The influence of the masterful Mrs. Annandale at Fort Prince George
was felt on the parade that morning ere guard-mounting was fairly
concluded. The old guard had been paraded, presenting arms, as the
new guard, with arms shouldered, marched past, the band playing, the
officers punctiliously saluting, the whole conducted with as much
ceremony as if the garrison numbered ten thousand men. These strict
observances were held to foster the self-respect of the soldier as well
as conserve discipline. Even off duty the rigors of military etiquette,
as between the rank and file and the officers, were never permitted
to be relaxed. Among the officers, themselves, however, formality,
save as strictly official, was altogether ignored. So few they were,
in exclusive constant association by reason of the loneliness, that
they were like a band of brothers, and the equality always pervading a
mess, in which the distinctions of rank are by common consent annulled
in the interests of good fellowship, was peculiarly pronounced.
Therefore Raymond, walking across the parade to the mess-hall, now off
duty,--his sentinels had been relieved and his report duly sent by
a non-commissioned officer to the officer of the day,--was somewhat
surprised by a very commanding gesture from Mervyn signing him to
pause.
Captain-Lieutenant Mervyn certainly had no aspect resembling a sheep
as he crossed the parade. He was erect, alert; he stepped swiftly;
his eyes were bright and intent, his cheek was flushed, and he had
an imperious manner. So uncharacteristic was his look that Raymond
was conscious of staring in surprise as they met. Mervyn cast so
significant a glance at the subaltern’s hand that it was borne in upon
the junior that he considered the occasion official, and expected
the formal salute. Raymond, half offended, had yet a mind to laugh,
Mervyn’s manner being so pervaded by a sense of his superiority in rank
as well as all else. The ensign saluted with a half-mocking grace, and
the captain-lieutenant gravely responded.
“Ensign Raymond,” said Mervyn, “you were officer of the guard yesterday
and relieved to-day.”
“Even so,” assented Raymond.
Mervyn lifted his eye-brows, and Raymond knew that he desired the
formal “Yes, sir.” He was suddenly angered by this unusual proceeding.
He saw that something was much amiss with his senior, but he could
not imagine that still rankling in Mervyn’s consciousness was the
recollection of the laughing delight and ridicule in his eyes the
evening of the dinner upon the dénouement of the gypsy story. He knew
of naught that should render their relations other than they had
hitherto been. He protested to himself that he would not be a fool, and
stand here saluting, and frowning, and majoring with importance, as if
they had some military matter of moment pending between them.
“What the devil, Mervyn, do you want?” he demanded.
Mervyn gave him a stony stare. Then, still formally, he went on. “As
officer of the day I received your report as officer of the guard. No
mention was made--” he unfolded a paper in his hand and referred to
it--“of a very unusual proceeding which took place during your tour of
service.”
“Was not the arrival of the delegation mentioned?”
“Certainly,” Mervyn said, his eyes still on the paper. Raymond reached
forth his hand, as if to take it, but his superior held it fast;
Raymond felt as if he were suspected of a design upon it, to suppress
it. Therefore he desisted, merely asking, “Was there not a statement of
their intoxication?”
“Of course.”
“Their sudden appearance at the gates,--watching the guard turn out for
the officer of the day, and the closing of the gates?”
“Assuredly.”
“Then, what else?” Raymond demanded, bewildered.
“You omitted a circumstance known to no officer but yourself,” said
Mervyn, severely.
“I mentioned Peters and his illness--isn’t it there?” he could hardly
forbear snatching the paper to see for himself.
“You did not mention the intrusion of the drummer,” said Mervyn,
sternly. “I overheard the men laughing about it to-day.”
“Oh, the little drummer’s frolic--that was a trifle,” said Raymond,
trying to smile.
“You suppressed this matter in your report. It was your duty to report
any unusual circumstances. You will see on this paper under the head of
‘Remarks’ no mention of this circumstance.”
“Lord, man, it was altogether immaterial!” cried Raymond, excessively
nettled by this reflection on his conduct as an officer.
