Peddler and gypsy were no match for him; his banter silenced the most garrulous, his teasing pleased the wenches, his gay gallantries made many a girl look back at him, and many a smile was returned to him with delicate surplus of interest.
“Which is the maid?” I asked, under my breath.
“Yonder, stopping to stare at gingerbread as though she had never beheld such a sweet before. Now she turns; mark! It is she with the pink print and chip hat on her hair, tied with rose ribbons under the chin.”
“I see her,” said I.
She was a healthy, red-cheeked, blue-eyed girl, with lips a trifle over-full and bosom to match withal. She appeared uneasy and uncertain, watching Mount when he raised a laugh, and laughing herself as excuse, though her mirth appeared to me uneasy, now that I understood her purpose.
She had been edging nearer, and now stood close to us, at the entrance to an arbour wherein were set benches in little corners, hidden from prying eyes by strips of painted cloth.
“Will no maid pity me!” exclaimed Mount. “I am far, far too young to drink my wine alone in yonder arbour!”
“I have not been invited,” cried a saucy wench, laughing at us over the shoulder of her companion, who backed away, half laughing, half frightened.
“God helps those who help themselves,” said Mount, turning to find her who had followed him close to his elbow.
He smiled in her face and made her a very slow and very low bow, drawing a furrow through the dust with the fluffy tail on his coon-skin cap.
“If I knew your name,” he said, “I might die contented. Otherwise I shall content myself with a life of ignorance.”
She seemed startled and abashed, fingering her gown and looking at her shoe-buckles, while Mount bent beside her to whisper and smile and swagger until he entreated her to taste a glass of currant wine with us in the arbour.
I do not know to this day why she consented. Perhaps she thought to confirm her suspicions and entrap some admission from Mount; perhaps, in the light of later events, her purpose was very different. However, we three sat in the arbour behind our screens of painted cloth, and Mount did set such a pace for us that ere I was aware there remained not a drop of currant in the decanter, no more cakes on the plate, and he had his arm around the silly maid.
Intensely embarrassed and ill at ease with this pot-house gallantry, which was ever offensive to my tastes, I regarded them sideways in silence, impatient for Mount to end it all.
The end had already begun; Mount rose lightly to his feet and drew the girl with him, turning her quietly by the shoulders and looking straight into her eyes.
“Why do you follow me?” he asked, coolly.
The colour left her face; her eyes flew wide open with fright.
“I shall not hurt you, little fool,” he said; “I had rather your father, the thief-taker, took me, than harm you. Yes, I am that same Jack Mount. You are poor; they will pay you for compassing my arrest. Come, shall we seek your father, Billy Bishop, the taker of thieves?”
He drew her towards the gate, but she fell a-whimpering and caught his arm, hiding her face in his buckskin sleeve.
Disgusted, I waited a moment, then turned my back and 271 walked out into the sunshine, where I paced to and fro, until at last Mount joined me, wearing a scowl.
As we turned away together I glanced into the arbour and saw our lass of the ribbons still sitting at the table with her head buried in her arms and her pink shell-hat on the grass.
As for Mount, he said nothing except that, though he no longer feared the girl, he meant, hereafter, to trust to his heels in similar situations.
“It might be less irksome,” said I, curling my lip.
“Ay; yet she has a pretty face, and a plump neck, too.”
“The daughter of a thief-taker!” I added, contemptuously.
“Pooh!” said he. “She has thirty sound teeth and ten fingers; the Queen of Spain has no more.”
CHAPTER XVI
As we came to the high stockade which surrounded the Roanoke Racing Plain, a bell struck somewhere inside; there was a moment’s silence, then a roar, “They’re off!” and the confused shouting of a crowd: “Greensleeves leads! Heather-Bee! Heather-Bee!” which suddenly died out, ceased, then swelled into a sharp yell: “Orange and Black! Orange wins! Baltimore! Baltimore! Baltimore! No! No! The Jersey colt! The Jersey colt! Crimson! Crimson!” A hush; the dull, double thud of galloping; a scramble, a rush, and a hurricane of wild cheers: “Heather-Bee! Heather-Bee! Good Greensleeves! Hi — yi — yi! Hooray!”
