Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “The trysting-place is named as Thendara. Only an Iroquois, adopted or native, can understand how Thendara is to be found. It is a town that has no existence — a fabled town that has existed and will exist again, but does not now exist. It is a mystic term used in council, and understood only by those clan ensigns present at the Rite of Condolence. At a federal council of the Five Nations, at a certain instant in the ceremonies, that spot which for a week shall be chosen to represent the legendary and lost town of Thendara, is designated to the clan attestants.

  “Now, sir, as our allies the Oneidas dare not answer to a belt summons for federal council, there is no one who can discover for you the location of the trysting-spot, Thendara. I, however, am an Oneida councilor, having conformed to the law of descent by adoption; and having been raised up to ensign by the Wolf-Clan of the Oneida Nation, beg leave to place my poor services at your Excellency’s disposal. There may be a chance that I return alive; and you, sir, are to judge whether any attempt of mine to answer the Iroquois belt, which surely I shall receive, is worth your honorable consideration. In the meanwhile I am sending copies of this letter to Colonel Willett and to Gen’l Schuyler.”

  I hastily signed, seized more writing-paper, and fell to copying furiously. And at length it was accomplished, and I wrapped up the letters in a box of snuff, tied and sealed the packet, and called Dennis.

  “Take this snuff back to Ennis, in Hanover Square,” I said peevishly, “and inform him that Mr. Renault desires a better quality.”

  My servant took the box and hastened away. I stood an instant, listening. Walter Butler was still singing. I cast my eyes about, picked up a half-written sheet I had discarded for fault of blots, crumpled it, and reached for a candle to burn it. But at that instant I heard the voices of the ladies on the landing below, so quickly opening my wainscot niche I thrust the dangerous paper within, closed the panel, and hastened away down-stairs to avoid comment for my absence.

  In the merry company now assembled below I could scarcely have been missed, I think, for the Italian chaises had but just that moment appeared to bear us away to the Fort, and the gentlemen were clustered about Lady Coleville, who, encircled by a laughing bevy of pretty women, was designating chaise-partners, reading from a list she held in her jeweled hands. Those already allotted to one another had moved apart, standing two and two, and as I entered the room I saw Walter Butler give his arm to Rosamund Barry at Lady Coleville’s command, a fixed smile hiding his disappointment, which turned to a white grimace as Lady Coleville ended with: “Carus, I entrust to your escort the Hon. Elsin Grey, and if you dare to run off with her there are some twenty court-swords ready here to ask the reason why. Sir Henry, will you take me as your penance?”

  “Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Peter gaily, “the chaises are here; and please to remember that there is no Kissing-Bridge between Wall Street and the Battery.”

  Elsin Grey turned to me, laying her soft white hand on mine.

  “Did you hear Mr. Butler sing?” she whispered. “Is it not divine enough to steal one’s heart away?”

  “He sings well,” I said, gazing in wonder at her ball-gown — pale turquoise silk, with a stomacher of solid brilliants and petticoat of blue and silver. “Elsin, I think I never saw so beautiful a maid in all my life, nor a beautiful gown so nobly borne.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked, delighted at my bluntness. “And you, too, Carus — why, you are like a radiant one from the sky! I have ever thought you handsome, but not as flawless as you now reveal yourself. Lord! we should cut a swathe to-night, you and I, sir, blinding all eyes in our proper glitter. I could dance all night, and all day too! I never felt so light, so gay, so eager, so reckless. I’m quivering with delight, Carus, from throat to knee; and, for the rest, my head is humming with the devil’s tattoo and my feet keeping time.”

  She raised the hem of her petticoat a hand’s breadth, and tapped the floor with one little foot — a trifle only. “That ballet figure that we did at Sir Henry’s — do you remember? — and the heat of the ballroom, and the French red running from the women’s cheeks? To-night is perfect, cool and fragrant. I shall dance until I die, and go up to heaven in one high, maddened whirl — zip! — like a burning soul!”

  We were descending the stoop now. Our chaise stood ready. I placed her and followed, and away we rolled down Broadway.

  “Am I to have two dances?” I asked.

  “Two? Why, you blessed man, you may have twenty!”

