LISBETH WRITES FROM LONDON
From the filthy wigwam, into which Rodney Allison had been thrust by
his captor, to the little home in Charlottesville the distance was
more than three hundred miles, as the crow flies, and much farther for
those that travelled on foot and not by wing, threading the winding
forest trails, wading and swimming the fords and climbing the
mountains. Yet the lad's thoughts sped across like a flash of dawn.
He lifted his head--his surroundings had, for the moment, cast the
spell of despair on him--and looked out. He seemed to see, not the
woods that hemmed in the little Indian village, but his humble home in
far away Virginia. Poor and shabby outside, inside, the "living" room
was as neat as soap and water and sand and plenty of scrubbing could
make it. The meagre furnishings were tidily arranged. He could see,
"in his mind's eye," the faces of his mother, and Mam, and Thello;
fancied he could hear the whinny with which Nat always greeted his
entrance to the stable. He imagined just what familiar task each of
them might be doing. He knew Thello's forehead was wrinkled, as always
when working, that Mam was humming a melody, and his mother's face was
anxious. He could not know that she stood by the west window looking
out toward the mountains and thinking of him and his father; nor could
he see black Sam stop at the door and with an air of importance give
to the "Missus" a letter, dingy and worn by its long journey across
the ocean, the negro scraping and bowing as he did so.
Sam was saying: "Squar, he says, 'Sam, you done tote dat yar letter
right smart to Missus Allison wid my bes' respec's. She'll be wantin'
ter read it.' Spec's it's from Lunnon. Squar, he jes' home from
Willumsburg."
"Thank you, Sam. The squire is indeed kind, and you will say that Mrs.
Allison thanks him for his kindness."
"Yass'm."
To most people the arrival of any letter was an important event in
those days, especially one from "the old country," six long weeks by
sailing vessel at best. Moreover, at that time, there was only a
weekly mail between Philadelphia and Williamsburg, unless sent by
special messenger, and then on to its destination by any chance
carrier, each person along the route being helpful in forwarding it.
So it was not surprising that Mrs. Allison eagerly opened the letter,
breaking what she recognized as the Danesford seal.
The ink on that letter has dimmed with the long years, but time has
not obliterated a certain daintiness in the writing, for Lisbeth's
innate grace was somehow transmitted through the quill pen to the
neat, clear characters fashioned by her hand. The reading of it, too,
will assist the reader to a better understanding of the girl and the
conditions surrounding her, and Lisbeth was a girl worth knowing,
though she may yet need excuses, and those will be the more easily
made after reading.
"DEAR AUNT HARRIET:--I know you keep promises and so I address you
as 'aunt.' I'm sure you remember one day when I came to you in
tears. I didn't often come that way, did I? I was so lonely, I'll
never forget how lonely, just because it suddenly occurred to me
that most little girls had mothers and aunts, and I had never seen
one that belonged to me. You took me in your arms and said you
would be my aunt, that you had been thinking how nice it would be
to have a little girl for a niece, and I went home comforted and
actually believing you had wanted me for a niece all the time.
"Well, I've got a real aunt now, Aunt Mogridge, and sometimes I
think neither of us is real glad it is so. I'm a wicked girl for
writing that, and would scratch it out only I somehow want you to
know how I feel. She is just as kind as any aunt could be, but,
well, she doesn't care for the things I do, and--vice versa, as
the books say. Now, while I'm sighing for a glimpse of the Old
Dominion, and papa, and you and--and all of them, Aunt Mogridge
is sighing because she can't have a new dress for Lady D----'s
to-morrow night, and worrying lest I say something I ought not to,
because there is to be a real live duke there. I have met dukes
before, and found them very uninteresting, although I suppose
there are various kinds.
