DOROTHY MAKES HER CHOICE
I had been much from home during the winter, and, engrossed in my own
thoughts, had taken small account of what was passing, but I soon found
enough to occupy me. Dorothy had spent a month at Mount Pleasant, the
seat of the Lees, some distance down the river, and when she returned, I
soon began to suspect that she had left her heart there; for one day
there came riding up to Riverview Mr. Willoughby Newton, whose estate was
near Mount Pleasant, and the way that Dorothy blushed when she welcomed
him aroused my ire at once. Now Mr. Willoughby Newton was a very handsome
and proper gentleman, and on his broad acres grew some of the sweetest
tobacco that ever left Virginia; but I could scarce treat him civilly,
which only shows what an insufferable puppy I still was, and I made
myself most miserable. His learning was more of the court and camp than
of the bookshelf,--a defect which I soon discovered,--and I loved to set
him tripping over some quibble of words, a proceeding which amused me
vastly, though my mirth was shared by none of the others who witnessed
it. In fact, Madame Stewart was partial to the man from the first, in
which I do not blame her, for a better match could not have been desired
for her daughter. She made him see his welcome, and he doubtless thought
the road to Dorothy's heart a fair and easy one. I certainly thought so,
and I spent my days in moping about the place, cutting a most melancholy
and unattractive figure.
I can look back now with a smile upon those days, realizing what a
ridiculous sight I must have been, but at the time, their tragedy was for
me a very real and living one. Newton had passed some years in London,
and had picked up there the graces of the court, as well as much of its
frippery gossip, which latter he was fond of retailing, to my great
disgust, but to the vast entertainment of the ladies, who found no fault
with it, though it was four or five years old. He could tell a story well
and turn a joke to a nicety,--a fact which I was at that time far from
admitting,--and under other circumstances I should have found him a witty
and amusing friend. I think he soon saw what my feelings were,--indeed,
even a more obtuse man would have had no difficulty in understanding
them,--and he treated me with a good-humored condescension which
irritated me beyond measure. And yet, unquestionably, it was the only
treatment my behavior merited.
The climax came one evening after dinner. We had both, perhaps, had a
glass of wine too much before we joined the ladies. Certainly, no words
had passed between us when they had left the table, and there was nothing
to do but drink, which we did with moody perseverance. But once before
the fire in the great hall, with Madame Stewart knitting on one side and
Dorothy bending over her tambour on the other, his mood changed and he
grew talkative enough, while I sat down near the candles and pretended to
be absorbed in a book.
"Do you know, ladies," he said, "this reminds me of nothing so much as a
night in London just five years ago, when the great earthquake was. We
were sitting around the fire, just as we are siting now, Tommy Collier on
my right, and Harry Sibley on my left, when the bottles on the table
began to clink and the windows to rattle, and poor Harry, who was leaning
back in his chair, crashed over backwards to the floor. We picked him up
and went out into the street, where there was confusion worse confounded.
Windows were thrown open, women were running up and down clad only in
their smocks, and one fellow had mounted a barrel and was calling on the
people to repent because the Day of Judgment was at hand. Somebody
predicted there would be another earthquake in a week, and so the next
day the people began to pour out of town, not because they were
frightened, but 'Lord, the weather is so fine,' they said, 'one can't
help going into the country.'"
"You found the country very pleasant, Mr. Newton, I dare say," I
remarked, looking up from my book. He did not at once understand the
meaning of my question, but Dorothy did, and flushed crimson with
anger. The sight of her disapproval and Madame Stewart's frowning face
maddened me.
"No," he said slowly, after a moment, "I did not leave the city, but
hundreds of people did. Within three days, over seven hundred coaches
were counted passing Hyde Park corner, with whole families going to the
country. The clergy preached that it was judgment on London for its
wickedness, and that the next earthquake would swallow up the whole town.
The ridotto had to be put off because there was no one to attend it, and
the women who remained in town spent their time between reading
Sherlock's sermons and making earthquake gowns, in which they proposed to
sit out of doors all night."
"Pray, what was the color of your gown, Mr. Newton?" I inquired, with a
polite show of interest.
Newton rose slowly from his chair and came toward me.
"Am I to understand that you mean to insult me, sir?" he asked, when he
had got quite near.
"You are to understand whatever you please," I answered hotly, throwing
my book upon the table.
"Tom," cried Dorothy, "for shame, sir! Have you taken leave of
your senses?"
"Do not be frightened, I beg of you, Miss Randolph," interrupted Newton,
restraining her with one hand. "I assure you that I have no intention of
injuring the boy."
"Injuring me, indeed!" I cried, springing to my feet, furious with rage,
for I could not bear to be patronized. "It is you who are insulting, and
by God you shall answer for it!"
"As you will," he said, with a light laugh, and turned back to the fire.
