We halted and looked down the empty, trodden trail, stretching away through the forest. Thousands and thousands of light, moccasined feet had worn it deep and patted it hard as a sheep-path. On what mission would the next Mohawk feet be speeding on that trail?
“Those people at Fonda’s Bush had best move to Johnstown,” said Dorothy. “If the Mohawks strike, they will strike through here at Balston or Saratoga, or at the half-dozen families left at Fonda’s Bush, which some of them call Broadalbin.”
“Have these poor wretches no one to warn them?” I asked.
“Oh, they have been warned and warned, but they cling to their cabins as cats cling to soft cushions. The Palatines seem paralyzed with fear, the Dutch are too lazy to move in around the forts, the Scotch and English too obstinate. Nobody can do anything for them — you heard what that Schell woman said when I urged her to prudence.”
I bent my eyes on the ominous trail; its very emptiness fascinated me, and I dismounted and knelt to examine it where, near a dry, rotten log, some fresh marks showed.
Behind me I heard Dorothy dismount, dropping to the ground lightly as a tree-lynx; the next moment she laid her hand on my shoulder and bent over where I was kneeling.
“Can you read me that sign?” she asked, mischievously.
“Something has rolled and squatted in the dry wood-dust — some bird, I think.”
“A good guess,” she said; “a cock-partridge has dusted here; see those bits of down? I say a cock-bird because I know that log to be a drumming-log.”
She raised herself and guided her horse along the trail, bright eyes restlessly scanning ground and fringing underbrush.
“Deer passed here — one — two — three — the third a buck — a three-year old,” she said, sinking her voice by instinct. “Yonder a tree-cat dug for a wood-mouse; your lynx is ever hanging about a drumming-log.”
I laid my hand on her arm and pointed to a fresh, green maple leaf lying beside the trail.
“Ay,” she murmured, “but it fell naturally, cousin. See; here it parted from the stalk, clean as a poplar twig, leaving the shiny cup unbruised. And nothing has passed here — this spider’s web tells that, with a dead moth dangling from it, dead these three days, from its brittle shell.”
“I hear water,” I said, and presently we came to it, where it hurried darkling across the trail.
There were no human signs there; here a woodcock had peppered the mud with little holes, probing for worms; there a raccoon had picked his way; yonder a lynx had left the great padded mark of its foot, doubtless watching for yonder mink nosing us from the bank of the still pool below.
Silently we mounted and rode out of the still Mohawk country; and I was not sorry to leave, for it seemed to me that there was something unfriendly in the intense stillness — something baleful in the silence; and I was glad presently to see an open road and a great tree marked with Sir Lupus’s mark, the sun shining on the white triangle and the painted V.
Entering a slashing where the logging-road passed, we moved on, side by side, talking in low tones. And my cousin taught me how to know these Northern trees by bark and leaf; how to know the shrubs new to me, like that strange plant whose root is like a human body and which the Chinese value at its weight in gold; and the aromatic root used in beer, and the bark of the sweet-birch whose twigs are golden-black.
Now, though the birds and many of the beasts and trees were familiar to me in this Northern forest, yet I was constantly at fault, as I have said. Plumage and leaf and fur puzzled me; our gray rice-bird here wore a velvet livery of black and white and sang divinely, though with us he is mute as a mullet; many squirrels were striped with black and white; no rosy lichen glimmered on the tree-trunks; no pink-stemmed pines softened sombre forest depths; no great tiger-striped butterflies told me that the wild orange was growing near at hand; no whirring, olive-tinted moth signalled the hidden presence of the oleander. But I saw everywhere unfamiliar winged things, I heard unfamiliar bird-notes; new colors perplexed me, new shapes, nay, the very soil smelled foreign, and the water tasted savorless as the mist of pine barrens in February.
Still, my Maker had set eyes in my head and given me a nose to sniff with; and I was learning every moment, tasting, smelling, touching, listening, asking questions unashamed; and my cousin Dorothy seemed never to tire in aiding me, nor did her eager delight and sympathy abate one jot.
