A Foolish and Vexatious Quarrel Is Thrust Upon Me.
I sat beside Daisy, and we talked. It was at the beginning a highly
superficial conversation, as I remember it, during which neither looked at
the other, and each made haste to fill up any threatened lapse into
silence by words of some sort, it mattered not much what.
She told me a great deal about Mr. Stewart's health, which I learned was
far less satisfactory than his letters had given reason to suspect. In
reply to questions, I told her of my business and my daily life here in
Albany. I did not ask her in return about herself. She seemed eager to
forestall any possible inquiry on this point, and hastened to inform me as
to my old acquaintances in the Valley.
From her words I first realized how grave the situation there had suddenly
become. It was not only that opposition to the Johnsons had been openly
formulated, but feuds of characteristic bitterness had sprung up within
families, and between old-time friends, in consequence. Colonel Henry
Frey, who owned the upper Canajoharie mills, took sides with the Tories,
and had fiercely quarrelled with his brother John, who was one of the Whig
Committee. There was an equally marked division in the Herkimer family,
where one brother, Hon-Yost Herkimer, and his nephew, outraged the others
by espousing the Tory cause. So instances might be multiplied. Already on
one side there were projects of forcible resistance, and on the other ugly
threats of using the terrible Indian power, which hung portentous on the
western skirt of the Valley, to coerce the Whigs.
I gained from this recital, more from her manner than her words, that her
sympathies were with the people and not with the aristocrats. She went on
to say things which seemed to offer an explanation of this.
The tone of Valley society, at least so far as it was a reflection of
Johnson Hall, had, she said, deteriorated wofully since the old baronet's
death. A reign of extravagance and recklessness both as to money and
temper--of gambling, racing, hard drinking, low sports, and coarse
manners--had set in. The friends of Sir John were now a class by
themselves, having no relations to speak of with the body of Whig farmers,
merchants, inn-keepers, and the like. Rather it seemed to please the Tory
clique to defy the good opinion of their neighbors, and show by very
excess and license contempt for their judgment. Some of the young men whom
I had known were of late sadly altered. She spoke particularly of Walter
Butler, whose moodiness had now been inflamed, by dissipation and by the
evil spell which seemed to hang over everything in the Valley, into a
sinister and sombre rage at the Whigs, difficult to distinguish sometimes
from madness.
In all this I found but one reflection--rising again and again as she
spoke--and this was that she was telling me, by inference, the story of
her own unhappiness.
Daisy would never have done this consciously--of that I am positive. But
it was betrayed in every line of her face, and my anxious ear caught it in
every word she uttered as to the doings of the Johnson party. Doubtless
she did not realize how naturally and closely I would associate her
husband with that party.
Underneath all our talk there had been, on both sides, I dare say, a sense
of awkward constraint. There were so many things which we must not speak
of--things which threatened incessantly to force their way to the surface.
I thought of them all, and wondered how much she knew of the events that
preceded my departure--how much she guessed of the heart-breaking grief
with which I had seen her go to another. It came back to me now, very
vividly, as I touched the satin fold of her gown with my shoe, and said to
myself, "This is really she."
The two years had not passed so uncomfortably, it is true; work and
pre-occupation and the change of surroundings had brought me back my peace
of mind and taken the keen edge from my despair--which was to have been
life-long, and had faded in a month. Yet now her simple presence--with the
vague added feeling that she was unhappy--sufficed to wipe out the whole
episode of Albany, and transport me bodily back to the old Valley days. I
felt again all the anguish at losing her, all the bitter wrath at the
triumph of my rival--emphasized and intensified now by the implied
confession that he had proved unworthy.
To this gloom there presently succeeded, by some soft, subtle transition,
the consciousness that it was very sweet to sit thus beside her. The air
about us seemed suddenly filled with some delicately be-numbing influence.
The chattering, smiling, moving throng was here, close upon us, enveloping
us in its folds. Yet we were deliciously isolated. Did she feel it as
I did?
I looked up into her face. She had been silent for I know not how long,
following her thoughts as I had followed mine. It was almost a shock to me
to find that the talk had died away, and I fancied that I read a kindred
embarrassment in her eyes. I seized upon the first subject which
entered my head.
