Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Claudia!” cried Lady Johnson, “do you desire a dish of tea with tinkers and tin-peddlars?”

  “I hear you, Polly,” said she, “but prefer to hear you further after breakfast — which, thank God! I can now smell a-cooking.” And, to me: “Jack, will you breakfast with us — —”

  She stopped abruptly: the door of Sir William’s gun room opened, and the Scottish girl, Penelope Grant, walked out.

  “Lord!” said Claudia, looking at her in astonishment. “And who may you be, and how have you come here?”

  “I am Penelope Grant,” she answered, “servant to Douw Fonda of Caughnawaga; and I came last night with Mr. Drogue.”

  The perfect candour of her words should have clothed them with innocence. And, I think, did so. Yet, Claudia shot a wicked look at me, which did not please me.

  But I ignored her and explained the situation briefly to Lady Johnson, who had turned to stare at Penelope, who stood there quite self-possessed in her shabby dress of gingham.

  There was a silence; then Claudia asked the girl if she would take service with her; and Penelope shook her head.

  “I pay handsomely, and I need a clever wench to care for me,” insisted Claudia; “and by your fine, white hands I see you are well accustomed to ladies’ needs. Are you not, Penelope?”

  “I am servant to Douw Fonda,” repeated the girl. “It would not be kind in me to leave him who offers to adopt me. Nor is it decent to abandon him in times like these.”

  Lady Johnson came forward slowly, her tear-marred eyes clearing.

  “My brother, Stephen, has spoken of you. I understood him to say that you are the daughter of a Scottish minister. Is this true?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then you are no servant wench.”

  “I serve.”

  “Why?”

  “My parents are dead. I must earn my bread.”

  “Oh. You have no means to maintain you?”

  “None, madam.”

  “How long have you been left an orphan?”

  “These three years, my lady.”

  “You came from Scotland?”

  “From France, my lady.”

  “How so?”

  “My father preached to the exiled Scots who live in Paris. When he was dying, I promised to take ship and come to America, because, he said, only in America is a young girl safe from men.”

  “Safe?” quoth Claudia, smiling.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Safe from what, child?”

  “From the unlawful machinations of designing men, madam. My father told me that men hunt women as a sport.”

  “Oh, la!” cried Claudia, laughing; “you have it hind end foremost! Man is the hunted one! Man is the victim! Is it not so, Jack?” — looking so impudently at me that I was too vexed to smile in return, but got very red and gazed elsewhere.

  “And what did you then, Penelope Grant?” inquired Lady Johnson, with a soft sort of interest which was natural and unfeigned, she having a gentle heart and tender under all her pride and childishness.

  “I took ship, my lady, and came to New York.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to Parson Gano in his church, — who was a friend to my father, though a Baptist. I was but a child, and he cared for me for three years. But I could not always live on others’ bounty; so he yielded to my desires and placed me as servant to Douw Fonda, who was at that time visiting New York. And so, when Mr. Fonda was ready to go home to Caughnawaga, I accompanied him.”

  “And are his aid and crutch in his old age,” said Lady Johnson, gently. “What wonder, then, he wishes to adopt you, Penelope Grant.”

  “If you will be my companion,” cried Claudia, “I shall dare adopt you, pretty as you are — and risk losing every lover I possess!”

  The Scottish girl’s brown eyes widened at that; but even Lady Johnson laughed, and I saw the loveliest smile begin to glimmer on Penelope’s soft lips.

  “Thank heaven for a better humour in the house,” thought I, and was pleased that Claudia had made a gayety of the affair.

  I went to the window and looked out. Smoke from the camp fires of the Continentals made a haze all along the reedy waterfront. I saw their sentries walking their posts; heard the noise of their axes in the bush; caught a glimpse of my own men lying in the orchard on the new grass, and Nick cooking jerked meat at a little fire of coals, which gleamed in the grass like a heap of dusty jewels.

  And, as I stood a-watching, I felt a touch at my elbow, and turned to face the girl, Penelope.

  “Your promise, sir,” she said. “You have not forgotten?”

