Enter My Lady Berenicia Cross.
It is averred that all the evils and miseries of our existence were
entailed upon us by the meddlesome and altogether gratuitous perverseness
of one weak-headed woman. Although faith in the personal influence of Eve
upon the ages is visibly waning in these incredulous, iconoclastic times,
there still remains enough respect for the possibilities for mischief
inherent within a single silly woman to render Lady Berenicia Cross and
her works intelligible, even to the fifth and sixth generations.
I knew that she was a fool the moment I first laid eyes on her--as she
stood courtesying and simpering to us on the lawn in front of Johnson
Hall, her patched and raddled cheeks mocking the honest morning sunlight.
I take no credit that my eyes had a clearer vision than those of my
companions, but grieve instead that it was not ordered otherwise.
We had ridden up to the hall, this bright, warm May forenoon, on our first
visit of the spring to the Johnsons. There is a radiant picture of this
morning ride still fresh in my memory. Daisy, I remember, sat on a pillion
behind Mr. Stewart, holding him by the shoulder, and jogging pleasantly
along with the motion of the old horse. Our patron looked old in this
full, broad light; the winter had obviously aged him. His white, queued
hair no longer needed powder; his light blue eyes seemed larger than ever
under the bristling brows, still dark in color; the profile of his lean
face, which had always been so nobly commanding in outline, had grown
sharper of late, and bended nose and pointed chin were closer together,
from the shrinking of the lips. But he sat erect as of old, proud of
himself and of the beautiful girl behind him.
And she _was_ beautiful, was our Daisy! Her rounded, innocent face beamed
with pleasure from its camlet hood, as sweet and suggestive of fragrance
as a damask rose against the blue sky. It was almost a childish face in
its simplicity and frankness, yet already beginning to take on a woman's
thoughtfulness and a woman's charm of tint and texture. We often thought
that her parents must have had other than Palatine peasant blood, so
delicate and refined were her features, not realizing that books and
thoughts help far more toward making faces than does ancestry. Just the
edge of her wavy light-brown hair could be seen under the frill of the
hood, with lines of gold upon it painted by the sun.
She laughed and talked gayly as our horses climbed the hills. I thought,
as I rode by their side, how happy we all were, and how beautiful was
she--this flower plucked from the rapine and massacre of the Old War! And
I fancy the notion that we were no longer children began dancing in my
head a little, too.
It would have been strange otherwise, for the day and the scene must have
stirred the coldest pulse. We moved through a pale velvety panorama of
green--woodland and roadside and river reflections and shadows, all of
living yet young and softening green; the birds all about us filled the
warm air with song; the tapping of the woodpeckers and the shrill chatter
of squirrels came from every thicket; there was nothing which did not
reflect our joyous, buoyant delight that spring had come again. And I rode
by Daisy's side, and thought more of her, I'm bound, than I did of the
flood-dismantled dike on the river-bend at home which I had left
unrestored for the day.
Over the heads of the negroes, who, spying us, came headlong to take our
horses, we saw Sir William standing in the garden with an unknown lady.
The baronet himself, walking a little heavily with his cane, approached us
with hearty salutations, helped Daisy to unmount, and presented us to this
stranger--Lady Berenicia Cross.
I am not so sure that people can fall in love at first sight. But never
doubt their ability to dislike from the beginning! I know that I felt
indignantly intolerant of this woman even before, hat in hand, I had
finished my bow to her.
Yet it might well have been that I was over-harsh in my judgment. She had
been a pretty woman in her time, and still might be thought well-favored.
At least _she_ must have thought so, for she wore more paint and ribbons,
and fal-lals generally, than ever I saw on another woman, before or since.
Her face was high, narrow, and very regular; oddly enough, it was in
outline, with its thin, pursed-up mouth, straight nose, and full eyelids
and brows, very like a face one would expect to see in a nun's hood. Yet
so little in the character of the cloister did this countenance keep, that
it was plastered thick with chalk and rouge, and sprinkled with ridiculous
black patches, and bore, as it rose from the low courtesy before me, an
unnatural smile half-way between a leer and a grin.
I may say that I was a wholesome-enough looking young fellow, very tall
and broad-shouldered, with a long, dark face, which was ugly in childhood,
but had grown now into something like comeliness. I am not parading
special innocence either, but no woman had ever looked into my eyes with
so bold, I might say impudent, an expression as this fine lady put on to
greet me. And she was old enough to be my mother, almost, into
the bargain.
But even more than her free glances, which, after all, meant no harm, but
only reflected London manners, her dress grated upon me. We were not
unaccustomed to good raiment in the Valley. Johnson Hall, which reared its
broad bulk through the trees on the knoll above us, had many a time
sported richer and costlier toilets in its chambers than this before us.
But on my lady the gay stuffs seemed painfully out of place--like her
feather fan, and smelling-salts, and dainty netted purse. The mountains
and girdling forests were real; the strong-faced, burly, handsome baronet,
whose words spoken here in the back-woods were law to British king and
Parliament, was real; we ourselves, suitably and decently clad, and
knowing our position, were also genuine parts of the scene. The English
lady was pinchbeck by contrast with all about her.