Dressed in full deer-skin as was I, she rode her horse astride with a grace as perfect as it was unstudied and unconscious, neither affecting the slothful carriage of our Southern saddle-masters nor the dragoons’ rigid seat, but sat at ease, hollow-backed, loose-thighed, free-reined and free-stirruped.
Her hair, gathered into a golden club at the nape of the neck, glittered in the sun, her eyes deepened like the violet depths of mid-heaven. Already the sun had lent her a delicate, creamy mask, golden on her temples where the hair grew paler; and I thought I had never seen such wholesome sweetness and beauty in any living being.
We now rode through a vast flat land of willows, headed due north once more, and I saw a little river which twisted a hundred times upon itself like a stricken snake, winding its shimmering coils out and in through woodland, willow-flat, and reedy marsh.
“The Kennyetto,” said Dorothy, “flowing out of the great Vlaie to empty its waters close to its source after a circle of half a hundred miles. Yonder lies the Vlaie — it is that immense flat country of lake and marsh and forest which is wedged in just south of the mountain-gap where the last of the Adirondacks split into the Mayfield hills and the long, low spurs rolling away to the southeast. Sir William Johnson had a lodge there at Summer-house Point. Since his death Sir George Covert has leased it from Sir John. That is our trysting-place.”
To hear Sir George’s name now vaguely disturbed me, yet I could not think why, for I admired and liked him. But at the bare mention of his name a dull uneasiness came over me and I turned impatiently to my cousin as though the irritation had come from her and she must explain it.
“What is it?” she inquired, faintly smiling.
“I asked no question,” I muttered.
“I thought you meant to speak, cousin.”
I had meant to say something. I did not know what.
“You seem to know when I am about to speak,” I said; “that is twice you have responded to my unasked questions.”
“I know it,” she said, surprised and a trifle perplexed. “I seem to hear you when you are mute, and I turn to find you looking at me, as though you had asked me something.”
We rode on, thoughtful, silent, aware of a new and wordless intimacy.
“It is pleasant to be with you,” she said at last. “I have never before found untroubled contentment save when I am alone.... Everything that you see and think of on this ride I seem to see and think of, too, and know that you are observing with the same delight that I feel.... Nor does anything in the world disturb my happiness. Nor do you vex me with silence when I would have you speak; nor with speech when I ride dreaming — as I do, cousin, for hours and hours — not sadly, but in the sweetest peace—”
Her voice died out like a June breeze; our horses, ear to ear moved on slowly in the fragrant silence.
“To ride ... forever ... together,” she mused, “looking with perfect content on all the world.... I teaching you, or you me; ... it’s all one for the delight it gives to be alive and young.... And no trouble to await us, ... nothing malicious to do a harm to any living thing.... I could renounce Heaven for that.... Could you?”
“Yes.... For less.”
“I know I ask too much; grief makes us purer, fitting us for the company of blessed souls. They say that even war may be a holy thing — though we are commanded otherwise.... Cousin, at moments a demon rises in me and I desire some forbidden thing so ardently, so passionately, that it seems as if I could fight a path through paradise itself to gain what I desire.... Do you feel so?”
“Yes.”
“Is it
not consuming — terrible to be so shaken?... Yet I never gain my desire, for there in my path my own self rises to confront me, blocking my way. And I can never pass — never.... Once, in winter, our agent, Mr. Fonda, came driving a trained caribou to a sledge. A sweet, gentle thing, with dark, mild eyes, and I was mad to drive it — mad, cousin! But Sir Lupus learned that it had trodden and gored a man, and put me on my honor not to drive it. And all day Sir Lupus was away at Kingsborough for his rents and I free to drive the sledge, ... and I was mad to do it — and could not. And the pretty beast stabled with our horses, and every day I might have driven it.... I never did.... It hurts yet, cousin.... How strange is it that to us the single word, ‘honor,’ blocks the road and makes the King’s own highway no thorough-fare forever!”