  “No,” I replied, flushing again under Claudia’s mocking gaze. “But you should first eat something.”

  “And you, also,” said Lady Johnson, coming to me and laying both hands upon my shoulders.

  She looked into my eyes very earnestly, very sadly.

  “Forgive me, Jack,” she said.

  I kissed her hands, saying that it was I who needed forgiveness, to so speak to her in her deep anxiety and unhappiness; but she shook her head and bade me remain and eat breakfast; and went away to her chamber to dress, carrying Claudia to aid her, and leaving me alone there with the girl Penelope.

  “So,” said I civilly, though still annoyed by memory of my horse and how this girl had carried everything with so high a hand, “so you have lived in France?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hum! Well, did you find the people agreeable?”

  “Yes, sir — the children. I was but fifteen when I left France.”

  “Then you now own to eighteen years.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A venerable age.”

  At that she lifted her brown eyes. I smiled; and that enchanting, glimmering smile touched her lips again. And I thought of what I had heard concerning her in Caughnawaga, and how, when the old gentleman was enjoying his afternoon nap, she was accustomed to take her knitting to the porch.

  And I remembered, too, what Nick and others said concerning all the gallants of the countryside, how they swarmed about that porch like flies around a sap-pan.

  “I have been told,” said I, “that all young men in Tryon sit ringed around you when you take your knitting to the porch at Cayadutta Lodge. Nor can I blame them, now that I have seen you smile.”

  At that she blushed so brightly that I was embarrassed and somewhat astonished to see how small a progress this girl had really made in coquetry. I was to learn that she blushed easily; I did not know it then; but it presently amused me to find her, after all, so unschooled.

  “Why,” said I, “should you show your colours to a passing craft that fires no shot nor even thinks to board you? I am no pirate, Penelope; like those Johnstown gallants who gather like flies, they say — —”

  But I checked my words, not daring to plague her further, for the colour was surging in her cheeks and she seemed unaccustomed to such harmless bantering as mine.

  “Lord!” thought I, “here is a very lie that this maid is any such siren as Nick thinks her, for her pretty thumb is still wet with sucking.”

  Yet I myself had become sensible that there really was about her a something — exactly what I knew not — but some seductive quality, some vague enchantment about her, something unusual which compelled men’s notice. It was not, I thought, entirely the agreeable contrast of yellow hair and dark eyes; nor a smooth skin like new snow touched to a rosy hue by the afterglow.

  She sat near the window, where I stood gazing out across the water, toward the mountains beyond. Her hands, joined, rested flat between her knees; her hair, in the sun, was like maple gold reflected in a ripple.

  “Lord!” thought I, “small wonder that the gay blades of Tryon should come a-meddling to undo so pretty a thing.”

  But the thought did not please me, yet it was no concern o’ mine. But I now comprehended how this girl might attract men, and, strangely enough, was sorry for it.

  For it seemed plain tha
t here was no coquette by intention or by any knowledge of the art of pleasing men; but she was one, nevertheless, so sweetly her dark eyes regarded you when you spoke; so lovely the glimmer of her smile.

  And it was, no doubt, something of these that men noticed — and her youth and inexperience, which is tender tinder to hardened flint that is ever eager to strike fire and start soft stuff blazing.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE SHAPE IN WHITE

  We breakfasted on soupaan, new milk, johnnycake, and troutlings caught by Colas, who had gone by canoe to the outlet of Hans’ Creek by daylight, after I had awakened him. Which showed me how easily one could escape from the Summer House, in spite of guards patrolling the neck and mainland road.

  We were four at table; Lady Johnson, Claudia, Penelope, and I; and all seemed to be in better humour, for Claudia’s bright eyes were ever roaming toward the Continental camp, where smart officers passed and repassed in the bright sunlight; and Lady Johnson did not conceal her increasing conviction that Sir John had got clean away; which, naturally, pleased the poor child mightily; — and Penelope, who had offered very simply to serve us at table, sat silent and contented by the civil usage she received from Polly Johnson, who told her very sweetly that her place was in a chair and not behind it.