“Disorderly behavior, interference with guard-duty, intoxication,
and buffoonery out of place are serious breaches of conduct, of evil
example, and subversive of discipline. These seem to me very material
subjects for report.”
“Stop me--Mervyn--but you are playing the fool!” cried Raymond, quite
beside himself with rage.
“I find it my duty as officer of the day in adding my report to the
guard report to mention this failure of duty on your part. And unless
you change your tone, sir, I shall also report you for insolence and
insubordination to your superior officer.”
His steady, steely look forced a mechanical salute from Raymond as
Mervyn turned away with the same energy of step, burning cheek, and
flashing eye. He resolved within himself that he would be nobody’s
fool, and he certainly looked “nobody’s sheep.”
Raymond, hurt, amazed, and angry, dashed off across the parade over
the trampled snow, which was melting in the sun and honey-combed with
myriads of dark cells that cancelled all its remaining whiteness. Where
tufts still clung between the points of the stockade that surmounted
the heavy red clay ramparts, it still had its pristine glister and
purity. Now and again great masses slipped down from some roof where
it had clung on the northern exposure, and it was obvious that all
would vanish before the noonday. He hardly paused until he reached the
mess-hall, and when he entered it was with so hasty a step, so absorbed
a mien, that the officers dully loitering there looked up surprised,
expectant of some disclosure or sensation.
The apartment was spacious and commodious, but ill-lighted, save
for the largess of the great fireplace, where huge logs blazed or
smouldered red and deeply glowing in a bed of ashes. It was of utility
as a block-house, and the loop-holes for musketry served better for
ventilation than illumination. The walls illustrated the prowess of the
mess as sportsmen. They were hung with trophies of the chase,--great
branching horns of elk and deer, a succession of scarlet flamingo
feathers and white swan’s wings, all a-spread in a gorgeous fiction of
flight, and the wide, suggestive pinions of the golden eagle. Among
these were many curios,--quivers, tomahawks, aboriginal pictures
painted on the interior of buffalo hides, quaint baskets, decorated
jugs, and calabashes a kaleidoscopic medley. The red coats of the
officers gave a note of intense color in the flare of the flames. On
a side table were silver candle-sticks and snuffers--where the tapers
of the previous night had not been renewed, and had burned to the
socket--a token of luxury in these rude surroundings, intimating the
soldier alien to the wilds, not the pioneer. A punch-bowl and goblets
of silver gilt, suggestive of post-prandial zest, were on a shelf of
sideboard-like usage. A service of silver and china, with the remnants
of the breakfast, evidently a substantial meal,--trout, and venison,
and honey in the comb, and scones of Indian meal,--was yet on the table
in the lower end of the room, and a belated partaker still plied knife
and fork.
Raymond might have joined him, for he had not broken his fast, but he
had forgotten physical needs in the tumult of his feelings. He had
great pride in his efficiency as an officer. He had, too, great hopes
of his military career. All that was best and noblest in him vibrated
to the idea of honor, responsibility, fitness for high trusts. He could
not brook a disparagement in these essentials. He felt maligned, his
honor impugned, his fair intentions traduced, that he should be held to
have failed in a point of duty--that he should be made the subject of a
report for negligence or wilful concealment of a breach of discipline.
He had intended to say nothing of the contention. It seemed a subject
which he could not canvass with the mess. He felt that he could not
lend his tongue to frame the words that he was accused of a failure
of duty. But the languid conversation which had been in progress was
not resumed. Raymond’s tumultuous entrance had proved an obliteration
rather than an interruption of the subject.
“Anything the matter, Raymond?” asked Lieutenant Jerrold, who had had
a glimpse of the two officers in conversation on the parade.
“Nothing,” said Raymond. He had flung himself down in one of the huge,
cumbrous, comfortable chairs of the post-carpenter’s construction,
covered by buffalo skins. “That is--well--”
The eyes of all were upon him, inquisitive but kindly. The yearning for
sympathy, for reassurance, for justification, broke down his reserve.
“Mervyn, as officer of the day, is going to report me for suppressing a
breach of discipline, as officer of the guard.”
