I See My Sweet Sister Dressed in Strange Attire.
In the library room of the Hall, across from the dining-chamber, and at
the foot of the great staircase, on the bannister of which you may still
see the marks of Joseph Brant's hatchet, we men had a long talk in the
afternoon. I recall but indifferently the lesser topics of conversation.
There was, of course, some political debate, in which Sir William and I
were alone on the side of the Colonist feeling, and Mr. Stewart, the two
Butlers, and Sir John Johnson were all for choking discontent with the
rope. Nothing very much to the point was said, on our part at least; for
the growing discord pained Sir William too deeply to allow him pleasure in
its discussion, and I shrank from appearing to oppose Mr. Stewart, hateful
as his notions seemed.
Young Sir John stood by the window, I remember, sulkily drumming on the
diapered panes, and purposely making his interjections as disagreeable to
me as he could; at least, I thought so. So, apparently, did his father
think, for several times I caught the wise old baronet glancing at his son
in reproof, with a look in his grave gray eyes as of dawning doubt about
the future of his heir.
Young Johnson was now a man of thirty, blond, aquiline-faced, with cold
blue eyes and thin, tight lips, which pouted more readily than they
smiled. His hair was the pale color of bleached hay, a legacy from his low
born German mother, and his complexion was growing evenly florid from too
much Madeira wine. We were not friends, and we both knew it.
There was other talk--about the recent creation of our part into a county
by itself to be named after the Governor; about the behavior of the French
traders at Oswego and Detroit, and a report from Europe in the latest
gazettes that the "Young" Pretender, now a broken old rake, was at last to
be married. This last was a subject upon which Mr. Stewart spoke most
entertainingly, but with more willingness to let it be known that he had a
kinsman's interest in the matter than he would formerly have shown. He was
getting old, in fact, and an almost childish pride in his equivocal
ancestry was growing upon him. Still his talk and reminiscences were
extremely interesting.
They fade in my recollection, however, before the fact that it was at this
little gathering, this afternoon, that my career was settled for me. There
had been some talk about me while I remained alone outside to confer with
Sir William's head farmer, and Mr. Cross had agreed with Mr. Stewart and
Sir William that I was to accompany him on his trip to the far Western
region the following week. My patron had explained that I needed some
added knowledge of the world and its affairs, yet was of too serious a
turn to gather this in the guise of amusement, as Mr. John Butler advised
I should, by being sent on a holiday to New York. Mr. Cross had been good
enough to say that he liked what he had seen of me, and should be glad of
my company.
Of all this I knew nothing when I entered the library. The air was heavy
with tobacco-smoke, and the table bore more bottles and glasses
than books.
"Find a chair, Douw," said Sir William. "I have sent for my man, Enoch
Wade, who is to go westward with Mr, Cross next week. If he's drunk enough
there'll be some sport."
There entered the room a middle-aged man, tall, erect, well-knit in frame,
with a thin, Yankeeish face, deeply browned, and shrewd hazel eyes. He
bowed to nobody, but stood straight, looking like an Indian in his clothes
of deer-hide.
"This is Enoch Wade, gentlemen," said the baronet, indicating the
new-comer with a wave of his glass, and stretching out his legs to enjoy
the scene the more. "He is my land-sailor. Between his last sale at
Albany, and his first foot westward from here, he professes all the vices
and draws never a sober breath. Yet when he is in the woods he is
abstemious, amiable, wise, resourceful, virtuous as a statue--a paragon of
trappers. You can see him for yourselves. Yet, I warn you, appearances are
deceitful; he is always drunker than he looks. He was, I know, most
sinfully tipsy last night."
"It was in excellent good company, General," said the hunter, drawling his
words and no whit abashed.
"He has no manners to speak of," continued the baronet, evidently with
much satisfaction to himself; "he can outlie a Frontenac half-breed, he is
more greedy of gain than a Kinderhook Dutchman, he can drink all the
Mohawks of both castles under the bench, and my niggers are veritable
Josephs in comparison with him--wait a moment, Enoch!--this is while he is
in contact with civilization. Yet once on the trail, so to speak, he is
probity personified. I know this, since he has twice accompanied me
to Detroit."
"Oh, in the woods, you know, some one of the party must remain sober,"
said Enoch, readily, still stiffly erect, but with a faint grin twitching
on the saturnine corners of his mouth.
This time Sir William laughed aloud, and pointed to a decanter and glass,
from which the trapper helped himself with dignity.
"Look you, rogue," said the host, "there is a young gentleman to be added
to your party next week, and doubtless he will of needs have a nigger with
him. See to it that the boat and provision arrangements are altered to
meet this, and to-morrow be sober enough to advise him as to his outfit.