"Will you give the ladies an arm, Douw?" said Sir William. "We were
walking to see the lilacs I planted a year ago. We old fellows, with so
much to say to each other, will lead the way."
Nothing occurred to me to say to the new acquaintance, who further annoyed
me by clinging to my arm with a zeal unpleasantly different from Daisy's
soft touch on the other side. I walked silent, and more or less sulky,
between them down the gravelled path. Lady Berenicia chattered steadily.
"And so this is the dear little Mistress Daisy of whom Sir William talks
so much. How happy one must be to be such a favorite everywhere! And you
content to live here, too, leading this simple, pastoral life! How sweet!
And you never weary of it--never sigh when it is time to return to it from
New York?"
"I never have been to New York, nor Albany either," Daisy made answer.
Lady Berenicia held up her fan in pretended astonishment.
"Never to New York! nor even to Albany! _Une vraie belle sauvage!_ How you
amaze me, poor child!"
"Oh, I crave no pity, madam," our dear girl answered, cheerily. "My father
and brother are so good to me--just like a true father and brother--that
if I but hinted a wish to visit the moon, they would at once set about to
arrange the voyage. I do not always stay at home. Twice I have been on a
visit to Mr. Campbell, at Cherry Valley, over the hills yonder. And then
once we made a grand excursion up the river, way to Fort Herkimer, and
beyond to the place where my poor parents lost their lives."
As we stood regarding the lilac bushes, planted in a circle on the slope,
and I was congratulating myself that my elbows were free again, two
gentlemen approached us from the direction of the Hall.
Daisy was telling the story of her parents' death, which relation Lady
Berenicia had urgently pressed, but now interrupted by saying: "There,
that is my husband, with young Mr. Butler."
Mr. Jonathan Cross seemed a very honest and sensible gentleman when we
came to converse with him; somewhat austere, in the presence of his
rattle-headed spouse at least, but polite and well-informed. He spoke
pleasantly with me, saying that he was on his way to the farther Lake
country on business, and that his wife was to remain, until his return, at
Johnson Hall.
His companion was Walter Butler, and of him I ought to speak more closely,
since long generations after this tale is forgotten his name will remain
written, blood-red, in the Valley's chronicles. I walked away from the
lilacs with him, I recall, discussing some unremembered subject. I always
liked Walter: even now, despite everything, there continues a soft spot in
my memory for him.
He was about my own age, and, oh! such a handsome youth, with features cut
as in a cameo, and pale-brown smooth skin, and large deep eyes, that look
upon me still sometimes in dreams with ineffable melancholy. He was
somewhat beneath my stature, but formed with perfect delicacy.
In those old days of breeches and long hose, a man's leg went for a good
deal. I have often thought that there must be a much closer connection
between trousers and democracy than has ever been publicly traced. A man
like myself, with heavy knee-joints and a thick ankle, was almost always a
Whig in the Revolutionary time--as if by natural prejudice against the
would-be aristocrats, who liked to sport a straight-sinking knee-cap and
dapper calf. When the Whigs, after the peace, became masters of their own
country, and divided into parties again on their own account, it was still
largely a matter of lower limbs. The faction which stood nearest Old-World
ideas and monarchical tastes are said to have had great delight in the
symmetry of Mr. Adams's underpinning, so daintily displayed in satin and
silk. And when the plainer majority finally triumphed with the induction
of Mr. Jefferson, some fifteen years since, was it not truly a victory of
republican trousers--a popular decree that henceforth all men should be
equal as to legs?
To return. Walter Butler was most perfectly built--a living picture of
grace. He dressed, too, with remarkable taste, contriving always to appear
the gentleman, yet not out of place in the wilderness. He wore his own
black hair, carelessly tied or flowing, and with no thought of powder.
We had always liked each other, doubtless in that we were both of a solemn
and meditative nature. We had not much else in common, it is true, for he
was filled to the nostrils with pride about the Ormond-Butlers, whom he
held to be his ancestors, and took it rather hard that I should not also
be able to revere them for upholding a false-tongued king against the
rights of his people. For my own part, I did not pin much faith upon his
descent, being able to remember his grandfather, the old lieutenant, who
seemed a peasant to the marrow of his bones.
Nor could I see any special value in the fact of descent, even were it
unquestioned. Walter, it seemed to me, would do much better to work at the
law, to which he was bred, and make a name for himself by his own
exertions. Alas, he did make a name!
But though our paths would presently diverge we still were good friends,
and as we walked he told me what he had heard that day of Lady Berenicia
Cross. It was not much. She had been the daughter of a penniless,
disreputable Irish earl, and had wedded early in life to escape the
wretchedness of her paternal home. She had played quite a splendid part
for a time in the vanities of London court-life, after her husband gained
his wealth, but had latterly found her hold upon fashion's favor loosened.