Only one of the men, the quarter-master, an old campaigner, was
smoking; this habit he had acquired from the Indians, for pipes were
temporarily out of fashion, save the cutty of the lower classes. He was
of a ruder type than the others,--a burly, red-faced, jovial blade,
inclined to be gray, and much disposed to lament what he called the
shrinking of his waistcoat, as he grew portly on fine fare. He took the
long pipe-stem from his lips, lowered the curiously carved bowl, and
looked inquisitively at the young man’s face.
“Gad-zooks!” incredulously exclaimed the blond young ensign of the name
of Innis.
The fort-adjutant was an older man, and had seen much service. He was
grave, concerned. He sought a polite palliative.
“The first time since you have been in the service, I take it.”
Raymond noticed that none of them was swift to speech. Mervyn’s
disapproval of him carried weight with them all. The thought sent him
wild,--Mervyn, always so dispassionate, so calm, so self-contained,
with good, slow judgment and an impeccant record! In his own defence,
for his own repute, they must know the truth. He leaned forward,
eagerly.
“Now I put the case to you,--not that I expect you to express any
opinion as between us--” he added, hastily, marking a general
expression of embarrassed negation. “I was officer of the guard, and
about eleven of the clock, the night being very dark and a party of
Indians having been lying down among the stakes of the abattis after
eating a deer they had killed, I took the corporal and two men and
visited the sentry posted on that side of the fort. Then I went out
to where we had seen the bucks, but they had gone. This required some
little time. When I got back to the guard-house I found the men in
great glee. They were laughing and chuckling. They had a secret that
mightily amused them. And, the night being long and the time dull, to
pass it a bit I asked them--like a fool--what the fun was. They didn’t
wish to tell, yet as I have always been fair to them, and considered
their comfort and favored them as far as I could, they didn’t wish to
refuse. So out it came. That little Scotch scamp, Robin Dorn, had leave
to go down to the Scotch trader’s, and it seems the two Sawneys didn’t
drink water. He came back while I was gone, very handsomely fuddled,
I suppose, with two new drum-sticks for which he had been sent. The
sentry at the gate passed him, and the guard-house door was open. In
he flew like a whirlwind, with his new drum-sticks, and beat a rally
on as many heads as he could before they could catch him and pitch him
out into the snow. When I came in a moment later their heads were all
roaring. It was a rough soldier’s joke of a fine relish to them. They
were laughing, and grinning, and plotting to get even with Robin Dorn.”
There was a languid smile around the circle.
“Now, if this had happened in my presence, or if I had gained
cognizance of it in any way except as a jest told at my request, for my
amusement, or if it had been material to any interest of the garrison,
I should have mentioned it in my report.”
“Is this what Mervyn calls your failure of duty?” demanded Bolt, the
fort-adjutant.
Raymond nodded a silent assent. The others exchanged glances of
surprised comment, and made no rejoinder.
“In his report as officer of the day,” said Raymond at length, “he
includes this detail among his remarks on my report as officer of the
guard.”
“Zounds! The commandant can’t take a serious view of a bit of
horse-play behind an officer’s back,” said Lieutenant Jerrold. He
fell to meditating on Mervyn’s priggish arrogations of gentlemanly
perfection, and he rather wondered that he should place himself in the
position of a persecutive martinet. The incident was not without its
peculiar relish to Lieutenant Jerrold. Not that he wished aught of
ill to Ensign Raymond, but he secretly resented, naturally enough,
that he had not been selected instead, as a guest for the dinner of
welcome to the captain’s daughter. Mervyn’s invitation was, of course,
a foregone conclusion--in the double capacity of old friend and close
neighbor. But it seemed to Jerrold that since a make-weight was needed,
he, himself, was heavier metal than Raymond. He felt, in a measure,
passed over, excluded, and the subsequent invitation with the other
officers to play a game of Quadrille hardly made amends, for he claimed
some superior distinction in point of age, in service, in rank, in
personality. He might have been flattered and his wounded self-love
assuaged if he had known that it was for these identical reasons he had
been passed over. Mrs. Annandale had schemed to avoid any interference
with Mervyn’s opportunity to impress the young lady and to be impressed
in turn. She had waived away Jerrold’s name when she had declared
that it would be too personal and particular to invite Mervyn alone,
although as old friend and neighbor she cared only for him,--but since
he was a man of wealth and gilded expectations, she would not like the
officers of the garrison to think she was throwing precious Arabella
at his head. “Doited dear Brother” took instant alarm at this, and
proposed the next in rank--Lieutenant Jerrold. But she objected to so
considerable a man. She had by no means the intention of furnishing
Captain-Lieutenant Mervyn with a rival, after she had come all the way
from England to ensnare him for her niece.
