For the rest, he wore a green-and-gold uniform of very elegant cut — green being the garb of his regiment, the Royal Greens, as I learned afterwards — and his buff-topped boots and his metals were brilliant and plainly new.
When the patroon named me to him he turned his lack-lustre eyes on me and offered me a large, damp hand.
In turn I was made acquainted with the several officers in his suite — Colonel John Butler, father of Captain Walter Butler, broad and squat, a withered prophecy of what the son might one day be; Colonel Daniel Claus, a rather merry and battered Indian fighter; Colonel Guy Johnson, of Guy Park, dark and taciturn; a Captain Campbell, and a Captain McDonald of Perth.
All wore the green uniform save the Butlers; all greeted me with particular civility and conducted like the respectable company they appeared to be, politely engaging me in pleasant conversation, desiring news from Florida, or complimenting me upon my courtesy, which, they vowed, had alone induced me to travel a thousand miles for the sake of permitting my kinsmen the pleasure of welcoming me.
One by one the gentlemen retired to exchange their spurred top-boots for white silk stockings and silken pumps, and to arrange their hair or stick a patch here and there, and rinse their hands in rose-water to cleanse them of the bridle’s odor.
They were still thronging the gun-room, and I stood alone in the drawing-room with Sir George Covert, when a lady entered and courtesied low as we bowed together.
And truly she was a beauty, with her skin of rose-ivory, her powdered hair a-gleam with brilliants, her eyes of purest violet, a friendly smile hovering on her fresh, scarlet mouth.
“Well, sir,” she said, “do you not know me?” And to Sir George: “I vow, he takes me for a guest in my own house!”
And then I knew my cousin Dorothy Varick.
“SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND”.
She suffered us to salute her hand, gazing the while about her indifferently; and, as I released her slender fingers and raised my head, she, rounded arm still extended as though forgotten, snapped her thumb and forefinger together in vexation with a “Plague on it! There’s that odious Sir John!”
“Is Sir John Johnson so offensive to your ladyship?” inquired Sir George, lazily.
“Offensive! Have you not heard how the beast drank wine from my slipper! Never mind! I cannot endure him. Sir George, you must sit by me at table — and you, too, Cousin Ormond, or he’ll come bothering.” She glanced at the open door of the gun-room, a frown on her white brow. “Oh, they’re all here, I see. Sparks will fly ere sun-up. There’s Campbell, and McDonald, too, wi’ the memory of Glencoe still stewing betwixt them; and there’s Guy Johnson, with a price on his head — and plenty to sell it for him in County Tryon, gentlemen! And there’s young Walter Butler, cursing poor Cato that he touched his spur in drawing off his boots — if he strikes Cato I’ll strike him! And where are their fine ladies, Sir George? Still primping at the mirror? Oh, la!” She stepped back, laughing, raising her lovely arms a little. “Look at me. Am I well laced, with nobody to aid me save Cecile, poor child, and Benny to hold the candles — he being young enough for the office?”
“Happy, happy Benny!” murmured Sir George, inspecting her through his quizzing-glass from head to toe.
“If you think it a happy office you may fill it yourself in future, Sir George,” she said. “I never knew an ass who failed to bray in ecstasy at mention of a pair o’ stays.”
Sir George stared, and said, “Aha! clever — very, very clever!” in so patronizing a tone that Dorothy reddened and bit her lip in vexation.
“That is ever your way,” she said, “when I parry you to your confusion. Take your eyes from me, Sir George! Cousin Ormond, am I dressed to your taste or not?”
She stood there in her gown of brocade, beautifully flowered in peach color, dainty, confident, challenging me to note one fault. Nor could I, from the gold hair-pegs in her hair to the tip of her slim, pompadour shoes peeping from the lace of her petticoat, which she lifted a trifle to show her silken, flowered hose.
And— “There!” she cried, “I gowned myself, and I wear no paint. I wish you would tell them as much when they laugh at me.”
Now came the ladies, rustling down the stairway, and the gentlemen, strolling in from their toilet and stirrup-cups in the gun-room, and I noted that all wore service-swords, and laid their pistols on the table in the drawing-room.
