Thrilled with happiness, I glanced at Elsin Grey where she rode a pace or so ahead of me, her fair head bent, her face composed but colorless as the lace drooping from her stock. The fatigue of a sleepless night was telling on her, though as yet the reaction of the strain had not affected me one whit.
She raised her head as I forced my horse forward to her side. “What is it, Mr. Renault?” she asked coldly.
“I’m sorry you are fatigued, Elsin — —”
“I am not fatigued.”
“What! after all you have done for me — —”
“I have done nothing for you, Mr. Renault.”
“Nothing? — when I owe you everything that — —”
“You owe me nothing that I care to accept.”
“My thanks — —”
“I tell you you owe me nothing. Let it rest so!”
Her unfriendly eyes warned me to silence, but I said bluntly:
“That Mr. Cunningham is not this moment fiddling with my neck, I owe to you. I offer my thanks, and I remain at your service. That is all.”
“Do you think,” she answered quietly, “that a rebel hanged could interest me unless that hanging smirched my kin?”
“Elsin! Elsin!” I said, “is there not bitterness enough in the world but you and I must turn our friendship into hate?”
“What do you care whether it turn to hate or — love?” She laughed, but there was no mirth in her eyes. “You are free; you have done your duty; your brother rebels will reward you. What further have I to do with you, Mr. Renault? You have used me, you have used my kin, my friends. Not that I blame you — nay, Mr. Renault, I admire, I applaud, I understand more than you think. I even count him brave who can go out as you have done, scornful of life, pitiless of friendships formed, reckless of pleasure, of what men call their code of honor; indifferent to the shameful death that hovers like a shadow, and the scorn of all, even of friends — for a spy has no friends, if discovered. All this, sir, I comprehend, spite of my few years which once — when we were friends — you in your older wisdom found amusing.” She turned sharply away, brushing her eyelashes with gloved fingers.
Presently she looked straight ahead again, a set smile on her tight lips.
“The puppets in New York danced to the tune you whistled,” she said, “and because you danced, too, they never understood that you were master of the show. Oh, we all enjoyed the dance, sir — I, too, serving your designs as all served. Now you have done with us, and it remains for us to make our exits as gracefully as may be.”
She made a little salute with her riding-whip — gracious, quite free of mockery.
“The fortune of war, Mr. Renault,” she said. “Salute to the conqueror!”
“Only a gallant enemy admits as much,” I answered, flushing.
“Mr. Renault, am I your enemy?”
“Elsin, I fear you are.”
“Why? Because you waked me from my dream?”
“What dream? That nightmare tenanted by Walter Butler that haunted you? Is it not fortunate that you awoke in time, even if you had loved him? But you never did!”
“No, I never loved him. But that was not the dream you waked me from.”
“More than that, child, you do not know what love means. How should you know? Why, even I do not know, and I am twenty-three.”
“Once,” she said, smiling, “I told you that there is no happiness in love. It is the truth, Mr. Renault; there is no joy in it. That much I know of love. Now, sir, as you admit you know nothing of it, you can not contradict me, can you?”
She smiled gaily, leaning forward in her saddle, stroking her horse’s mane.
“No, I am not your enemy,” she continued. “There is enough of war in the world, is there not, Mr. Renault? And I shall soon be on my way to Canada. Were I your enemy, how impotent am I to compass your destruction — impotent as a love-sick maid who chooses as her gallant a gentleman most agreeable, gently bred, faultless in conduct and address, upon whose highly polished presence she gazes, seeking depth, and finds but her own silly face mirrored on the surface.”
She turned from me and raised her head, gazing up through interlacing branches into the blue above.
“Ah, we must be friends, Carus,” she said wearily; “we have cost each other too dear.”
“I have cost you dear enough,” I muttered.
“Not too dear for all you have taught me.”
“What have I taught you?”
“To know a dream from the reality,” she said listlessly.
“Better you should learn from me than from Walter Butler,” I said bluntly.