She gathered bridle nervously, and we launched our horses through a willow fringe and away over a soft, sandy intervale, riding knee to knee till the wind whistled in our ears and the sand rose fountain high at every stride of our bounding horses.
“Ah!” she sighed, drawing bridle. “That clears the heart of silly troubles. Was it not glorious? Like a plunge to the throat in an icy pool!”
Her face, radiant, transfigured, was turned to the north, where, glittering under the westward sun, the sunny waters of the Vlaie sparkled between green reeds and rushes. Beyond, smoky blue mountains tumbled into two uneven walls, spread southeast and southwest, flanking the flat valley of the Vlaie.
Thousands of blackbirds chattered and croaked and trilled and whistled in the reeds, flitting upward, with a flash of scarlet on their wings; hovering, dropping again amid a ceaseless chorus from the half-hidden flock. Over the marshes slow hawks sailed, rose, wheeled, and fell; the gray ducks, whose wings bear purple diamond-squares, quacked in the tussock ponds, guarded by their sentinels, the tall, blue herons. Everywhere the earth was sheeted with marsh-marigolds and violets.
Across the distant grassy flat two deer moved, grazing. We rode to the east, skirting the marshes, following a trail made by cattle, until beyond the flats we saw the green roof of the pleasure-house which Sir William Johnson had built for himself. Our ride together was nearly ended.
As at the same thought we tightened bridle and looked at each other gravely.
“All rides end,” I said.
“Ay, like happiness.”
“Both may be renewed.”
“Until they end again.”
“Until they end forever.”
She clasped her bare hands on her horse’s neck, sitting with bent head as though lost in sombre memories.
“What ends forever might endure forever,” I said.
“Not our rides together,” she murmured. “You must return to the South one day. I must wed.... Where shall we be this day a year hence?”
“Very far apart, cousin.”
“Will you remember this ride?”
“Yes,” I said, troubled.
“I will, too.... And I shall wonder what you are doing.”
“And I shall think of you,” I said, soberly.
“Will you write?”
“Yes. Will you?”
“Yes.”
Silence fell between us like a shadow; then:
“Yonder rides Sir George Covert,” she said, listlessly.
I saw him dismounting before his door, but said nothing.
“Shall we move forward?” she asked, but did not stir a finger towards the bridle lying on her horse’s neck.
Another silence; and, impatiently:
“I cannot bear to have you go,” she said; “we are perfectly contented together — and I wish you to know all the thoughts I have touching on the world and on people. I cannot tell them to my father, nor to Ruyven — and Cecile is too young—”
“There is Sir George,” I said.
“He! Why, I should never think of telling him of these thoughts that please or trouble or torment me!” she said, in frank surprise. “He neither cares for the things you care for nor thinks about them at all.”
“Perhaps he does. Ask him.”
“I have. He smiles and says nothing. I am afraid to tax his courtesy with babble of beast and bird and leaf and flower; and why one man is rich and another poor; and whether it is right that men should hold slaves; and why our Lord permits evil, having the power to end it for all time. I should like to know all these things,” she said, earnestly.
“But I do not know them, Dorothy.”
“Still, you think about them, and so do I. Sir Lupus says you have liberated your Greeks and sent them back. I want to know why. Then, too, though neither you nor I can know our Lord’s purpose in enduring the evil that Satan plans, it is pleasant, I think, to ask each other.”
“To think together,” I said, sadly.
“Yes; that is it. Is it not a pleasure?”
“Yes, Dorothy.”
“It does not matter that we fail to learn; it is the happiness in knowing that the other also cares to know, the delight in seaching for reason together. Cousin, I have so longed to say this to somebody; and until you came I never believed it possible.... I wish we were brother and sister! I wish you were Cecile, and I could be with you all day and all night.... At night, half asleep, I think of wonderful things to talk about, but I forget them by morning. Do you?”
“Yes, cousin.”
“It is strange we are so alike!” she said, staring at me thoughtfully.