“I would I had a sovereign laid on this same Heather-Bee,” said Mount, mechanically fumbling in his empty pockets.
I glanced at him in surprise. Had the novelty of our present peril already grown so stale that the shouting of a rabble over a winning horse could blot it out?
He observed my disapproval and took his hands from his pocket-flaps, muttering something about a passion for betting; and I paid the gate-keepers the fee they demanded for us both, which included a card giving us entry to the paddock.
When I entered I expected to see a “sweet and delightsome plain,” as the public crier had advertised so loudly with his horn, but truly I was not prepared for the beauty which was now revealed. Bowered in trees the lovely pale green meadow lay, all starred with buttercups and cut by the bronzed oval of the course. Pavilion and field glowed in the colours of fluttering gowns; white and scarlet and green marked the line where half a dozen mounted jockeys walked their lean horses under the starter’s tower. The sun blazed down, gilding the chestnut necks of the horses; a cool breeze 273 bellied the bright sleeves of the jockeys, and blew the petticoats and ribbons till they flapped like rainbow flags.
Mount was nudging me, sulkily demanding to be informed where bets were placed, and adding that he knew a horse as well as the next man. However, when he proposed that I allow him to double my capital for me, I flatly refused, and reproached him for wishing to risk anything now.
“Well, then,” he muttered, “lay a sovereign yourself for luck;” but I paid no attention, and fixed my eyes on the pavilion to search it through and through for Silver Heels.
The longer I searched the more hopeless I felt my task to be; I could see a score of maids in that vast bouquet, any one of which might have been Silver Heels, but was not.
I then sought to discover Lady Shelton, a large, sluggish lady whom I had noticed at Johnstown — not attracted by her beauty, but to observe her how she did eat a barrel of oysters in pickle, when visiting our guard-house with her kinsman, Colonel Guy Johnson.
I could not find her, though there were many ladies in the pavilion who appeared to resemble her in largeness and girth, and in fatness of hand and foot.
With my arm on Mount’s, who had fallen a-pouting, I paced the sward, searching the pavilion through and through, unmindful of the battery of bright eyes which swept and raked us with indolent contempt. Where was Silver Heels? Ay, where in the devil’s name had the little baggage hid herself? Many ladies and their consorts in the pavilion were rising and passing under a yellow canopy to the right, where there appeared to be a luncheon spread on tables; and I did see and smell large bowls of sweetened punch, Mount smelling the same and thoughtfully clacking his tongue.
“The quality,” he observed, “have punch and French wines. Yet I dare wager a pocketful o’ sixpences that they have not my depth, and God knows I would cheerfully prove it.”
“Nobody is like to challenge you,” I said, coldly. “Come, we must find my cousin, Miss Warren, or our journey here fails.”
The fox-hunting gentry in pink were coming across the field in a body, spurs glistening and curly horns striking fire 274 in the sunshine. As they passed us, clink! clink! over the turf, a strangely familiar eye met mine and held it — the puzzled eye of a young man, dressed in red coat and tops and wearing a black velvet cap. Where had I seen him before? He, too, appeared perplexed, and, as he passed, involuntarily touched the peak of his cap with his huntin
g-whip. Suddenly I knew him, and at the same moment he left the company and came hastily up to me, offering his hand. The fox-hunter was my old acquaintance, Mr. Bevan, the dragoon, and he had actually recognized me under my sunburn and buckskins. Rivals never forget.
However, there was no mistaking his cordiality, and I should have been an oaf and a churl not to have met him fairly by the hand he offered.
“Sans arrière pensée, sans rancune!” he said, heartily, the French not pleasing me; but I returned his straightforward clasp and told him I bore no more malice than did he.
“I heard you speak in ‘Governor’s Hall,’” he said, and I saw his eyes twinkle, though his mouth betrayed no mirth, so I only bowed seriously and told him I was honoured by his presence.
“Was not that gentleman Patrick Henry — the one in black who led the poor savage out?” he asked.
“Doubtless you know Patrick Henry better than I do,” I answered, cautiously.