“From him! Why, he taught me nothing. I fell in love again — really in love — for an hour or two — spite of the lesson he could not teach me. I tell you he taught me nothing — not even to distrust the vows of men. If it was a wrong he dared to meditate, it touches not me, Carus — touches me no more than his dishonoring hand, which he never dared to lay upon me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, troubled. “Have you taken a brief fancy to another? Do you imagine that you are in love again? What is it that you mean, Elsin?”
“Mean? God knows. I am tired to the soul, Carus. I have no pride left — not a shred — nothing of resentment. I fancy I love — yes — and the mad fancy drags me on, trailing pride, shame, and becoming modesty after me in the dust.” She laughed, flinging her arm out in an impatient gesture: “What is this war to me, Carus, save as it concerns him? In Canada we wag our heads and talk of rebels; here we speak of red-coats and patriots; and it’s all one to me, Carus, so that no dishonor touches the man I love or my own Canada. Your country here is nothing to me except for the sake of this one man.”
She turned toward me from her saddle.
“You may be right, you rebels,” she said. “If aught threatened Canada, no loyalty to a King whom I have never seen could stir me to forsake my own people. That is why I am so bitter, I think; not because Sir Frederick Haldimand is kin to me, but because your people dared to storm Quebec.”
“Those who marched thither march no more,” I said gravely.
“Then let it be peace betwixt us. My enmity stops at the grave — and they march no more, as you say.”
“Do you give me your friendship again, Elsin?”
She raised her eyes and looked at me steadily.
“It was yours before you asked me, Carus. It has always been yours. It has never faltered for one moment even when I said the things that a hurt pride forced from me.” She shook her head slowly, reining in. I, too, drew bridle.
“The happiest moment of my life was when I knew that I had been the instrument to unlock for you the door of safety,” she said, and stripped the glove from her white fingers. “Kiss my hand and thank me, Carus. It is all I ask of friendship.”
Her hand lay at my lips, pressed gently for an instant, then fell to her side.
“Dear, dear Elsin!” I cried, catching her hand in both of mine again, crushing it to my lips.
“Don’t, Carus,” she said tremulously. “If you — if you do that — you might — you might conceive a — a regard for me.”
“Lord, child!” I exclaimed, “you but this moment confessed your fancy for a man of whose very name and quality I stand in ignorance!”
She drew her hand away, laughing, a tenderness in her eyes I never had surprised there before.
“Silly,” she said, “you know how inconstant I can be; you must never again caress me as you did — that first evening — do you remember? If we do that — if I suffer you to kiss me, maybe we both might find ourselves at love’s mercy.”
“You mean we might really be in love?” I asked curiously.
“I do not know. Do you think so?”
I laughed gaily, bending to search her eyes.
“What is love, Elsin? Truly, I do not know, having never loved, as you mean. Sir Peter wishes it; and here we are, with all the credit of Gretna Green but none of the happiness. Elsin, listen to me. Let us st
rive to fall in love; shall we? And the devil take your new gallant!”
“If you desire it — —”
“Why not? It would please all, would it not?”
“But, Carus, we must first please one another — —”
“Let us try, Elsin. I have dreamed of a woman — not like you, but statelier, more mature, and of more experience, but I never saw such a woman; and truly I never before saw so promising a maid as you. Surely we might teach one another to love — if you are not too young — —”
“I do not think I am,” she said faintly.
“Then let us try. Who knows but you may grow into that ideal I cherish? I shall attend you constantly, pay court to you, take counsel with you, defer to you in all things — —”
“But I shall be gone northward with the flag, Carus.”
“A flag may not start for a week.”
“But when it does?”
“By that time,” said I, “we will be convinced in one fashion or another.”
“Maybe one of us will take fire slowly.”
“Let us try it, anyhow,” I insisted.
She bent her head, riding in silence for a while.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “are you hungry?”
“Oh!” she cried, crimson-cheeked, “have you begun already? And am I — am I to say that, too?”
“Not unless you — you want to.”