I knew that I had got all the worst of the encounter, that I had behaved
with a rudeness for which there was no excuse, and that I cut a sorry
figure standing there, and my face burned at the knowledge. But
preserving what semblance of dignity I could, I stalked from the hall and
upstairs to my room. I sat a long time thinking over the occurrence, and
the more I pondered it, the more clearly I saw that I had played the
fool. I did not know then, but I learned long afterward, that my conduct
that night came near losing me the great happiness of my life. My cheeks
flush even now as I think of my behavior. How foolish do the tragedies of
youth appear, once time has tamed the blood!
I did not wonder in the morning to receive a summons from my aunt, and I
found her in her accustomed chair before the table piled with papers. She
glanced at me coldly as I entered, and finished looking over a paper she
held in her hand before she spoke to me.
"I need not tell you," she said at length, "how greatly your boorish
conduct of last night surprised me. To insult a guest, and especially to
do so without provocation, is not the part of a gentleman."
I flushed angrily, for the justness of this statement only irritated me
the more. I think it is always the man who is in the wrong that shows the
greatest violence, and the man that most deserves rebuke who is most
impatient of it.
"There is no need for you to counsel me how a gentleman should behave,"
I answered hotly.
"I did not summon you here to counsel you," she said still more coldly,
"but to inform you that this disgraceful affair is to go no further, at
least beneath this roof. Mr. Newton has promised me to overlook your
behavior, which is most generous on his part, and I trust you will see
the wisdom of making peace with him."
"And why, may I ask, madame?"
"Because," she said, looking me in the eyes, "it is most likely that he
will marry my daughter, and nothing is more vulgar than a family whose
members are forever quarreling."
I clenched my hands until the nails pierced the flesh. She had hit me a
hard blow, and she knew it.
"And what does Dorothy think of this arrangement?" I asked, with as great
composure as I could muster.
She smiled with a calm assurance which made my heart sink. "Dorothy would
be a fool not to accept him, for he is one of the most eligible gentlemen
in Virginia. Indeed, perhaps she has already done so, for I gave him
leave to speak to her this morning," and she smiled again as she noted my
trembling hands, which I tried in vain to steady. "You seem much
interested in the matter."
I turned from her without replying,--I could trust myself no further. Not
that I blamed her for hating me,--for she loved her son and I was the
shadow across his path,--but she was pressing me further than I had
counted on. I snatched up my hat as I ran along the hall and out the
great door toward the river. Spring was coming, the trees were shaking
out their foliage, along the river the wild flowers were beginning to
show their tiny faces, but I saw none of these as I broke my way through
the brush along the water's edge,--for perhaps even now he was asking
Dorothy to be his wife, and she was yielding to him. The thought maddened
me,--yet why should she do otherwise? What claim had I upon her? And yet
I had builded such a different future for her and me.
I had walked I know not how long when I came out suddenly upon the road
which wound along the bank and finally dipped to the ferry, and here I
sat down upon a log to think. If Dorothy accepted him, I could no longer
stay at Riverview. I must go away to Williamsburg and seek employment in
the campaign, if only as a ranger. It must soon commence, and surely
they would not refuse me in the ranks. As I sat absorbed in bitter
thought, I heard the sound of hoof beats up the road and saw a horseman
coming. I drew back behind a tree, for I was in no mood to talk to any
one, and gloomily watched him as he drew nearer. There seemed something
strangely familiar about the figure, and in an instant I recognized him.
It was Willoughby Newton. In another moment he had passed, his face a
picture of rage and shame. He was riding away from Riverview in anger,
and as I realized what that meant, I sprang forward with a great cry of
joy. He must have heard me, for he turned in the saddle and shook his
whip at me, and for an instant drew rein as though to stop. But he
thought better of it, for he settled again in the saddle, and was soon
out of sight down the road.
I had not waited so long, for settling my hat on my head, I set off up
the road as fast as my legs would carry me. It seemed to me I should
never reach the house, and I cursed the folly which had taken me so far
away, but at last I ran up the steps and into the hall. As I entered, I
caught a glimpse of a well-known gown in the hall above, and in an
instant I was up the stairs.
"Dorothy!" I gasped, seizing one of her hands, "Dorothy, tell me, you
have told him no?"
I must have been a surprising object, covered with dust and breathless,
but she leaned toward me and gave me her other hand.
"Yes, Tom," she said very softly, "I told him no. I do not love him, Tom,
and I could not marry a man I do not love."
"Oh, Dorothy," I cried, "if you knew how glad I am! If you knew how I
was raging along the river at the very thought that he was asking you,
and fearing for your reply; for he is a very fine fellow, Dorothy," and
I realized with amazement that all my resentment and anger against
Newton had vanished in an instant. "But when I saw him ride by like a
madman, I knew you had said no, and I came back as fast as I could to
make certain."