He laughed outright.
“Pray, believe me, Mr. Cardigan, I am not prying. It is rumoured that Patrick Henry has been at some rebel tavern in town. A few thought they recognized him in ‘Governor’s Hall,’ and many claim that he wrote that great speech for Logan.”
“If he did he is the greatest orator of our times,” I said.
“Do you believe he did?”
“No,” said I, bluntly.
He looked at me with curious, friendly eyes.
“You have become famous, Mr. Cardigan, since we last met.”
“You would say ‘notorious,’” I rejoined, smiling.
He protested vigorously:
“No! no! I understand you are not of our party, but, 275 believe me, were I a — a — patriot, as they say, I should be proud to hear a comrade utter the words you uttered in ‘Governor’s Hall’!”
“Did I say I was a rebel?” I asked, laughing.
“Well,” he rejoined, “if that speech did not commit you, we are but a dull company here in Pittsburg.”
He glanced after his comrades, who were now entering the canopied space where refreshments lay piled between the bottles and punch-bowls; and he straightway invited me, turning with a bow to include Jack Mount, whom I had not dared present under his proper name.
Mount began to accept with a flourish, but I cut him short with excuses, which Mr. Bevan accepted politely, expressing his regret. Then again he offered me his hand so frankly that I drew him aside, and begged his indulgence and forgetfulness for my boorish behaviour at Johnson Hall.
“The fault was mine,” he said, instantly; “I sneered at your militia and deserved your rebuke. Had I not deserved it, I should have called you out, Mr. Cardigan.”
“You conducted properly,” said I; “on the contrary, I must blush for my churlishness when you favoured my hilt with a ribbon.”
His friendly eyes grew grave, and he began bending his hunting-whip into a bow, thoughtfully studying the buttercups at his feet.
After a moment he looked up, saying, “Do you know that this morning the banns were published for the wedding of Lord Dunmore and your kinswoman, Miss Warren?”
So, after all, and in spite of my letter, Dunmore had done this shameful thing! I think my scowling face gave Bevan his answer, for he laid his hand on my arm and looked at me earnestly.
“It is no shame,” he said, “for me to tell you that Miss Warren has refused me. How can a heart be humbled which has loved such a woman?”
“She is not a woman yet,” I said, harshly; “she is a child, and a wilful one at that! Damnation! sir, it maddens me to see men after her, and she but fifteen!”
“Miss Warren celebrated her sixteenth birthday with a dinner at Lady Shelton’s a week since,” said Bevan, colouring u
I thought a moment, frowning and counting on my fingers. Yes, that was true; Silver Heels was sixteen now. But that only increased my irritation, for the danger suddenly assumed menacing proportions, which must increase every moment now that the barriers of childhood no longer barred the men who hunted her.
“I have told you this,” said Bevan, stiffly, “because I believed you were in love with Miss Warren, and must suffer great pain to learn of her betrothal to Lord Dunmore.”
“And — what then, sir?” I asked, angry and perplexed.
“This, Mr. Cardigan! That my own ill fortune has not left me less devoted to her happiness; that this marriage is a monstrous thing and will one day drive her to despair; that I do most earnestly believe that Miss Warren loves a man more worthy of her.”
“What man?” I demanded, sharply.
“You should not ask me that!” he retorted, more sharply still.
“But I do! Confound it, I know from her own lips that she dotes on some conceited, meddling ass! And if I can but lay my hand on his collar—”
Bevan was staring at me in such frank amazement that I bit my words short.
“Did Miss Warren confess that she loved?” he asked.
I assented in silence.
“A — a fool?”
I nodded.
Bevan burst into a bitter laugh.
“Then let me tell you, sir, that I have heard her praise this same meddling fool and laud his every word as Heaven’s own wisdom! Ay, sir, and boast of his bravery and his wit and his glorious person till I thought this fool a very god from Olympus, and marvelled at my own blindness in not earlier perceiving it.”
“You know him?” I cried.
“Indeed, he is now well known in Pittsburg town, Mr. Cardigan.”
“But you—”
“Yes, I know him.”
