "I beg--I beg you----" she stammered; and her hand closed on my lips asthough to stifle the perverse humour.

  "Would you offer me charity if I remain crippled?" I managed to say.

  "Hush. You sadden me."

  "Would you aid me?" I insisted.

  She drew a long, deep breath but made no answer.

  "Tell me," I repeated, taking her by the hand, "would you aid me,Penelope Grant?"

  "Why do you ask?" she protested. "You know I would."

  "And yet," said I, "although I am in funds, you refuse aid and chooserather to play the tailoress! Is that fair?"

  "But--I am nothing to you----"

  "Are you not? And am I then more to you than are you to me, that youwould aid me in necessity?"

  She drew her hand from mine and went back to her chair.

  "That is my fate," said she, smiling at me. "I was born to give, not toreceive. I can not take; I can not refuse to give."

  "Yes," said I, "you even gave me your lips once."

  She blushed vividly, her eyes hard on her sewing.

  "I shall not do the like again," said she, all rosy to the roots of hergold hair.

  "And why, pray?"

  "Because I know better now."

  After a silence I turned me on my pillow and sighed heavily.

  "John?" she inquired in gentle anxiety, "are you in great pain?"

  I groaned.

  She came to me again and laid her cool, soft hand on my head; and Icaught it in both of mine and drew her down to me.

  "I am a cripple and a beggar for your kindness, Penelope," I said. "Iask alms of you. Will you kiss me?"

  "Oh," she exclaimed, "you have deceived me! Let me go! Loose meinstantly!"

  "Will you kiss me out of that charity which you say you practice?"

  "That is not charity!----"

  "What is begged for is charity. And you say you are made to give."

  "But you taught me otherwise! And now you undo your own schooling!----"

  "But I owe it you--this kiss!"

  "How do you owe it me?"

  "You kissed me in the snow, and left me in your debt."

  "Oh, goodness! That frolic! Have you not long ago forgotten our wintermadness----"

  "Like you," said I, "I must pay my just debts and owe nobody." And Idrew her nearer, all flushed with protest, firm to escape, yet gentle inher supple, pretty way lest she hurt me.

  I laughed, and saw my gaiety reflected in her eyes an instant.

  Then, of a sudden, she put one arm around my neck and rested her lips onmine. And so I kissed her, and she suffered it, resting so against mewith lowered eyes.

  The flower-sweetness of her mouth bewildered me, and I was confused byit and by the stifled tumult of my heart, so that I scarce had senseenough to detain her when she drew away.

  She sat at my side, the faint smile still stamped on her lips, but herbrown eyes seemed a little frightened, and her breast rose and fell likea scared bird's under the snowy kerchief.

  "Well--and well," says she in her pretty, breathless way--"I amoverpaid, I think, and you are now acquitted of your debt. And so--andso our folly ends ... and now is finally ended."

  She took her sewing. A golden light was in the room; and she seemed tome the loveliest thing I had ever looked upon. I realized it. I knew shewas loveliest of all. And the swift knowledge seemed to choke me.

  After a little while she stole a look at me, met my eyes, laughedguiltily.

  "You!" said she, "a schoolmaster! You teach me one thing and would haveme practice another. What confidence can I entertain for such wisdom asis yours, John Drogue?"

  "Rules," said I, "are made to be proven by their more interestingexceptions. However, in future you are to endure no kiss and nocaress--unless from me."

  "Oh. Is that the new lesson I am to learn and understand?"

  "That is the lesson. Will you remember it when I am gone?"

  "Gone?"

  "Yes. When I am gone away on duty. Will you remember, Penelope?"

  "I am like to," she said under her breath, and sewing rapidly.

  She stitched on in silence for a while; but now the light was dimmingand she moved nearer the window, which was close by my bed head.

  After a while her hands dropped in her lap; she looked out into thetwilight. I took her tired little hand in mine, but she did not turn herhead.

  "I have," said I, "two thousand pounds sterling at my solicitor's inAlbany. I wish you to have it if any accident happens to me.... And myglebe in Fonda's Bush.... I shall so write it in my will."

  She shook her head slightly, still gazing from the window.

  "Will you accept?" I asked.

  "What good would it do me? If I accept it I should only divide it amongthe needy--in memory of--of m
y dear boy friend--Jack Drogue----"

  She rose hastily and walked to the door, then very slowly retraced hersteps to my bedside.