“Save us!” she had exclaimed. “We don’t want two lieutenants! Send for
some simple little ensign, man; just to balance the table.”
Her heart had sunk into her shoes when she beheld the face and figure
of the make-weight that Captain Howard, all unconscious of her deep
and subtle schemes, had provided. This Raymond--to balance the table!
But for her own careful exploitation of the evening the dashing ensign
would have unwittingly destroyed every prospect that had lured her
on so long and grievous a journey. She had enough rancor against the
unconscious and dangerous marplot to enable her to receive with great
relish the tidings that he was in disfavor with the commandant, for the
cause, always most reprehensible in a soldier, wilful neglect of duty.
“Don’t talk to me! There is no excuse for that sort of thing,” she
said, virulently, for Captain Howard was showing great concern for the
incident, and was of the opinion, evidently, that Mervyn might well
have let the matter rest. “I am not a soldier, dear Brother, and know
nothing of tactical details. But reason argues that guard-duty is one
of the dearest trusts of a soldier, and will bear no trifling.”
“True, true, indeed,” assented Captain Howard.
“While that rapscallion was playing Killie-crankie on the heads of
those numskulls, the sentry at the gate might have shouted for the
guard in vain. The gate might have been rushed by an enemy--”
“There was a sentry at the guard-room door who would have heard; it is
his business to notify the guard,” Captain Howard interpolated, but
without effect. Mrs. Annandale went on as if he had not spoken.
“--and though the officer in charge was within his duty in visiting
distant and exposed sentinels, he should have reported the disturbance
occurring during his absence. No!--no--! Don’t talk to me!”
“He has the promise of becoming a fine officer, and it irks me to check
and bait him. He means for the best.”
“Dear Brother, we might be massacred every one, if the service
proceeded on such indulgence to negligence. The rules and regulations
must be observed. The Articles of War ought to be as sacred as the
Thirty-nine Articles of Religion.”
“True--true--very true--” assented “dear Brother,” for who could
gainsay her.
She was in earnest hope that for a time no more would be said of the
handsome marplot. So serious, indeed, did she deem his interference
that now that it was removed her spirits mounted high, her wit
sparkled, her flabby, pallid cheek flushed, and her microscopic eyes
glimmered and twinkled among her wrinkles. So distinct was her sense
of carrying all things before her that she did not notice at first
the change in Mervyn’s manner when he called in formal fashion to pay
his respects to his recent host and the ladies of the household. The
transformation was complete--no longer mild, pale, docile of aspect. He
held himself tensely erect; his face was flushed; his eyes glittered
with a light not altogether friendly, even when he turned them upon
the beautiful Arabella. He had not forgotten--he promised himself he
would never forget--the lure by which the artful duenna had made him
believe that he himself was the beloved one of the gypsy’s prophecy,
for which the delighted girl had added a gratuity for pure good
will. His cheek burned when he remembered that Raymond--nay, all the
fireside group--had perceived his agitation, his joyful tremor, yet
a degree of vacillation, and alack, his coxcombical prudery lest one
or the other should openly speak his name. He recognized the whole of
the wily aunt’s scheme to put it into his mind that if he were not
in love with Arabella he might well be, and was thought to be. The
treacherous anti-climax, by which Arabella had interfered to spare his
blushes,--her protestation of adoration of the drawing-master who, he
was persuaded, was fictitious,--had a peculiar bitterness in being
deemed a necessity. Yet in thus thwarting his obvious expectations
and self-consciousness he had been rendered ridiculous in the eyes of
Raymond,--who seemed actually to have the temerity to contemplate a
competition with him for Miss Howard’s favor,--and openly and signally
punished for his self-conceit. They thought too slightingly of him--to
play with him thus. He was neither to be managed by the adroit old
tactician nor flouted by the imperious young beauty. He was remembering
his worldly consequence, which he generally had the magnanimity to
forget,--his expectations, as heir of his grandfather’s title and
estates, for he was the only son of his father, years ago deceased. He
had summoned all his instinct for the social conventions, since he was
too young to have learned worldly wisdom from experience, and was very
definitely asserting himself in a restrained and incidental fashion.