Why she had accompanied her serious spouse on this rough and wearisome
journey was not clear. It might be that she came because he did not care
for her company. It might be that he thought it wisest not to leave her in
London to her own devices. In any case, here she indubitably was, and
Walter was disposed to think her rather a fine woman for her years,
which he took to be about twoscore.
* * * * *
We strolled back again to the lilacs, where the two women were seated on a
bench, with Mr. Cross and Colonel Claus--the brighter and better of Sir
William's two sons-in-law--standing over them. Lady Berenicia beckoned to
my companion with her fan.
"Pray come and amuse us, Mr. Butler," she said, in her high, mincing
tones. "Were it not for the fear of ministering to your vanity, I might
confess we two have been languishing for an hour for your company.
Mistress Daisy and I venerate these cavaliers of ours vastly--we hold
their grave wisdom in high regard--but our frivolous palates need lighter
things than East India Companies and political quarrels in Boston. I
command you to discourse nonsense, Mr. Butler--pure, giddy nonsense."
Walter bowed, and with a tinge of irony acknowledged the compliment, but
all pleasantly enough. I glanced at our Daisy, expecting to discover my
own distaste for this silly speech mirrored on her face. It vexed me a
little to see that she seemed instead to be pleased with the London lady.
"What shall it be, my lady?" smiled Walter; "what shall be the
shuttlecock--the May races, the ball, the Klock scandal, the--"
If it was rude, it is too late to be helped now. I interrupted the foolish
talk by asking Colonel Claus what the news from Boston was, for the
post-boy had brought papers to the Hall that morning.
"The anniversary speech is reported. Some apothecary, named Warren, held
forth this year, and his seems the boldest tongue yet. If his talk stinks
not of treason in every line, why then I have no smelling sense. They are
talking of it in the library now; but I am no statesman, and it suits me
better out here in the sun."
"But," I replied, "I have heard of this Dr. Warren, and he is not reputed
to be a rash or thoughtless speaker."
Young Butler burst into the conversation with eager bitterness:
"Thoughtless! Rash! No--the dogs know better! There'll be no word that can
be laid hold upon--all circumspect outside, with hell itself underneath.
Do we not know the canters? Oh, but I'd smash through letter and seal of
the law alike to get at them, were I in power! There'll be no peace till
some strong hand does do it."
Walter's deep eyes flashed and glowed as he spoke, and his face was
shadowed with grave intensity of feeling.
There was a moment's silence--broken by the thin voice of the London lady:
"_Bravo_! admirable! Always be in a rage, Mr. Butler, it suits you so
much.--Isn't he handsome, Daisy, with his feathers all on end?"
While our girl, unused to such bold talk, looked blushingly at the young
grass, Mr. Cross spoke:
"Doubtless you gentry of New York have your own good reasons for disliking
Boston men, as I find you do. But why rasp your nerves and spoil your
digestion by so fuming over their politics? I am an Englishman: if I can
keep calm on the subject, you who are only collaterally aggrieved, as it
were, should surely be able to do so. My word for it, young men, life
brings vexations enough to one's very door, without setting out in
quest of them."
"Pray, Mr. Cross," languidly sneered my lady, "what is there in the
heavens or on the earth, or in the waters under the earth, which could
stir your blood by one added beat an hour, save indigo and spices?"
There was so distinct a menace of domestic discord in this iced query that
Butler hastened to take up the talk:
"Ah, yes, _you_ can keep cool! There are thousands of miles of water
between you English and the nest where this treason is hatched. It's close
to us. Do you think you can fence in a sentiment as you can cattle? No: it
will spread. Soon what is shouted in Boston will be spoken in Albany,
whispered in Philadelphia, winked and nodded in Williamsburg, thought in
Charleston. And how will it be here, with us? Let me tell you, Mr. Cross,
we are really in an alien country here. The high Germans above us, like
that Herkimer you saw here Tuesday, do you think they care a pistareen for
the King? And these damned sour-faced Dutch traders below, have they
forgotten that this province was their grandfathers'? The moment it
becomes clear to their niggard souls that there's no money to be lost by
treason, will they not delight to help on any trouble the Yankees contrive
to make for England? I tell you, sir, if you knew these Dutch as I know
them--their silent treachery, their jealousy of us, their greed--"
This seemed to have gone far enough. "Come, you forget that I am a
Dutchman," I said, putting my hand on Butler's shoulder.
Quivering with the excitement into which he had worked himself, he shook
off my touch, and took a backward step, eying me angrily. I returned his
gaze, and I dare say it was about as wrathful as his own.
Lady Berenicia made a diversion. "It grows cool," she said. "Come inside
with me, Mistress Daisy, and I will show you all my chests and boxes. Mr.
Cross made a great to-do about bringing them, but--"
As the ladies rose, Walter came to me with outstretched hand. "I was at
fault, Douw," said he, frankly. "Don't think more about it."
I took his hand, though I was not altogether sure about forgetting his
words.
Lady Berenicia looked at us over her shoulder, as she moved away, with
disappointment mantling through the chalk on her cheeks.
"My word! I protest they're not going to fight after all," she said.