IX
HIDDEN FIRE
After a few moments’ silence we moved forward towards the pleasure-house, and we had scarcely started when down the road, from the north, came the patroon riding a powerful black horse, attended by old Cato mounted on a raw-boned hunter, and by one Peter Van Horn, the district Brandt-Meester, or fire-warden. As they halted at Sir George Covert’s door, we rode up to join them at a gallop, and the patroon, seeing us far off, waved his hat at us in evident good humor.
“Not a landmark missing!” he shouted, “and my signs all witnessed for record by Peter and Cato! How do the southwest landmarks stand?”
“The tenth pine is blasted by lightning,” said Dorothy, walking her beautiful gray to Sir Lupus’s side.
“Pooh! We’ve a dozen years to change trees,” said Sir Lupus, in great content. “All’s well everywhere, save at the Fish-House near the Sacandaga ford, where some impudent rascal says he saw smoke on the hills. He’s doubtless a liar. Where’s Sir George?”
Sir George sauntered forth from the doorway where he had been standing, and begged us to dismount, but the patroon declined, saying that we had far to ride ere sundown, and that one of us should go around by Broadalbin. However, Dorothy and I slipped from our saddles to stretch our legs while a servant brought stirrup-cups and Sir George gathered a spray of late lilac which my cousin fastened to her leather belt.
“Tory lilacs,” said Sir George, slyly; “these bushes came from cuttings of those Sir William planted at Johnson Hall.”
“If Sir William planted them, a rebel may wear them,” replied Dorothy, gayly.
“Ay, it’s that whelp, Sir John, who has marred what the great baronet left as his monument,” growled old Peter Van Horn.
“That’s treason!” snapped the patroon. “Stop it. I won’t have politics talked in my presence, no! Dammy, Peter, hold your tongue, sir!”
Dorothy, wearing the lilac spray, vaulted lightly into her saddle, and I mounted my mare. Stirrup-cups were filled and passed up to us, and we drained a cooled measure of spiced claret to the master of the pleasure-house, who pledged us gracefully in return, and then stood by Dorothy’s horse, chatting and laughing until, at a sign from Sir Lupus, Cato sounded “Afoot!” on his curly hunting-horn, and the patroon wheeled his big horse out into the road, with a whip-salute to our host.
“Dine with us to-night!” he bawled, without turning his fat head or waiting for a reply, and hammered away in a torrent of dust. Sir George glanced wistfully at Dorothy.
“There’s a district officer-call gone out,” he said. “Some of the Palatine offi
cers desire my presence. I cannot refuse. So ... it is good-bye for a week.”
“Are you a militia officer?” I asked, curiously.
“Yes,” he said, with a humorous grimace. “May I say that you also are a candidate?”
Dorothy turned squarely in her saddle and looked me in the eyes.
“At the district’s service, Sir George,” I said, lightly.
“Ha! That is well done, Ormond!” he exclaimed. “Nothing yet to inconvenience you, but our Governor Clinton may send you a billet doux from Albany before May ends and June begins — if this periwigged beau, St. Leger, strolls out to ogle Stanwix—”
Dorothy turned her horse sharply, saluted Sir George, and galloped away towards her father, who had halted at the cross-roads to wait for us.
“Good-bye, Sir George,” I said, offering my hand. He took it in a firm, steady clasp.
“A safe journey, Ormond. I trust fortune may see fit to throw us together in this coming campaign.”
I bowed, turned bridle, and cantered off, leaving him standing in the road before his gayly painted pleasure-house, an empty wine-cup in his hand.
“Damnation, George!” bawled Sir Lupus, as I rode up, “have we all day to stand nosing one another and trading gossip! Some of us must ride by Fonda’s Bush, or Broadalbin, whatever the Scotch loons call it; and I’ll say plainly that I have no stomach for it; I want my dinner!”
“It will give me pleasure to go,” said I, “but I require a guide.”
“Peter shall ride with you,” began Sir Lupus; but Dorothy broke in, impatiently:
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