“Do they fear a surprise?” I whispered to Sir George Covert.
“Oh yes; Jack Mount and the Stoners are abroad. But Sir John has a troop of his cut-throat horsemen picketed out around us. You see, Sir John broke his parole, and Walter Butler is attainted, and it might go hard with some of these gentlemen if General Schuyler’s dragoons caught them here, plotting nose to nose.”
“Who is this Jack Mount?” I asked, curiously, remembering my companion of the Albany road.
“One of Cresap’s riflemen,” he drawled, “sent back here from Boston to raise the country against the invasion. They say he was a highwayman once, but we Tories” — he laughed shamelessly— “say many things in these days which may not help us at the judgment day. Wait, there’s that little rosebud, Claire Putnam, Sir John’s flame. Take her in to table; she’s a pretty little plaything. Lady Johnson, who was Polly Watts, is in Montreal, you see.” He made a languid gesture with outspread hands, smiling.
The girl he indicated, Mistress Claire Putnam, was a fragile, willowy creature, over-thin, perhaps, yet wonderfully attractive and pretty, and there was much of good in her face, and a tinge of pathos, too, for all her bright vivacity.
“If Sir John Johnson put her away when he wedded Miss Watts,” said Sir George, coolly, “I think he did it from interest and selfish calculation, not because he ceased to love her in his bloodless, fishy fashion. And now that Lady Johnson has fled to Canada, Sir John makes no pretence of hiding his amours in the society which he haunts; nor does that society take umbrage at the notorious relationship so impudently renewed. We’re a shameless lot, Mr. Ormond.”
At that moment I heard Sir John Johnson, at my elbow, saying to Sir Lupus: “Do you know what these damned rebels have had the impudence to do? I can scarce credit it myself, but it is said that their Congress has adopted a flag of thirteen stripes and thirteen stars on a blue field, and I’m cursed if I don’t believe they mean to hoist the filthy rag in our very faces!”
V
A NIGHT AT THE PATROON’S
Under a flare of yellow candle-light we entered the dining-hall and seated ourselves before a table loaded with flowers and silver, and the most beautiful Flemish glass that I have ever seen; though they say that Sir William Johnson’s was finer.
The square windows of the hall were closed, the dusty curtains closely drawn; the air, though fresh, was heavily saturated with perfume. Between each window, and higher up, small, square loop-holes pierced the solid walls. The wooden flap-hoods of these were open; through them poured the fresh night air, stirring the clustered flowers and the jewelled aigrets in the ladies’ hair.
The spectacle was pretty, even beautiful; at every lady’s cover lay a gift from the patroon, a crystal bosom-glass, mounted in silver filigree, filled with roses in scented water; and, at the sight, a gust of hand-clapping swept around the table, like the rattle of December winds through dry palmettos.
In a distant corner, slaves, dressed fancifully and turbaned like Barbary blackamoors, played on fiddles and guitars, and the music was such as I should have enjoyed, loving all melody as I do, yet could scarcely hear it in the flutter and chatter rising around me as the ladies placed the bosom-bottles in their stomachers and opened their Marlborough fans to set them waving all like restless wings.
Yet, under this surface elegance and display, one could scarcely choose but note how everywhere an amazing shiftlessness reigned in the patroon’s house. Cobwebs canopied the ceiling-beams with their silvery, ragged banners afloat in the candle’s heat; dust, like a velvet mantle, lay over the Dutch pla
tes and teapots, ranged on shelves against the panelled wall midway ‘twixt ceiling and unwaxed floor; the gaudy yellow liveries of the black servants were soiled and tarnished and ill fitting, and all wore slovenly rolls, tied to imitate scratch-wigs, the effect of which was amazing. The passion for cleanliness in the Dutch lies not in their men folk; a Dutch mistress of this manor house had died o’ shame long since — or died o’ scrubbing.