After a moment’s silence I said, “Is he worthy of her?”
“What man is?” he answered, quietly.
“Oh, many men; pardon, but you are in love, and so are blinded. I see clearly. I know my cousin, and I know that she is a wilful maid who has raised the devil out o’ bounds, and is ready to run to cover now.”
Bevan was red in the face.
“It is a kinsman’s privilege to criticise,” he said.
“A kinsman’s duty!” I added. “Were I not jealous for her honour and happiness, I would cry Dunmore merci! and think my cousin a fortunate maid! Curse him! When I think of that man I can scarce look at my hands so guiltless of the creature’s blood. But they will not stay clean long if he pushes me. God help the man who bars our way northward!”
“If you mean to take her,” said Bevan, in a low voice, “I wish you godspeed. But how can you pass the fort, Mr. Cardigan?”
“Do you believe Dunmore would detain us?” I asked, blankly.
“I know he would if he heard of it in time.”
I thought a moment, then laid my hand on Bevan’s shoulder, and, on the impulse, told him what our plans were. He listened in silent sympathy, nodding at times, turning to glance at Mount, who sat under a tree chewing grass-blades and sniffing at the distant punch-bowls.
When I had told him all, he reflected, slowly switching the sod with his whip. Presently he said: “I am glad you told me this. I will be at the King’s Road gate to-night. If there is trouble with the sentries I will vouch for you.”
His quiet generosity touched me deeply, and I told him so.
“Could a gentleman do less?” he asked, gravely. Then a sudden smile lighted his eyes, and he added: “She will never give up her Olympian god, though she thought to fling him away for his indifference. And, Mr. Cardigan, though this man she loves is truly all she claims, he is, as she told you, the greatest fool on earth!”
“Then he can never have her!” I said, contemptuously.
“Ah — wait!” he replied, with a curiously sad smile. “A fool and his folly are soon parted when in the company of Miss Warren.”
“You believe he will follow her? That’s what she said, too!” I exclaimed, hotly.
Again he burst into a laugh which was quite free from bitterness.
“Yes, he is certain to follow you,” he said. “Black Care rides behind the horseman, but this man will stick closer than
your own shadow.”
“We’ll see,” I muttered.
He offered me his hand, pressing mine firmly.
“You know Miss Warren is here?” he asked, cautiously.
“I am seeking her,” said I.
“She walked to the hill, yonder, with Lady Shelton, after the last race,” he said, pointing with his whip to a wooded knoll which I could just see rising behind the paddocks.
“Dunmore is searching everywhere for her,” he added, significantly.
So we parted, I warm with gratitude, he quietly cordial, yet still wearing that singular smile which I could not quite understand.
As for pity, I had none for him, nor did I believe his sorrow could be very profound over his dismissal by Silver Heels. But then I knew nothing of such matters, having never been in love. As for the gentleman-god who had turned Silver Heels’s silly head, I meant to deal with him the instant he made his appearance.
Mount, tired of cropping the herbage under his tree, rejoined me fretfully, demanding to know why I had not accepted the invitation to refreshment; and I told him quite plainly that I had no intention to further test his sobriety, in view of the work we had before us.
Together we entered the paddock, where hostlers and jockeys were grooming the beautiful, slender horses, and though I longed to linger, I dared not stay longer than to hug one splendid mare and whisper in her listening, silky ears that she was a beauty without peer.
The boy who was washing her sourly warned me off, doubtless fearing the touch of a stranger, lest he prove one of those miscreants who harm horses. So I passed on, nodding good-bye to the lovely mare, Heather-Bee, as she was called by the name stitched on her blanket.
In the rear of the paddock a path led through a gate and up the wooded knoll. I looked around for Mount; he was plaintively helping himself to a cup of water from the horse-trough spring, so I waited. And, as I stood there, down the path came two fat people, a lady and her escort, picking their way with all the majesty of elephants. I knew Lady Shelton at once; none could mistake that faded and moon-like face with the little selfish under-lip and the folded creases beside a mouth which was made only for feeding. None could mistake those little fat feet, trotting under the daintily raised petticoat.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 110