  She turned to me, eyes sparkling, fan half spread, a picture of exquisite youth and beauty. Her jewels flashed in the chaise-lamps, her neck and shoulders glowed clear and softly fair.

  “Is that French red on lip and cheek?” I asked, to tease her.

  “If there were a certain sort of bridge betwixt Wall Street and the Fort you might find out without asking,” she said, looking me daringly in the eyes. “Lacking that same bridge, you have another bridge and another problem, Mr. Renault.”

  “For lack of a Kissing-Bridge I must solve the pons asinorum, I see,” said I, imprisoning her hands. There was a delicate hint of a struggle, a little cry, and I had kissed her. Breathless she looked at me; the smile grew fixed on her red lips.

  “Your experience in such trifles is a blessing to the untaught,” she said. “You have not crumpled a ribbon. Truly, Carus, only long and intense devotion to the art could turn you out a perfect master.”

  “My compliments to you, Elsin; I take no credit that your gown is smooth and the lace unruffled.”

  “Thank you; but if you mean that I, too, am practised in the art, you are wrong.”

  The fixed smile trembled a little, but her eyes were wide and bright.

  “Would you laugh, Carus, if I said it: what you did to me — is the first — the very first in all my life?”

  “Oh, no,” I said gravely, “I should not laugh if you commanded otherwise.”

  She looked at me in silence, the light from the chaise-lamps playing over her flushed face. Presently she turned and surveyed the darkness where, row on row, ruins of burned houses stood, the stars shining down through roofless walls.

  Into my head came ringing the song that Walter Butler sang:

  “Ninon! Ninon! thy sweet life flies!

  Wasted in hours day follows day.

  The rose to-night to-morrow dies:

  Wilt thou disdain to love alway?

  How canst thou live unconscious of Love’s fire,

  Immune to passion, guiltless of desire?”

  Now all around us lamplight glimmered as we entered Bowling Green, where coach and chaise and sedan-chair were jumbled in a confusion increased by the crack of whips, the trample of impatient horses, and the cries of grooms and chairmen. In the lamp’s increasing glare I made out a double line of soldiers, through which those invited to the Fort were passing; and as our chaise stopped and I aided Elsin to descend, the fresh sea-wind from the Battery struck us full, blowing her lace scarf across my face.

  Through lines of servants and soldiers we passed, her hand nestling closely to my arm, past the new series of outworks and barricades, where bronze field-pieces stood shining in the moonlight, then over a dry moat by a flimsy bridge, and entered the sally-port, thronged with officers, all laughing and chatting, alert to watch the guests arriving, and a little bold, too, with their stares and their quizzing-glasses. There is, at times, something almost German in the British lack of delicacy, which is, so far, rare with us here, though I doubt not the French will taint a few among us. But insolence in stare and smirk is not among our listed sins, though, doubtless, otherwise the list is full as long as that of any nation, and longer, too, for all I know.

  Conducting Elsin Grey, I grew impatient at the staring, and made way for her without ceremony, which caused a mutter here and there.

  In the great loft-room of the Barracks, held by the naval companies, the ball was to be given. I relinquished my pretty charge to Lady Coleville at the door of the retiring-room, and s
trolled off to join Sir Peter and the others, gathering in knots throughout the cloak-room, where two sailors, cutlasses bared, stood guard.

  “Well, Carus,” he said, smilingly approaching me, “did you heed those chaste instructions I gave concerning the phantom Kissing-Bridge?”

  “I did not run away with her,” I said, looking about me. “Where is Walter Butler?”

  “He returned to the house in a chaise for something forgotten — or so he said. I did not understand him clearly, and he was in great haste.”

  “He went back to our house?” I asked uneasily.

  “Yes — a matter of a moment, so he said. He returns to move the opening dance with Rosamund.”

  Curiously apprehensive, I stood there listening to the chatter around me. Sir Peter drummed with his fingers on his sword-hilt, and nodded joyously to every passer-by.

  “You have found Walter Butler more agreeable, I trust, than our friend Sir Henry found him,” he said, turning his amused eyes on me.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Perhaps? Damme, Carus, that is none too cordial! What is it in the man that keeps men aloof? Eh? He’s a gentleman, a graceful, dark, romantic fellow, in his forest-green regimentals and his black hair worn unpowdered. And did you ever hear such a voice?”