For to-night, soak as deep as you like."
Enoch poured out for himself a second tumbler of rum, but not showing the
first signs of unsteadiness in gait or gesture.
"This young gentleman"--he said, gravely smacking his lips--"about him; is
he a temperate person, one of the sort who can turn a steadfast back upon
the bottle?"
A burst of Homeric laughter was Sir William's reply--laughter in which
all were fain to join.
"It's all right, General," said Enoch, as he turned to go; "don't mind my
asking. One never can tell, you know, what kind of company he is like to
pick up with here at the Hall."
* * * * *
My surprise and delight when I learned that I was the young gentleman in
question, and that I was really to go to the Lakes and beyond, may be
imagined. I seemed to walk on air, so great was my elation. You will not
marvel now that I fail to recall very distinctly the general talk
which followed.
Conversation finally lagged, as the promptings of hunger, not less than
the Ethiopian shouting and scolding from the kitchen below, warned us of
approaching dinner.
The drinking moderated somewhat, and the pipes were one by one laid aside,
in tacit preparation for the meal. The Butlers rose to go, and were
persuaded to remain. Mr. Stewart, who had an Old-World prejudice against
tippling during the day, was induced by the baronet to taste a thimble of
hollands, for appetite's sake. So we waited, with only a decent pretence
of interest in the fitful talk.
There came a sharp double knock on the door, which a second later was
pushed partly open. Some of us rose, pulling our ruffles into place, and
ready to start at once, for there were famous appetites in the wild Valley
of those days. But the voice from behind the door was not a servant's, nor
did it convey the intelligence we all awaited. It was, instead, the
sharp, surface voice of Lady Berenicia, and it said:
"We are weary of waiting for you in civilized quarters of the Hall. May we
come in here, or are you too much ashamed of your vices to court
inspection?"
Walter Butler hastened to open the door, bowing low as he did so, and
delivering himself of some gallant nonsense or other.
The London lady entered the room with a mincing, kittenish affectation of
carriage, casting bold smirks about her, like an Italian dancer.
If her morning attire had seemed over-splendid, what shall I say of her
appearance now? I looked in amazement upon her imposing tower of whitened
hair, upon the great fluffs of lace, the brocaded stomacher and train, the
shining satin petticoat front, the dazzling, creamy surfaces of throat and
shoulders and forearms, all rather freely set forth.
If the effect was bewildering, it was not unpleasant. The smoke-laden air
of the dim old room seemed suddenly clarified, made radiant. A movement of
chairs and of their occupants ran through the chamber, like a murmur of
applause, as we rose to greet the resplendent apparition. But there came a
veritable outburst of admiration when my lady's companion appeared
in view.
It was our Daisy, robed like a princess, who dawned upon our vision. She
was blushing as much from embarrassment as from novel pride, yet managed
to keep her pretty head up, smiling at us all, and to bear herself
with grace.
Lady Berenicia, from the wealth of finery in those bulky chests which
honest Mr. Cross in vain had protested against bringing over the ocean and
up to this savage outpost, had tricked out the girl in wondrous fashion.
Her gown was not satin, like the other, but of a soft, lustreless stuff,
whose delicate lavender folds fell into the sweetest of violet shadows. I
was glad to see that her neck and arms were properly covered. The laces on
the sleeves were tawny with age; the ribbon by which the little white
shawl was decorously gathered at the bosom carried the faint suggestion of
yellow to a distinct tone, repeated and deepened above by the color of the
maiden's hair. This hair, too, was a marvel of the dresser's art--reared
straight and tight from the forehead over a high-arched roll, and losing
strictness of form behind in ingenious wavy curls, which seemed the very
triumph of artlessness; it was less wholly powdered than Lady Berenicia's,
so that the warm gold shone through the white dust in soft gradations of
half tints; at the side, well up, was a single salmon tea-rose, that
served to make everything else more beautiful.
Picture to yourself this delicious figure--this face which had seemed
lovely before, and now, with deft cosmetics, and a solitary tiny patch,
and the glow of exquisite enjoyment in the sweet hazel eyes, was nothing
less than a Greuze's dream--picture our Daisy to yourself, I say, and you
may guess in part how flattering was her reception, how high and fast rose
the gallant congratulations that the Valley boasted such a beauteous
daughter. Sir William himself gave her his arm, jovially protesting that
this was not the Mohawk country, but France--not Johnson Hall, but
Versailles.
I came on at the tail of the dinner procession, not quite easy in my mind
about all this.