“I dare not, Carus.”
“It is not hard,” I said; “it slipped from my lips, following my thoughts. Truly, Elsin, I love you dearly — see how easily I say it! I love you in one kind of way already. One of these days, before we know what we’re doing, we’ll be married, and Sir Peter will be the happiest man in New York.”
“Sir Peter! Sir Peter!” she repeated impatiently; a frown gathered on her brow. She swung toward me, leaning from her saddle, face outstretched.
“Carus,” she said, “kiss me! Now do it again, on the lips. Now again! There! Now that you do it of your own accord you are advanced so far. Oh, this is dreadful, dreadful! We have but a week, and we are that backward in love that I must command you to kiss me! Where shall we be this day week — how far advanced, if you think only of courting me to please Sir Peter?”
“Elsin,” I said, after a moment’s deliberation, “I’m ready to kiss you again.”
“For Sir Peter’s sake?”
“Partly.”
“No, sir!” she said, turning her head; “that advances us nothing.”
After a silence I said again:
“Elsin!”
“Yes, Carus.”
“I’m ready.”
“For Sir Peter’s sake?”
“No, for my own.”
“Ah,” she said gaily, turning a bright face to me, “we are advancing! Now, it is best that I refuse you — unless you force me and take what you desire. I accord no more — nothing more from this moment — until I give myself! and I give not that, either, until you take it!” she added, and cast her horse forward at a gallop, I after her, leaning wide from my saddle, until our horses closed in, bounding on in perfect stride together. Now was my chance.
“Carus! I beg of you—” Her voice was stifled, for I had put my arm around her neck and pressed her half-opened lips to mine. “You advance too quickly!” she said, flushed and furious. “Do you think to win a maid by mauling whether she will or no? I took no pleasure in that kiss, and it is a shame when both are not made happy. Besides, you hurt me with your roughness. I pray you keep your distance!”
I did so, perplexed, and a trifle sulky, and for a while we jogged on in silence.
Suddenly she reined in, turning her face over her shoulder.
“Look, Carus,” she whispered, “there are horsemen coming!”
A moment later a Continental dragoon trotted into sight around the curve of the road, then another and another.
We were within the lines at last.
CHAPTER VII
THE BLUE FOX
Elsin had slept all the bright morning through in her little room at the Blue Fox Tavern, whither Colonel Sheldon’s horsemen had conducted us. My room adjoined hers, the window looking out upon the Bronx where it flowed, shallow and sunny, down from the wooded slopes of North Castle and Chatterton’s Hill. But I heeded neither the sparkling water nor the trees swaying in the summer wind, nor the busy little hamlet across the mill-dam, nor Abe Case, the landlord, with his good intentions, pressed too cordially, though he meant nothing except kindness.
“Listen to me,” I said, boots in hand, and laying down the law; “we require neither food nor drink nor service nor the bridal-chambers which you insist upon. The lady will sleep where she is, I here; and if you dare awaken me before noonday I shall certainly discharge these boots in your direction!”
Whereupon he seemed to understand and bowed himself out; and I, lying there on the great curtained bed, watched the sunlight stealing through the flowered canopy until the red roses fell to swaying in an unfelt wind, and I, dreaming, wandered in a garden with that lady I sometimes saw in visions. And, Lord! how happy we were there together, only at moments I felt abashed and sorry, for I thought I saw Elsin lying on the grass, so still, so limp, that I knew she must be dead, and I heard men whispering that she had died o’ love, and that I and my lady were to dig the grave at moonrise.
A fitful slumber followed, threaded by dreams that vaguely troubled me — visions of horsemen riding, and of painted faces and dark heads shaved for war. Again into my dream a voice broke, repeating, “Thendara! Thendara!” until it grew to a dull and deadened sound, like the hollow thud of Wyandotte witch-drums.
I slept, yet every loosened nerve responded to the relaxing tension of excitement. Twice I dreamed that some one roused me, and that I was dressing in mad haste, only to sink once more into a sleep which glimmered ever with visions passing, passing in processional, until at noon I awoke of my own accord, and was bathed and partly dressed ere the landlord came politely scratching at my door to know my pleasure.