Under no coercion would bluster be practicable for his temperament.
He was talking of himself--of himself, continually, and Mrs. Annandale
beamed upon him with the most intent solicitude, and Miss Arabella’s
charming hazel eyes expressed a flattering interest. Her pride, too,
had been cut down--was it indeed true that nobody who was _anybody_
would care for her?
His grandfather was much on his lips to-day--recent letters had brought
the home news; naught of great moment, he said, eying not the lovely
girl but a clouded cane which he poised with a deft hand, be-ringed
with some costly gauds that he was not wont to wear. There had been a
storm. Some timber was down in the park. His grandfather grudged every
stick.
“Of course. Trees are such beautiful objects,” said Arabella,
consciously inane, struggling against an embarrassment induced by his
manner and all unaware of a cause for a change.
“Fairly good-looking, I suppose; but I have seen several here--in the
wilderness. Not a rarity, you know.”
“Oh, you sarcastic boy!” cried Mrs. Annandale, visibly out of
countenance, and sending her niece a side glance of exhortation and
upbraiding.
“Even the mere outline is fascinating to me,” said Arabella. “I often
spend hours in delineating merely the tree form in sepia. It is such an
apt expression of the idea of symmetry.”
This was an unhappy reminder of the incident of the drawing-master. The
two ladies were altogether unperceptive of any subtler significance in
the remark, but with Mervyn it set the recollection rankling anew.
“For myself, I always thought the park too dense, except, perhaps,
toward the north, but my grandfather reports to me each tree fallen, as
rancorously as if it were a deserter from the main body.”
“To be sure--to be sure--it will all be yours one day,” said Mrs.
Annandale, clear adrift from her wonted moorings.
The young man haughtily changed color. “A far day, I earnestly hope,”
he said, gravely. “I never look to it. I am more than content with my
mother’s little property.”
“Oh, to be sure--to be sure--a handsome provision,” said Mrs.
Annandale, wildly. What was the matter with the conversation--a murrain
on it!--She could have taken Arabella by her handsome shoulders and
shaken her with a will. Every word that the girl spoke was a word
awry. It did not occur to her that the interpretation was inimical. As
for herself she incontinently wished that her tongue were blistered.
For Mrs. Annandale had no leniency for herself unless she were
triumphantly demonstrating her right to consideration. She glanced
about the room nervously for an inspiration. The circle of great
clumsy chairs ranged round the fire, covered with buffalo robes, were
several of them empty--she might have fared better, perhaps, if “dear
Brother,” with his military bluntness, and the direct glance of his
eye, and his candid habit of mind were ensconced in one of them--even
in her extremity she did not wish for Raymond as a reinforcement.
Her adversity, she felt, would be that young villain’s opportunity.
But what lacked she herself? What perversity had metamorphosed this
propitious occasion! It seemed of phenomenal advantage. What more could
she ask! Arabella was lovely in a simple gown of lilac sarcenet, all
sprigged with white violets. Though the bodice was cut low according to
the universal fashion, her neck was covered by a tucker, as behooved
the day-time, but her shoulders gleamed through the sheer muslin and
the tambour embroidery with a fascinating fairness and softness,
enhanced by the modesty of the veiling. Her golden hair was surmounted
by a tiny cap of plaited gauze, also a diurnal adjunct, and her
slender slippered feet rested with dainty incongruousness upon a great
wolf-skin. Her lute, lying in the ample window-seat, for the logs of
the walls were thick, offered no suggestion.