  “No, I never did,” I replied sulkily.

  “Delicious,” said Sir Peter— “a voice prettily cultivated, and sweet enough to lull suspicion in a saint.” He laughed: “Rosamund made great eyes at him, the vixen, but I fancy he’s too cold to catch fire from a coquette. Did you learn if he is married?”

  “Not from him, sir.”

  “From whom?”

  I was silent.

  “From whom?” he asked curiously.

  “Why, I had it from one or two acquaintances, who say they knew his wife when she fled with other refugees from Guy Park,” I answered.

  Sir Peter shrugged his handsome shoulders, dusted his nose with a whisk of his lace handkerchief, and looked impatiently for a sign of his wife and the party of ladies attending her.

  “Carus,” he said under his breath, “you should enter the lists, you rogue.”

  “What lists?” I answered carelessly.

  “Lord! he asks me what lists!” mimicked Sir Peter. “Why don’t you court her? The match is suitable and desirable. You ninny, do you suppose it was by accident that Elsin Grey became our guest? Why, lad, we’re set on it — and, damme! but I’m as crafty a matchmaker as my wife, planning the pretty game together in the secret of our chambers after you and Elsin are long abed, and — Lord! I came close to saying ‘snoring’ — for which you should have called me out, sir, if you are champion of Elsin Grey.”

  “But, Sir Peter,” I said smiling, “I do not love the lady.”

  “A boorish speech!” he snapped. “Take shame, Carus, you Tryon County bumpkin!”

  “I mean,” said I, reddening, “and should have said, that the lady does not love me.”

  “That’s better.” He laughed, and added, “Pay your court, sir. You are fashioned for it.”

  “But I do not care to,” I said.

  “O Lord!” muttered Sir Peter, looking at the great beams above us, “my match-making is come to naught, after all, and my wife will be furious with you — furious, I say. And here she comes, too,” he said, brightening, as he ever did, at sight of his lovely wife, who had remained his sweetheart, too; and this I am free to say, that, spite of the looseness of the times and of society, never, as long as I knew him, did Sir Peter forget in thought or deed those vows he took when wedded. Sportsman he was, and rake and gambler, as were we all; and I have seen him often overflushed with wine, but never heard from his lips a blasphemy or foul jest, never a word unworthy of clean lips and the clean heart he carried with him to his grave.

  As Lady Coleville emerged from the ladies’ cloakroom, attended by her pretty bevy, Sir Peter, followed by his guests, awaited her in the great corridor, where she took his arm, looking up into his handsome face with that indefinable smile I knew so well — a smile of delicate pride, partly tender, partly humorous, tinctured with faintest coquetry.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “that villain, Carus, will have none of our match-making, and I hope Rosamund twists him into a triple lover’s-knot, to teach him lessons he might learn more innocently.”

  Lady Coleville flushed up and looked around at me. “Why, Carus,” she said softly, “I thought you a man of sense and discretion.”

  “But I — but she does not favor me, madam,” I protested in a low voice.

  “It is your fault, then, and your misfortune,” she said. “Do you not know that she leaves us to-morrow? Sir Henry has placed a packet at our service. Can you not be persuaded — for my sake? It is our fond wish, Carus. How can a man be insensible to such wholesome loveliness as hers?”

  “But — but she is a child — she has no heart! She is but a child yet — all caprice, innocence, and artless babble — and she loves not me, madam — —”

  “You love not her! Shame, sir! Open those brown blind eyes of yours, that look so wise and are so shallow if such sweetness as hers troubles not their depths! Oh, Carus, Carus, you make me too unhappy!”

  “Idiot!” added Sir Peter, pinching my arm. “Bring her to us, now, for we enter. She is yonder, you slow-wit! nose to nose with O’Neil. Hasten!”

  But Elsin’s patch-box had been mislaid, and while we searched for it I saw the marines march up, form in double rank, and heard the clear voice of their sergeant announcing:

  “Sir Peter and Lady Coleville!

  “Captain Tully O’Neil and the Misses O’Neil!