Somehow, as I was speaking, I had drawn her toward me, and my arm was
around her.
"Can you not guess, dear Dolly," I whispered "why I was so angry with
him last night? It was because I knew he was going to ask you, and I
feared that you might say yes."
I could feel her trembling now, and would have bent and kissed her, but
that she sprang from me with a little frightened cry, and I turned to see
her mother standing in the hall below.
"So," she said, mounting the steps with an ominous calmness, "my daughter
sees fit to reject the addresses of Mr. Newton and yet receive those of
Mr. Stewart. I perceive now why he was so deeply concerned in what I had
to tell him this morning. May I ask, Mr. Stewart, if you consider
yourself a good match for my daughter?"
"Good match or not, madame," I cried, "I love her, and if she will have
me, she shall be my wife!"
"Fine talk!" she sneered. "To what estate will you take her, sir? On
what income will you support her? My daughter has been accustomed to a
gentle life."
"And if I have no estate to which to take her," I cried, "if I have no
income by which to support her, remember, madame, that it is from choice,
not from necessity!"
I could have bit my tongue the moment the words were out. Her anger had
carried her further than she intended going, but for my ungenerous retort
there was no excuse.
"Am I to understand this is a threat?" she asked, very pale, but
quite composed.
"No, it is not a threat," I answered. "The words were spoken in anger,
and I am sorry for them. I have already told you my intentions in that
matter, and have no purpose to change my mind. I will win myself a name
and an estate, and then I will come back and claim your daughter. We
shall soon both be of age."
She laughed bitterly.
"Until that day, then, Mr. Stewart," she said, "I must ask you to have no
further intercourse with her. Perhaps at Williamsburg you will find a
more congenial lodging while you are making your fortune."
My blood rushed to my face at the insult, and I could not trust myself
to answer.
"Come, Dorothy," she continued, "you will go to your room," and she
pushed her on before her.
I watched them until they turned into the other corridor, and then went
slowly down the stairs. As I emerged upon the walk before the house, I
saw a negro riding up, whom I recognized as one of Colonel Washington's
servants. Some message for Dorothy from Betty Washington, no doubt, and I
turned moodily back toward the stables to get out my horse, for I was
determined to leave the place without delay. But I was arrested by the
negro calling to me.
"What is it, Sam?" I asked, as he cantered up beside me.
"Lettah f'um Kuhnal Washin'ton, sah," he said, and handed me the missive.
I tore it open with a trembling hand.
DEAR TOM [it ran],--I have procured you an appointment as lieutenant in
Captain Waggoner's company of Virginia troops, which are to make the
campaign with General Braddock. They are now in barracks at Winchester,
where you will join them as soon as possible.
Your friend, G. WASHINGTON.
"Sam," I said, "go back to the kitchen and tell Sukey to fill you up on
the best she's got," and I turned and ran into the house. I tapped at the
door of my aunt's room, and her voice bade me enter.
"I have just received a note from Colonel Washington," I said, "in which
he tells me that he has secured me a commission as lieutenant for the
campaign, so I will not need to trespass on your hospitality longer than
to-morrow morning."
There was a queer gleam in her eyes, which I thought I could read aright.
"Yes, there are many chances in war," I said bitterly, "and I am as like
as another to fall."
"I am not quite so bloodthirsty as you seem to think," she answered
coldly, "and perhaps a moment ago I spoke more harshly than I intended.
Everything you need for the journey you will please ask for. I wish you
every success."
"Thank you," I said, and left the room. My pack was soon made, for I had
seen enough of frontier fighting to know no extra baggage would be
permitted, and then I roamed up and down the house in hope of seeing
Dorothy. But she was nowhere visible, and at last I gave up the search
and went to bed.
I was up long before daylight, donned my old uniform, saw my horse fed
and saddled, ate my breakfast, and was ready to go. I took a last look
around my room, picked up my pack, and started down the stairs.
"Tom," whispered a voice above me, and I looked up and saw her. "Quick,
quick," she whispered, "say good-by."
"Oh, my love!" I cried, and I drew her lips down to mine.
"And you will not forget me, Tom?" she said. "I shall pray for you every
night and morning till you come back to me. Good-by."
"Forget you, Dolly? Nay, that will never be." And as I rode away through
the bleak, gray morning, the mist rolling up from hill and river
disclosed a world of wondrous fairness.
Which brings me back again to the camp at Winchester,--but what a
journey it has been! As I look back, nothing strikes me so greatly as
the length of the way by which I have come. I had thought that some
dozen pages at the most would suffice for my introduction, but memory
has led my pen along many a by-path, and paused beside a score of
half-forgotten landmarks. Well, as it was written, so let it stand, for
my heart is in it.