"Tulp would be glad to see you," I said, foolishly enough.
She colored slightly, and opened and shut her fan in a nervous way. "Poor
Tulp!" she said, "I don't think he ever liked me as he did you. Is
he well?"
"He has never been quite the same since--since he came to Albany. He is a
faithful body-servant now--nothing more."
"Yes," she said, softly, with a sigh; then, after a pause, "Philip spoke
of offering to make good to you your money loss in Tulp, but I told him he
would better not."
"It _was_ better not," I answered.
Silence menaced us again. I did not find myself indignant at this
insolent idea of the Englishman's. Instead, my mind seemed to distinctly
close its doors against the admission of his personality. I was near
Daisy, and that was enough; let there be no thoughts of him whatsoever.
"You do Tulp a wrong," I said. "Poor little fellow! Do you remember--" and
so we drifted into the happy, sunlit past, with its childish memories for
both of games and forest rambles, and innocent pleasures making every day
a little blissful lifetime by itself, and all the years behind our parting
one sweet prolonged delight.
Words came freely now; we looked into each other's faces without
constraint, and laughed at the pastimes we recalled. It was so pleasant to
be together again, and there was so much of charm for us both in the time
which we remembered together.
Sir John Johnson and his party had left the punch--or what remained of
it--and came suddenly up to us. Behind the baronet I saw young Watts,
young De Lancey, one or two others whom I did not know, and, yes!--it was
he--Philip Cross.
He had altered in appearance greatly. The two years had added much flesh
to his figure, which was now burly, and seemed to have diminished his
stature in consequence. His face, which even I had once regarded as
handsome, was hardened now in expression, and bore an unhealthy, reddish
hue. For that matter, all these young men were flushed with drink, and had
entered rather boisterously, attracting attention as they progressed. This
attention was not altogether friendly. Some of the ladies had drawn in
their skirts impatiently, as they passed, and beyond them I saw a group of
Dutch friends of mine, among them Teunis, who were scowling dark looks at
the new-comers.
Sir John recognized me as he approached, and deigned to say, "Ha!
Mauverensen--you here?" after a cool fashion, and not offering his hand.
I had risen, not knowing what his greeting would be like. It was only
decent now to say: "I was much grieved to hear of your honored father's
death last summer."
"Well you might be!" said polite Sir John. "He served you many a good
purpose. I saw you talking out yonder with Schuyler, that coward who dared
not go to Philadelphia and risk his neck for his treason. I dare say he,
too, was convulsed with grief over my father's death!"
"Perhaps you would like to tell Philip Schuyler to his face that he is a
coward," I retorted, in rising heat at the unprovoked insolence in his
tone. "There is no braver man in the Colony."
"But he didn't go to Philadelphia, all the same. He had a very pretty
scruple about subscribing his name to the hangman's list."
"He did not go for a reason which is perfectly well known--his illness
forbade the journey."
"Yes," sneered the baronet, his pale eyes shifting away from my glance;
"too ill for Philadelphia, but not too ill for New York, where, I am told,
he has been most of the time since your--what d'ye call it?--Congress
assembled."
I grew angry. "He went there to bury General Bradstreet. That, also, is
well known. Information seems to reach the Valley but indifferently, Sir
John. Everywhere else people understand and appreciate the imperative
nature of the summons which called Colonel Schuyler to New York. The
friendship of the two men has been a familiar matter of knowledge this
fifteen years. I know not your notions of friendship's duties; but for a
gentleman like Schuyler, scarcely a mortal illness itself could serve to
keep him from paying the last respect to a friend whose death was such an
affliction to him."
Johnson had begun some response, truculent in tone, when an interruption
came from a most unexpected source. Philip Cross, who had looked at me
closely without betraying any sign of recognition, put his hand now on Sir
John's shoulder.
"Bradstreet?" he said. "Did I not know him? Surely he is the man who found
his friend's wife so charming that he sent that friend to distant
posts--to England, to Quebec, to Oswego, and Detroit--and amused himself
here at home during the husband's absence. I am told he even built a
mansion for her while the spouse was in London _on business._ So he is
dead, eh?"
I had felt the bitter purport of his words, almost before they were out.