“A staff-officer from his Excellency, Mr. Renault,” he said, as I bade him enter, tying my stock the while.
“Very well,” I said; “show him up. And, landlord, when the lady awakes, you may serve us privately.”
He bowed himself out, and presently I heard spurs and a sword jingling on the stairs, and turned to receive his Excellency’s staff-officer — a very elegant and polite young man in a blue uniform, faced with buff, and white-topped boots.
“Mr. Renault?” he asked, raising his voice and eyebrows a trifle; and I think I never saw such a careless, laughing, well-bred countenance in which were set two eyes as shrewdly wise as the eyes of this young man.
“I am Mr. Renault,” I said amiably, smiling at the mirth which twitched the gravity he struggled to assume.
“Colonel Hamilton of his Excellency’s family,” he said, making as elegant a bow as I ever had the honor to attempt to match.
We were very ceremonious, bowing repeatedly as we seated ourselves, he lifting his sword and laying it across his knees. And I admired his hat, which was new and smartly laced, and cocked in the most fashionable manner — which small details carry some weight with me, I distrusting men whose dress is slovenly from indifference and not from penury. His Excellency was ever faultless in attire; and I remember that he wrote in general orders on New Year’s day in ‘76: “If a soldier can not be induced to take pride in his person, he will soon become a sloven and indifferent to everything.”
“Mr. Renault,” began Colonel Hamilton, “his Excellency has your letters. He regrets that a certain sphere of usefulness is now closed to you through your own rashness.”
I reddened, bowing.
“It appears, however,” continued Colonel Hamilton placidly, “that your estimate of yourself is too humble. His Excellency thanks you, applauds your modesty and faithfulness in the most trying service a gentleman can render to his country, and desires me to express the same — —”
He rose and bowed. I was o
n my feet, confused, amazed, tingling with pleasure.
“His Excellency said — that!” I repeated incredulously.
“Indeed he did, Mr. Renault, and he regrets that — ahem — under the circumstances — it is not advisable to publicly acknowledge your four years’ service — not even privately, Mr. Renault — you understand that such services as yours must be, in a great measure, their own reward. Yet I know that his Excellency hesitated a long while to send me with this verbal message, so keenly did he desire to receive you, so grateful is he for the service rendered.”
I was quite giddy with delight now. Never, never had I imagined that the Commander-in-Chief could single me out for such generous praise — me, a man who had lent himself to a work abhorrent — a work taken up only because there was none better fitted to accomplish a thing that all shrank from.
Seated once more, I looked up to see Colonel Hamilton regarding me with decorous amusement.
“It may interest you, Mr. Renault, to know what certain British agents reported to Sir Henry Clinton concerning you.”
“What did they say?” I asked curiously.
“They said, ‘Mr. Renault is a rich young man who thinks more of his clothes than he does of politics, and is safer than a guinea wig-stand!’”
His face was perfectly grave, but the astonished chagrin on my countenance set his keen eyes glimmering, and in a moment more we both went off into fits of laughter.
“Lord, sir!” he exclaimed, dusting his eyes with a lace handkerchief, “what a man we lost when you lost your head! Why on earth did you affront Walter Butler?”
I leaned forward, emphasizing every point with a noiseless slap on my knee, and recounted minutely and as frankly as I could every step which led to the first rupture between Walter Butler and myself. He followed my story, intelligent eyes fixed on me, never losing an accent, a shade of expression, as I narrated our quarrel concerning the matter of the Oneidas, and how I had forgotten myself and had turned on him as an Iroquois on a Delaware, a master on an insolent slave.
“From that instant he must have suspected me,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “And now, Colonel Hamilton, my story is ended, and my usefulness, too, I fear, unless his Excellency will find for me some place — perhaps a humble commission — say in the dragoons of Major Talmadge — —”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 236