  “Adjutant-General De Lancey and Miss Beekman!

  “Sir Henry Clinton!

  “Captains Harkness, Rutherford, Hallowell, and McIvor!

  “Major-General — —”

  “Elsin,” I said, “you should have been announced with Sir Peter and Lady Coleville!”

  She had found her patch-box and her fan at length, and we marched in, the sergeant’s loud announcement ringing through the quickly filling room:

  “Mr. Carus Renault and the Honorable Elsin Grey!”

  “What will folk say to hear our banns shouted aloud in the teeth of all New York?” she whispered mischievously. “Mercy on me! if you turn as red as a Bushwick pippin they will declare we are affianced!”

  “I shall confirm it if you consent!” I said, furious to burn at a jest from her under a thousand eyes.

  “Ask me again,” she murmured; “we make our reverences here.”

  She took her silk and silver petticoat between thumb and forefinger of each hand and slowly sank, making the lowest, stateliest curtsy that I ever bowed beside; and I heard a low, running murmur sweep the bright, jeweled ranks around us as we recovered and passed on, ceding our place to others next behind.

  The artillerymen had made the great loft gay with bunting. Jacks and signal-flags hung from the high beams overhead, clothing the bare timbers with thickets of gayest foliage; banners and bright scarfs, caught up with trophies, hung festooned along the unpainted walls. They had made a balcony with stairs where the band was perched, the music of the artillery augmented by strings — a harp, half a dozen fiddles, cellos, bassoons, and hautboys, and there were flutes, too, and trumpets lent by the cavalry, and sufficient drums to make that fine, deep, thunderous undertone, which I love to hear, and which heats my cheeks with pleasure.

  Beyond the spar-loft the sail-loft had been set aside and fashioned most elegantly for refreshment. An immense table crossed it, behind which servants stood, and behind the servants the wall had been lined with shelves covered with cakes, oranges, apples, early peaches, melons and nectarines, and late strawberries, also wines of every sort, pastry, jellies, whip-syllabub, rocky and floating island, blanc-mange, brandied preserves — and Heaven knows what! But Elsin Grey whispered me that Pryor the confectioner had orders for coriander and cinnamon comfits by the bushel, and orange, lemon, chocolate, and burned almonds by the pe
ck.

  “Do look at Lady Coleville,” whispered Elsin, gently touching my sleeve; “is she not sweet as a bride with Sir Peter? And oh, that gown! with the lilac ribbons and flounce of five rows of lace. Carus, she has forty diamond buttons upon her petticoat, and her stomacher is all amethysts!”

  “I wonder where Walter Butler is?” I said restlessly.

  “Do you wish to be rid of me?” she asked.

  “God forbid! I only marvel that he is not here — he seemed so eager for the frolic — —”

  My voice was drowned in the roll of martial music; we took the places assigned us, and the slow march began, ending in the Governor’s set, which was danced by eight couples — a curious dance, newly fashionable, and called “En Ballet.” This we danced in a very interesting fashion, sometimes two and two, sometimes three and two, or four couple and four couple, and then all together, which vastly entertained the spectators. In the final mêlée I had lost my lady to Mr. De Lancey, who now carried her off, leaving me with a willowy maid, whose partner came to claim her soon.

  The ball now being opened, I moved a minuet with Lady Coleville, she adjuring me at every step and turn to let no precious moment slip to court Elsin; and I, bland but troubled, and astonished to learn how deep an interest she took in my undoing — I with worry enough before me, not inclusive of a courtship that I found superfluous and unimportant.

  When she was rid of me, making no concealment of her disappointment and impatience, I looked for Elsin, but found Rosamund Barry, and led her out in one of those animated figures we had learned at home from the Frenchman, Grasset — dances that suited her, the rose coquette! — gay dances, where the petticoat reveals a pretty limb discreetly; where fans play, opening and closing like the painted wings of butterflies alarmed; where fingers touch, fall away, interlace and unlace; where a light waist-clasp and a vis-à-vis leaves a moment for a whisper and its answer, promise, assent, or low refusal as partners part, dropping away in low, slow reverence, which ends the frivolous figure with regretful decorum.