“The poor lamb would sing off the key in all this commotion,” thought
Mrs. Annandale, venturesome no more. A rustic table, wrought of
twisted grape-vines, thick as a man’s arm, held the young lady’s open
work-box, full of skeins of silks, and beside it her embroidery-frame.
On a large and clumsy table in the centre of the floor was a silver
tankard, emblazoned with the family arms, and a pair of goblets,
showing handsomely on a scarlet blanket utilized as a table cover,
wrought with beads and porcupine quills, a foot and a half in depth.
The usual frontier decorations on the walls were buffalo hides, painted
in aboriginal art, quivers, blankets, baskets, Indian head-dresses, and
collars of swan’s feathers, and on the mantel-piece, decorated jugs and
bowls, with Captain Howard’s swords crossed above them. Still above was
a small oval portrait of Arabella when she was a smiling, rosy infant.
Mrs. Annandale’s hard little eyes softened as they rested upon it.
This affection for her elder niece was the only proof that Mrs.
Annandale had or had ever had a heart. Her husband, an ill-advised
country squire, who wanted a clever wife and got her, gave up the
enigma of life and died within the year. The jointure was the only
certain reason why she had married him, for obviously she had not
wanted a clever husband. But to this motherless niece, her whole
nature paid tribute. She could not be said to soften--for she grew
hard, and keen, and tough in endurance in Arabella’s interest. The
trust which her brother had confided to her was not misplaced. Her
acumen, her vigilance, her training, all exerted to one end, had
resulted in a charming and finished product of feminine education. And
now the schemer was looking to the future. The war was over; leave
of absence was granted in profusion to the officers whose duty had
been so nobly done. George Mervyn at home would be surrounded with
all the match-making wiles which lure an unexceptionable young man,
already well endowed with this world’s goods and the heir to a title
and a fortune. The gay world would be a pleasant place for him. He was
docile, tractable, and the delight of his grandsire’s heart, and if the
youth had no special ambitions to gratify in marriage, which his quiet,
priggish, restrained manner seemed to promise, be sure Sir George
Mervyn would not be without mercenary designs on his account. The old
man would say the boy was good enough, well-born enough, handsome
enough, wealthy enough, to deserve well of matrimonial fate. He should
have a beautiful and richly dowered bride, and become, with these
accessories of fortune and importance, preëminent among the magnates
of the country-side. Thus Mrs. Annandale had beheld with prophetic
dismay the septuagenarian’s gallant attentions to Miss Eva Golightly
at the supper-table of the county ball, and thus it was that she had
determined to intercept George Mervyn’s unpledged heart, still in his
own keeping, in the frontier fastnesses of America. Moreover, Sir
George Mervyn, as tough as one of the English oaks whose downfall he
deplored, was as old in his type of creation--his downfall as certain.
His grandson would one day be summoned home to assume the title and
inherit the estates, and in the nature of things that day could not be
far distant.
How well the primordium of her schemes had fared--the successful
journey, the eager welcome, the ample leisure, all the possibilities
that propinquity might betoken! But suddenly a distortion like the
dislocations of a dream had befallen her symmetrical plan. The young
officer had seemed yesterday the ingenuous, pliable, confiding youth
she remembered of yore. He had showed her an almost affectionate
respect; for Captain Howard he evidently entertained a deep regard and
appreciation; the beautiful young lady whom he had last seen as a mere
schoolgirl had roused in him a delighted admiration and an earnest
solicitude to monopolize her society. While to-day he was haughty,
stiff, only conventionally deferential, disposed to consider himself,
and with no inclination to converse on any other topic.
The pause frightened Mrs. Annandale. It was a provocation to terminate
a formal call. She bolted at the nearest subject in hand.