  "You are so kind to me," she murmured, touching my forehead.

  "You are so different to other men,--so truly gallant in your boy'ssoul. There is no evil in you,--no ruthlessness. Oh, I know--Iknow--more than I seem to know--of men.... And their importunities....And of their wilful selfishness."

  I sat up straight. "Has any man made you unhappy?" I demanded in angrysurprise.

  She seated herself and looked at me gravely.

  "Do you know," she said, "men have courted me always--even when I wasscarce more than a child? And mine is a friendly heart, Mr. Drogue. Ihave a half shy desire to please. I am loath to inflict pain. But alwaysmy kindness seems like to cost me more than I choose to pay."

  "Pay to whom?"

  "To any man.... For example, I would not elope with Stephen Watts whenhe begged me at Caughnawaga. And Walter Butler addressed me also--insecret--being a friend of the Fondas and so free of the house.... Andwas ever stealthily importuning me to a stolen rendezvous which I hadsense enough to refuse, knowing him to be both married and a rake, andcruel to women.

  "Oh, I tell you that they all courted me,--not kindly,--for ever thereseemed to me in their ardent gaze and discreet whisperings somethingvaguely sinister. Not that it frightened me, nor did I take alarm, beingtoo ignorant----"

  She folded her hands and looked down at them.

  "I like men.... I cared most for Stephen Watts.... Then one day I had agreat fright.... Shall I tell it?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, Sir John's gallantries neither pleased nor flattered mefrom the first. But he was very cautious what he said and did in DouwFonda's house, and never spoke to me save coldly when others werepresent, or when he was alone with us and Mr. Fonda was awake and notdozing in his great chair.... Well, there came a day when Mr. Fonda wentto the house of Captain Fonda, and I was alone in the house....

  "And Sir John came.... Shall I tell it?"

  "Tell it, Penelope."

  "I've had it long in my mind. I wished to ask you if it lessened me inyour esteem.... For Sir John was drunk, and, finding me alone, heconducted roughly--and followed me and locked us in my chamber.... I washorribly afraid.... I had never struck any living being before. But Ibeat his red face with my hands until he became confused and stupid--andthere was blood on him and on me.... And my kerchief was torn off and myhair all tangled.... I beat him till he dropped my door key, and sounlocked my door and returned again to him, silent and flaming, anddrove him with blows out o' my chamber and out of the house--all overblood as he was, and stupid and drunk.... His negro man got him on hishorse and rode off, holding him on.

  "And none knew--none know, save Sir John and you and I."

  After a silence I said in a controlled voice: "If Sir John comes thisway I shall hope not to miss him.... I shall pray God not to missthis--gentleman."

  "Do you think meanly of me that he used me so?"

  I did not answer.

  "I have told you all," she said timidly. "I am still honest. If I werenot I would not have let you touch my lips."

  "Why not?"

  "For both our sakes.... I would not do you any evil."

  I said impatiently: "No need to tell me you never had a lover. I neverbelieved it of you from the day I saw you first. And, God willing, Imean to stop a mouth or two in Tryon, war or no war----"

  "John Drogue!" she exclaimed in consternation--"you shall seek noquarrel on my account! Swear to me!"

  But I made no reply. Whatever the quarrel, I knew now it was to be on myown account; for whether or no I was falling in love with this girl,Penelope Grant, I realized at all events that I would suffer no otherman to interfere, however he conducted, and should hold any man to sternaccount who would make of this girl a toy and plaything.

  And so, all hotly resolved on that point; sore, also, at the knowledgeof Sir John's baseness which seemed to touch my proper honour; andswifter, too, with tenderness in my heart to reassure her, I did exactlythat for which I was now prepared to cut the throats of various othergentlemen--I drew her into my arms and held her close, body and lipsimprisoned.

  She sought her chair and sat there silent and subdued until amaid-servant brought lights and my supper.

  In the candle light she ventured to look at me and laugh.

  "Such schooling" says she. "I never knew before that there was such apersonage as a sweetheart pro tem! But you seem to know the role byheart, Mr. Drogue. And so, no doubt, feel warranted to instruct others.But this is the end of it, my friend. For one day you shall have toconfess you to your wife! And I think my future Lady Northesk is like tohave a pretty temper and will give you a mauvais quart d'heur when shehears of this May day's folly in a Johnstown public house!"