It was a familiar scandal in the mouths of the Johnson coterie--this foul
assertion that Mrs. Schuyler, one of the best and most faithful of
helpmates, as witty as she was beautiful, as good as she was diligent, in
truth, an ideal wife, had pursued through many years a course of deceit
and dishonor, and that her husband, the noblest son of our Colony, had
been base enough to profit by it. Of all the cruel and malignant things to
which the Tories laid their mean tongues, this was the lowest and most
false. I could not refrain from putting my hand on my sword-hilt as
I answered:
"Such infamous words as these are an insult to every gentleman, the world
over, who has ever presented a friend to his family!"
Doubtless there was apparent in my face, as in the exaggerated formality
of my bow to Cross, a plain invitation to fight. If there had not been,
then my manner would have wofully belied my intent. It was, in fact, so
plain that Daisy, who sat close by my side, and, like some others near at
hand, had heard every word that had passed, half-started to her feet and
clutched my sleeve, as with an appeal against my passionate purpose.
Her husband had not stirred from his erect and arrogant posture until he
saw his wife's frightened action. I could see that he noted this, and that
it further angered him. He also laid his hand on his sword now, and
frigidly inclined his wigged head toward me.
"I had not the honor of addressing you, sir," he said, in a low voice,
very much at variance with the expression in his eyes. "I had no wish to
exchange words with you, or with any of your sour-faced tribe. But if you
desire a conversation--a lengthy and more private conversation--I am at
your disposition. Let me say here, however,"--and he glanced with fierce
meaning at Daisy as he spoke--"I am not a Schuyler; I do not encourage
'friends.'"
Even Sir John saw that this was too much.
"Come, come, Cross!" he said, going to his friend. "Your tongue runs away
with you." Then, in a murmur, he added: "Damn it, man! Don't drag your
wife into the thing. Skewer the Dutchman outside, if you like, and if you
are steady enough, but remember what you are about."
I could hear this muttered exhortation as distinctly as I had heard
Cross's outrageous insult. Sir John's words appealed to me even more than
they did to his companion. I was already ashamed to have been led into a
display of temper and a threat of quarrelling, here in the company of
ladies, and on such an occasion. We were attracting attention, moreover,
and Teunis and some of his Dutch friends had drawn nearer, evidently
understanding that a dispute was at hand. The baronet's hint about Daisy
completed my mortification. _I_ should have been the one to think of her,
to be restrained by her presence, and to prevent, at any cost, her name
being associated with the quarrel by so much as the remotest inference.
So I stood irresolute, with my hand still on my sword, and black rage
still tearing at my heart, but with a mist of self-reproach and indecision
before my eyes, in which lights, costumes, powdered wigs, gay figures
about me, all swam dizzily.
Stephen Watts, a man in manner, though a mere stripling in years, had
approached me from the other group, a yard off, in a quiet way to avoid
observation. He whispered:
"There must be no quarrel _here_, Mr. Mauverensen. And there must be no
notice taken of his last words--spoken in heat, and properly due, I dare
say, to the punch rather than to the man."
"I feel that as deeply as you can," I replied.
"I am glad," said Watts, still in a sidelong whisper. "If you must fight,
let there be some tolerable pretext."
"We have one ready standing," I whispered back. "When we last met I warned
him that at our next encounter I should break every bone in his skin. Is
not that enough?"
"Capital! Who is your friend?"
By some remarkable intuition my kinsman Teunis was prompted to advance at
this. I introduced the two young men to each other, and they sauntered
off, past where Sir John was still arguing with Cross, and into the outer
hall. I stood watching them till they disappeared, then looking aimlessly
at the people in front of me, who seemed to belong to some strange
phantasmagoria.
It was Daisy's voice which awakened me from this species of trance. She
spoke from behind her fan, purposely avoiding looking up at me.
"You are going to fight--you two!" she murmured.
I could not answer her directly, and felt myself flushing with
embarrassment. "He spoke in heat," I said, stumblingly. "Doubtless he will
apologize--to you, at least."
"You do not know him. He would have his tongue torn out before he would
admit his wrong, or any sorrow for it."
To this I could find no reply. It was on my tongue's end to say that men
who had a pride in combining obstinacy with insolence must reap what they
sow, but I wisely kept silence.