“Who is your friend, Mr. Raymond?” she asked. Then the recollection of
the difficulty that had arisen between the two young men smote her with
the aim of a bolt of lightning.
Mervyn cast a keen glance at her, but she held her pinched little
features well together and gave no sign. A very small face she had,
with but little expression, and but little was required of it.
“I thought I heard him giving you his autobiography the other evening,”
he said with a formal, frosty smile.
“Oh, but we need the estimate of a friend to come at the truest truth,”
she opined, sagely.
“I could add nothing to what he has already said,” Mervyn replied
succinctly. And Mrs. Annandale felt as if reproved as a gossip, baffled
in the hope of slander, and disregarded as a cynic.
She hardly knew where to turn. In desperation she gave up the personal
conduct of the action.
“Why do you two young people sit moping in the house this fine day?”
she cried. “Arabella, why don’t you ask Captain Mervyn to take you to
walk on the ramparts? He will not let the cannon bite you, and the snow
is almost gone!”
She glanced at the young officer with her coercive smile, and certainly
he could not refuse. He rose instantly--“At your service,” he said,
turning with a polite bow to the young lady.
The demonstration certainly had not the eager enthusiastic urgency with
which he had offered to show her the fort when she first arrived;--it
hardly suggested an appreciation of the prospect of a delightful walk
with a charming young lady, nor expressed gratitude for an unexpected
pleasure and honor conferred upon him. Mrs. Annandale restrained her
sentiments till the two young people were fairly out of the house; then
her first sensation was one of rejoicing that the window was so small
and the glass so thick that she might unobserved shake her fist at him
as he walked away.
“I’d like to gnaw your bones,” she said, unaware how savage she looked.
Then she narrowed her eyes intently to mark if Arabella’s pelisse did
not hang short in the back, much relieved to perceive a moment later
that the suggested calamity was merely the result of her leaning a
trifle forward as she ascended the ramp of the barbette to reach the
level of the terre-pleine. Mervyn had courteously offered his hand to
assist her.
“Throttle him!” muttered the fierce little duenna. But the folds of
the pelisse swung back in place as Arabella stood erect on the rampart
and looked about her with interest. A violet-hued cloth was the fabric
of this garment, and it was trimmed about the edges with a narrow
band of swan’s-down. A hood of like material was on her head, and the
glitter of her golden hair, rolled high, was framed by white down like
some lingering wreath of the snow. It had indeed disappeared; the
ramparts were clear; the foot-path hard-trodden; the banquettes beside
the parapet, where the soldiers were wont to stand to fire through
loop-holes in the stockade, still dripped, having been shaded by the
high pointed stakes when the sun shone.
“You can have little view here, except the ulterior of the fort,”
Mervyn said, as they strolled along. So disillusioned, so disaffected
was he that he was quite open to the fact that a walk with Arabella
along the ramparts was but a device of Mrs. Annandale’s, and of no
interest in itself.
“I have a glimpse of the mountains above the stockade, and I am
breathing the sun, not the fire.”
“Very true,” assented Mervyn. “The sun is a welcome visitor--a rare
honor.”
Arabella had a fair share of pride, of enterprise in a way. Too
inexperienced to understand her aunt’s schemes, too affectionate to
divine them, she only realized that this young man was holding his head
higher than became him in her company, and that her aunt seemed to
regard him as somehow rated superior to her station, and incidentally
to her. She had an aptitude for ascendency--she could not look up.
Her neck, too, was stiff. And she did not find Mervyn amusing on his
pedestal. Moreover, if he valued his peace he must come down.
“How little did I ever think in England I should some day walk along
the rampart of a fort in America with you,”--she turned her suave and
smiling eyes upon him, and he almost melted for the nonce.
“None of us can read the future,” he rejoined at random. And straight
the unlucky recollection of the gypsy’s prophecy smote him anew.
The men in the galleries of the barracks, and others pitching
horse-shoes in lieu of quoits near the stable precincts, all marked
the lady with interest and admiration, a rare apparition indeed in
these far wilds, and noted without wonder the prideful port of the
captain-lieutenant, in such charming company.