  “For,” said my lady, “a parson’s daughter may serve where her heart directs, but is nowise or otherwise to be unclassed.”

  “Were I obliged by circumstances to labour for my bread,” said Claudia, “would you still entertain honourable though ardent sentiments toward me, Jack?”

  Which saucy question I smiled aside, though it irritated me, and oddly, too, because Penelope Grant had heard — though why I should care a farthing for that I myself could not understand.

  Lady Johnson laid a hand on Penelope’s, who looked up at her with that shy, engaging smile I had already noticed. And,

  “Penelope,” said she, “if rumour does not lie, and if all our young gallants do truly gather ‘round when you take your knitting to the porch of Cayadutta Lodge, then you should make it very plain to all that you are a parson’s daughter as well as servant to Douw Fonda.”

  “How should I conduct, my lady?”

  “Firmly, child. And send any light o’ love a-packing at the first apropos!”

  “Oh, lud!” says Claudia, “would you make a nun of her, Polly? Sure the child must learn — —”

  “Learn to take care of herself,” quoth Polly Johnson tartly. “You have been schooled from childhood, Claudia, and heaven knows you have had opportunities enough to study that beast called man!”

  “I love him, too,” said Claudia. “Do you, Penelope?”

  “Men please me,” said the Scotch girl shyly. “I do not think them beasts.”

  “They bite,” snapped Lady Johnson.

  “Slap them,” said Claudia,— “and that is all there is to it.”

  “You think any man ever has been tamed and the beast cast out of him, even after marriage?” demanded Lady Johnson. She smiled, but I caught the undertone of bitterness in her gaiety, poor girl!

  “Before marriage,” said Claudia coolly, “man is exactly as treacherous as he is afterward; — no more so, no less. What about it? You take the creature as he is fashioned by his Maker, or you drive him away and live life like a cloistered nun. What is your choice, Penelope?”

  “I have no passion for a cloister,” replied the girl, so candidly that all laughed, and she blushed prettily.

  “That is best,” nodded Claudia; “accept the creature as he is. We’re fools if we’re bitten before we’re married, and fortunate if we’re not nipped afterward. Anyway, I love men, and so God bless them, for they can’t help being what they are and it’s our own fault if they play too roughly and hurt us.”

  Lady Johnson laughed and laid her hand lightly on my shoulder.

  “Dear Jack,” said she, “we do not mean you, of course.”

  “Oho!” cried Claudia, “it’s in ’em all and crops out one day. Jack Drogue is no tamer than the next man. Nay, I know the sort — meek as a mouse among petticoats — —”

  “Claudia!” protested Lady Johnson.

  “I hear you, Polly. But when I solemnly swear to you that I have been afraid of this young man — —”

  “Afraid of what?” said I, smiling at her audacity, but vexed, too.

  “Afraid you might undo me, Jack — —”

  “What!”

  “ — And then refuse me an honest name — —”

  “What mad nonsense do you chatter!” exclaimed Lady Johnson, out of countenance, yet laughing at Claudia’s effrontery. And Penelope, abashed, laughed a little, too. But Claudia’s nonsense madded me, though her speech had been no broader than was fashionable among a gentry so closely in touch with London, where speech, and manners, too, were broader still.

  Vexed to be made her silly butt, I sat gazing out of the window, over the great Vlaie, where, in the reeds, tall herons stood as stiff as driven stakes, and the painted wood-ducks, gorgeous as tropic birds, breasted Mayfield Creek, or whirred along the waterways to and fro between the Stacking Ridge and the western bogs, where they nested among trees that sloped low over the water.

  Beyond, painted blue mountains ringed the vast wilderness of bog and woods and water; and presently I was interested to see, on the blunt nose of Maxon, a stain of smoke.

  I watched it furtively, paying only a civil heed to the women’s chatter around me — watched it with sideway glance as I dipped my spoon into the smoking soupaan and crumbled my johnnycake.

  At first, on Maxon’s nose there was only a slight blue tint of vapour, like a spot of bloom on a blue plum. But now, above the mountain, a thin streak of smoke mounted straight up; and presently I saw that it became jetted, rising in rings for a few moments.