I felt mean and ungracious to sit there spying at my host’s table, and strove to forget it, yet was forced to wipe furtively spoon and fork upon the napkin on my knees ere I durst acquaint them with my mouth; and so did others, as I saw; but they did it openly and without pretence of concealment, and nobody took offence.
Sir Lupus cared nothing for precedence at table, and said so when he seated us, which brought a sneer to Sir John Johnson’s mouth and a scowl to Walter Butler’s brow; but this provincial boorishness appeared to be forgotten ere the decanters had slopped the cloth twice, and fair faces flushed, and voices grew gayer, and the rattle of silver assaulting china and the mellow ring of glasses swelled into a steady, melodious din which stirred the blood to my cheeks.
We Ormonds love gayety — I choose the mildest phrase I know. Yet, take us at our worst, Irish that we are, and if there be a taint of license to our revels, and if we drink the devil’s toast to the devil’s own undoing, the vital spring of our people remains unpolluted, the nation’s strength and purity unsoiled, guarded forever by the chastity of our women.
Savoring my claret, I glanced askance at my neighbors; on my left sat my cousin Dorothy Varick, frankly absorbed in a roasted pigeon, yet wielding knife and fork with much grace and address; on my right Magdalen Brant, step-cousin to Sir John, a lovely, soft-voiced girl, with velvety eyes and the faintest dusky tint, which showed the Indian blood through the carmine in her fresh, curved cheeks.
I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of the table, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility he expressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing, and reversed our glasses with a cheer.
Then Walter Butler gave us “The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran,” an amazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious to see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at the head of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding on his pedigree.
Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundy being decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I was obliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling with the memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.
“I give you,” I said, “a republic where self-respect balances the coronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a clean altar, served by the parliament of a united people. Gentlemen, raise your glasses to the colonies of America and their ancient liberties!”
And, amazed at what I had said, and knowing that I had not meant to say it, I lifted my glass and drained it.
Astonishment altered every face. Walter Butler mechanically raised his glass, then set it down, then raised it once more, gazing blankly at me; and I saw others hesitate, as though striving to recollect the exact terms of my toast. But, after a second’s hesitation, all drank sitting. Then each looked inquiringly at me, at neighbors, puzzled, yet already partly reassured.
“Gad!” said Colonel Claus, bluntly, “I thought at first that Burgundy smacked somewhat of Boston tea.”
“The Burgundy’s sound enough,” said Colonel John Butler, grimly.
“So is the toast,” bawled Sir Lupus. “It’s a pacific toast, a soothing sentiment, neither one thing not t’other. Dammy, it’s a toast no Quaker need refuse.”
“Sir Lupus, your permission!” broke out Captain Campbell. “Gentlemen, it is strange that not one of his Majesty’s officers has proposed the King!” He looked straight at me and said, without turning his head: “All loyal at this table will fill. Ladies, gentlemen, I give you his Majesty the King!”
The toast was finished amid cheers. I drained my glass and turned it down with a bow to Captain Campbell, who bowed to me as though greatly relieved.
The fiddles, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the slaves singing when the noise of the cheering died away; and I heard Dorothy beside me humming the air and tapping the floor with her silken shoe, while she moistened macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled them with serene satisfaction.
“You appear to be happy,” I whispered.
“Perfectly. I adore sweets. Will you try a dish of cinnamon cake? Sop it in Burgundy; they harmonize to a most heavenly taste.... Look at Magdalen Brant, is she not sweet? Her cousin is Molly Brant, old Sir William’s sweetheart, fled to Canada.... She follows this week with Betty Austin, that black-eyed little mischief-maker on Sir John’s right, who owes her diamonds to Guy Johnson. La! What a gossip I grow! But it’s county talk, and all know it, and nobody cares save the Albany blue-noses and the Van Cortlandts, who fall backward with standing too straight—”
“Dorothy,” I said, sharply, “a blunted innocence is better than none, but it’s a pity you know so much!”
“How can I help it?” she asked, calmly, dipping another macaroon into her glass.
“It’s a pity, all the same,” I said.
“Dew on a duck’s back, my friend,” she observed, serenely. “Cousin, if I were fashioned for evil I had been tainted long since.”