“A-pea-cockin’ along loike a major-general, be-dad!” the warder in the
tower vouchsafed in a whisper to the sentry below.
She could not account for Mervyn’s lofty and distant air--he, who used
to be, who seemed indeed but yesterday, an unassertive and modest youth.
“Are there any fish in this river?” she asked as passing one of the
embrasures she saw above the cannon the steely gleam of the Keowee,
stretching out to the defiles of the mountains, which were splendidly
purple and crowned with opalescent mists that shimmered with an intense
white glister when they caught the sheen of the westering sun.
“The fish are hardly worth the taking,” he returned, disparagingly.
“Do you remember the flies I made for you when you came home that
Easter with Cousin Alfred?” she suggested, glancing up a trifle coyly.
He hesitated to seem ungrateful.
“Oh, yes. Fine flies--beautiful flies,” he replied at random, for
indeed he had forgotten them,--he was almost a young man at the time,
and had taken scant note of the little girl yet in the schoolroom.
She was laughing quietly to herself, as she stood gazing out for a
moment on the scene--for she had made them no flies; they had sought
her assistance, and she had denied them.
“What amusements have they in this country?” she demanded, as she began
to walk on slowly, and he kept step at her side.
“Well--scalpings, and burnings, and the torture are the most striking
recreations of the country,” he said, perversely.
“You can’t make me afraid of the Indians,” she returned, lifting her
head proudly, “while my father is in command.”
He had a sudden appalled realization of the limitations of the
commandant’s power in which she trusted so implicitly; he was
recollecting that her father’s predecessor in command, Captain
Coytmore, had been treacherously slaughtered by the Cherokees in a
conference at the gate of this fort, within twenty paces of the spot
where she now stood.
“I did not mean to alarm you,” he said hastily.
“I _know_ you didn’t.” She cast on him a look seeming full of sweet
generosity. “You only meant to be witty.”
“An unappreciated jest. Apparently I did not succeed.”
“You are not of that caliber,” she suggested.
He was not pleased that she should express her judgment of his mental
endowments. His nerves were all tense and vibrated with keen dissonance
at every unconsidered touch. Nevertheless it was impossible not to
reply in kindred vein.
“Do you allude to a large or a small caliber?” he revolted at the
question.
“It depends on the charge--too large for some--too small for others.”
“I feel as if I were guessing riddles,” he said, floutingly.
“Life is a riddle--a dark riddle, and there is no answer this side of
eternity,” she returned, seriously.
“Now I am hearing a sermon. Do you often preach?” he asked, mockingly.
“What are they going to do about the dear old missionary?” she queried,
suddenly. “The poor old man who is risking his life among the Indians
to bring their souls to salvation!”
“The commandant will request him to come down here to Fort Prince
George, and leave their souls to their deserts. He is sending a boat up
to-morrow. I think he goes with it to use his influence in person.”
“Papa--is going--” She paused in dismay.
“It is not far; there is no danger for him; he takes an escort.”
“And he will leave _me_ here?” She spoke tremulously, half to herself.
She could hardly rest without the sense of the puissant paternal
protection.
“His influence at Little Tamotlee is necessary,” explained Mervyn. “The
Indians have great regard for him. His presence there will avert danger
from the post,--Fort Prince George,--and may actually be necessary to
save the old missionary’s life.”
“Then--who is to be left in command at Fort Prince George?” she asked.
“I shall be in command here, being next in rank.”
She still paused, facing him as they stood together on the rampart. She
had turned a little pale. The breeze blowing gently from the shining
river ruffled the tendrils of the hair on her forehead beneath the
white fur of her violet hood and lifted the one long, soft golden curl
that hung between its strings on her left shoulder. The simple attire,
the wistful look, the doubtful, tremulous pause, made her seem very
young, and appealing, and tender.
“You will be in command?” she repeated, interrogatively. Then--“Take
care of Aunt Claudia,” she said, urgently. “Take care of--me.”
“I will, indeed,” he cried, heartily, wholly won. “Trust me, I will
indeed!”