  Suddenly it vanished.

  Claudia was saying that one must assume all officers of either party to be gentlemen; but Lady Johnson entertained the proposition coldly, and seemed unwilling to invite Continental officers to a dish of tea.

  “Not because they are my captors and have driven my husband out of his own home,” she said haughtily; “I could overlook that, because it is the fortune of war. But it is said that the Continental officers are a parcel of Yankee shop-keepers, and I have no desire to receive such people on equal footing.”

  “But,” said Claudia, “Jack is a rebel officer, and so is Billy Alexander.”

  “I think Lord Stirling must be crazy,” retorted Lady Johnson. Then she looked at me, bit her lip and laughed, adding:

  “You, too, Jack — and every gentleman among you must be mad to flout our King!”

  “Mad, indeed — and therefore to be pitied, not punished,” says Claudia. “Therefore, let us drink tea with our rebel officers, Polly — out of sheer compassion for their common infirmity.”

  “We rebels don’t drink tea, you know,” said I, smiling.

  “Oh, la! Wait till we invite your Continentals yonder. For, if Polly and I are to be imprisoned here, I vow I mean to amuse myself with the likeliest of these young men in blue and buff, whom I can see yonder, stalking to and fro along the Johnstown Road. May I not send them a civil invitation, Polly?”

  “If you insist. I, however, decline to meet them,” pouted Lady Johnson.

  “I shall write a little letter to their commanding officer,” quoth Claudia. “Do as you like, Polly, but, as for me, I do not desire to perish of dullness with only women to talk to, and only a swamp to gaze upon!”

  She sprang to her feet; Lady Johnson and Penelope also rose, as did I.

  “Is it true, Jack, that you are under promise to take this young girl to Douw Fonda’s house in Caughnawaga?” asked Lady Johnson.

  “Yes, madam.”

  She turned to Penelope: “When do you desire to set out?”

  “As soon as may be, my lady.”

  “I like you. I wish you would remain and share my loneliness.”

  “I would, my lady, only I feel in honour bo
und to go to Mr. Fonda.”

  Claudia passed her arm around the Scottish girl’s slim waist.

  “Come,” she coaxed, “be my companion! Be more friend than servant, more sister than friend. For I, also, begin to love you, with your dark eyes and yellow hair, and your fine hands and sweet, fresh skin, like a child from a bath.”

  They both laughed, looking at each other with a gaze shy but friendly, like two who seem to think they are, perhaps, destined to love each other.

  “I wish I might remain,” said the Scottish girl, reluctantly turning toward me.

  “Are you for Caughnawaga?” I asked bluntly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” said I. “Polly Johnson, may I take your carriage?”

  “It is always at your command, Jack. But I am sorry that our little Scottish lass must go.”

  However, she gave the order to black Colas, who must drive us, also, because, excepting for Colas and poor Flora, and one slave left in Johnstown, all servants, slaves, tenants, and officers of Sir John’s household had fled with the treacherous Baronet and were now God knows where in the terrific wilderness and making, without doubt, for the Canadas.

  For personal reasons I was glad that the dishonoured man was gone. I should have been ashamed to take him prisoner. But I was deeply troubled on other accounts; for this man had gone northward with hundreds of my old neighbors, for the purpose of forming an army of white men and Indians, with which he promised to return and cut our throats and lay our beautiful countryside in ashes.

  We had scarce any force to oppose Sir John; no good forts except Stanwix and a few block-houses; our newly-organized civil government was chaotic; our militia untried, unreliable, poorly armed, and still rotten with toryism.

  To defend all this immense Tryon County frontier, including the river as far as Albany, only one regular regiment had been sent to help us; for what remained of the State Line was needed below, where His Excellency was busy massing an army to face the impending thunder-clap from England.

  As I stood by the window, looking out across the Vlaie at Maxon Ridge, where I felt very sure that hostile eyes were watching the Sacandaga and this very house, a hand touched my arm, and, turning, I saw Penelope Grant beside me.