She sat up straight and swept the table with a heavy-lidded, insolent glance, eyebrows raised. The cold purity of her profile, the undimmed innocence, the childish beauty of the curved cheek, touched me to the quick. Ah! the white flower to nourish here amid unconcealed corruption, with petals stainless, with bloom undimmed, with all its exquisite fragrance still fresh and wholesome in an air heavy with wine and the odor of dying roses.
I looked around me. Guy Johnson, red in the face, was bending too closely beside his neighbor, Betty Austin. Colonel Claus talked loudly across the table to Captain McDonald, and swore fashionable oaths which the gaunt captain echoed obsequiously. Claire Putnam coquetted with her paddle-stick fan, defending her roses from Sir George Covert, while Sir John Johnson stared at them in cold disapproval; and I saw Magdalen Brant, chin propped on her clasped hands, close her eyes and breathe deeply while the wine burned her face, setting torches aflame in either cheek. Later, when I spoke to her, she laughed pitifully, saying that her ears hummed like bee-hives. Then she said that she meant to go, but made no movement; and presently her dark eyes closed again, and I saw the fever pulse beating in her neck.
Some one had overturned a silver basin full of flowers, and a servant, sopping up the water, had brushed Walter Butler so that he flew into a passion and flung a glass at the terrified black, which set Sir Lupus laughing till he choked, but which enraged me that he should so conduct in the presence of his host’s daughter.
Yet if Sir Lupus could not only overlook it, but laugh at it, I, certes, had no right to rebuke what to me seemed a gross insult.
Toasts flew fast now, and there was a punch in a silver bowl as large as a bushel — and spirits, too, which was strange, seeing that the ladies remained at table.
Then Captain Campbell would have all to drink the Royal Greens, standing on chairs, one foot on the table, which appeared to be his regiment’s mess custom, and we did so, the ladies laughing and protesting, but finally planting their dainty shoes on the edge of the table; and Magdalen Brant nigh fell off her chair — for lack of balance, as Sir George Covert protested, one foot alone being too small to sustain her.
“That Cinderella compliment at our expense!” cried Betty Austin, but Sir Lupus cried: “Silence all, and keep one foot on the table!” And a little black slave lad, scarce more than a babe, appeared, dressed in a lynx-skin, bearing a basket of pretty boxes woven out of scented grass and embroidered with silk flowers.
At every corner he laid a box, all exclaiming and wondering what the surprise might be, until the littl
e black, arching his back, fetched a yowl like a lynx and ran out on all fours.
“The gentlemen will open the boxes! Ladies, keep one foot on the table!” bawled Sir Lupus. We bent to open the boxes; Magdalen Brant and Dorothy Varick, each resting a hand on my shoulder to steady them, peeped curiously down to see. And, “Oh!” cried everybody, as the lifted box-lids discovered snow-white pigeons sitting on great gilt eggs.
The white pigeons fluttered out, some to the table, where they craned their necks and ruffled their snowy plumes; others flapped up to the loop-holes, where they sat and watched us.
“Break the eggs!” cried the patroon.
I broke mine; inside was a pair of shoe-roses, each set with a pearl and clasped with a gold pin.
Betty Austin clapped her hands in delight; Dorothy bent double, tore off the silken roses from each shoe in turn, and I pinned on the new jewelled roses amid a gale of laughter.
“A health to the patroon!” cried Sir George Covert, and we gave it with a will, glasses down. Then all settled to our seats once more to hear Sir George sing a song.
A slave passed him a guitar; he touched the strings and sang with good taste a song in questionable taste:
“Jeanneton prend sa fauçille.”
A delicate melody and neatly done; yet the verse —
“Le deuxième plus habile
L’embrassant sous le menton” —
made me redden, and the envoi nigh burned me alive
with blushes, yet was rapturously applauded, and the
patroon fell a-choking with his gross laughter.
Then Walter Butler would sing, and, I confess, did
it well, though the song was sad and the words too
melancholy to please.
“I know a rebel song,” cried Colonel Claus. “Here,
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