"What wouldn't I give, this dismal afternoon, to jump on the back
of Moleskin and ride like the wind and hear solemn old Jeremiah
clattering behind, his black face turned white with fear lest I
fall off! Instead I've been listening to old Lady Brendon retail
the latest gossip. She's a wheezy old lady, so fat her chairmen's
faces always shine with perspiration, and all she cares about is
the latest gossip: 'Lord So-and-So has wagered his last farthing
at White's or the Chocolate House,' until I want to say, like
black Susan, 'Jolly fuss!' You should have heard Aunt Mogridge
tell Lady Brendon about what a rich man papa is. I used to think,
to hear him talk, that if the crops failed he'd never be able to
pay his debts.
"I saw the king at the theatre the other night. He looks just
like some of the German farmers papa and I saw in Pennsylvania.
They say he is very pious, and frowns on gambling, as well he
might for the good of his kingdom, and that he is determined
to do as his mother told him and be a real king. He doesn't look
as though he'd exactly know how. You should have heard him laugh
over a little silly joke, when one of the actors sat in a chair on
a make-believe baby and a ventriloquist squalled just like a
baby. But they says he's obstinate and the colonies can't make
him yield to their demands.
"People here think just as dear papa does, that England has helped
fight the battles of the colonies and protect them with the strong
arm of England--I tell 'em there are strong arms in the
colonies--and that they should help pay the taxes.
"It's all too profound for me, though I am sixteen and should be,
they tell me, a dignified young lady. Indeed aunt is planning to
have me introduced at court.
"I must tell you what a bore little Lord Nobury is getting to be.
It's partly Aunt Mogridge's fault. Anything with a title she loves
and, though she deplores the way young men gamble, and I think her
beautiful son--he's yet in Virginia, thank Heaven--hasn't much
money to squander, she boasts of his losses at 'hazard' to Lord
Nobury.
"He was the first specimen, Nobury, I mean, that I met. I hadn't
been at aunt's more than a day before he called. I'd been awfully
seasick on the voyage and the sight of him nearly brought on
another attack. It seemed that aunt had been singing my praises to
him before I arrived. Well, he bowed very low and, had he remained
in that posture, I might have liked him, for his clothes were
gorgeous; a coat of creamy velvet, a wonderful waistcoat with gold
embroidery, black velvet breeches, white silk stockings, shoes
with gold buckles and the lace at his wrists and neck was so fine
I was actually envious.
"He began to talk right away about the theatres. Of course I was
so ignorant of it all that I could only listen. He said I must see
Garrick at the Drury Lane and I hope I may.
"The little 'macaroni' is so short that he wears very high heels
and has his hair done up high in front. You ought to see the
wonderful and fearful things they do with their hair, both ladies
and gentlemen.
"After learning I didn't know anything about the theatres, though
of course I had read about them at home, he seemed at a loss what
to talk about, and his face looked so blank and pasty I wished old
Doctor Atterbury could have been there to prescribe for his
liver.
"I turned the conversation to horses by telling him I thought
those in the Old Dominion were much superior to those in England
and then went on to tell him about the time I got on Moleskin's
back against orders and how he ran away with me when he heard the
baying of Squire Dupont's hounds. The little lord declared with a
smirk that I must have looked like an aboriginal Indian princess.
I asked him why not rather like an original one, and he stared and
fingered his little sword; a sword on such as he makes me wonder
how black Tom would look in the beadle's wig. But here am I
running on about lords and ladies when I hate the sound of their
names and am wishing I were back in Virginia where the sunshine
isn't strained through fog and the logs burning in the big
fireplaces, are fragrant and cheerful.
"I suppose Naomi is a big girl and so you won't feel the need of
nieces to write long letters about nothing. Is Rodney talking war?
Poor papa, he was worrying, when I left him in New York, about the
talk being made against our rightful sovereign. Well, I now will
write him a long, cheerful letter, so thank you for being an aunt
to me once more.
"Your ob't and affectionate niece,
"ELIZABETH DANESFORD."
Did she but know it, her father stood in need of cheerful letters, for
the bitterness of the rising war spirit was daily making feuds between
former friends, and all who talked loyalty to the king and condemned
Henry, Jefferson and Washington soon discovered they were champions of
an unpopular cause.