She went on:
"Promise me, Douw, that you will not fight. It chills my heart, even the
thought of it. Let it pass. Go away now--anything but a quarrel! I
beseech you!"
"'Tis more easily said than done," I muttered back to her. "Men cannot
slip out of du--out of quarrels as they may out of coats."
"For my sake!" came the whisper, with a pleading quaver in it, from behind
the feathers.
"It is all on one side, Daisy," I protested. "I must be ridden over,
insulted, scorned, flouted to my face--and pocket it all! That is a
nigger's portion, not a gentleman's. You do not know what I have
borne already."
"Do I not? Ah, too well! For my sake, Douw, for the sake of our memories
of the dear old home, I implore you to avoid an encounter. Will you
not--for me?"
"It makes a coward out of me! Every Tory in the two counties will cackle
over the story that a Dutchman, a Whig, was affronted here under the
Patroon's very roof, and dared not resent it."
"How much do you value their words? Must a thing be true for them to say
it? The real manhood is shown in the strength of restraint, not the
weakness of yielding to the impulse of the moment. And you can be strong
if you choose, Douw!"
While I still pondered these words Teunis Van Hoorn returned to me, having
finished his consultation with Watts, whom I now saw whispering to Sir
John and the others who clustered about Cross.
The doctor was in good spirits. He sidled up to me, uttering aloud some
merry commonplace, and then adding, in a low tone:
"I was a match for him. He insisted that they were the aggrieved party,
and chose swords. I stuck to it that we occupied that position, and had
the right to choose pistols. You are no Frenchman, to spit flesh with a
wire; but you _can_ shoot, can't you? If we stand to our point, they
must yield."
I cast a swift glance toward the sweet, pleading face at my side, and made
answer:
"I will not fight!"
My kinsman looked at me with surprise and vexation.
"No," I went on, "it is not our way here. You have lived so long abroad
that duelling seems a natural and proper thing. But we stay-at-homes no
more recognize the right of these English fops to force their fighting
customs upon us than we rush to tie our hair in queues because it is
their fashion."
I will not pretend that I was much in love with the line of action thus
lamely defended. To the contrary, it seemed to me then a cowardly and
unworthy course; but I had chosen it, and I could not retreat.
There was upon the moment offered temptation enough to test my resolution
sorely.
Many of the ladies had in the meantime left the room, not failing to let
it be seen that they resented the wrangling scene which had been thrust
upon them. Mistress Daisy had crossed the floor to where Lady Johnson
stood, with others, and this frightened group were now almost our sole
observers.
Philip Cross shook himself loose from the restraining circle of friends,
and strode toward me, his face glowing darkly with passion, and his
hands clinched.
"You run away, do you?" he said. "I have a mind, then, to thrash you where
you stand, you canting poltroon! Do you hear me?--here, where you stand!"
"I hear you," I made answer, striving hard to keep my voice down and my
resolution up. "Others hear you, too. There are ladies in the room. If you
have any right to be among gentlemen, it is high time for you to show it.
You are acting like a blackguard."
"Hear the preaching Dutchman!" he called out, with a harsh, scornful
laugh, to those behind him. "He will teach me manners, from his
hiding-place behind the petticoats.--Come out, you skunk-skin pedler, and
I'll break that sword of yours over your back!"
Where this all would have ended I cannot tell. My friends gathered around
beside me, and at my back. Cross advanced a step or two nearer to me, his
companions with him. I felt, rather than saw, the gestures preceding the
drawing of swords. I cast a single glance toward the group of women across
the room--who, huddled together, were gazing at us with pale faces and
fixed eyes--and I dare say the purport of my glance was that I had borne
all I could, and that the results were beyond my control--when suddenly
there came an unlooked-for interruption.
The dignified, sober figure of Abraham Ten Broeck appeared in our wrathful
circle. Some one had doubtless told him, in the outer hall, of the
quarrel, and he had come to interfere. A hush fell over us all at
his advent.
"What have we here, gentlemen?" asked the merchant, looking from one to
another of our heated faces with a grave air of authority. "Are you well
advised to hold discussions here, in what ought to be a pleasant and
social company?"
No ready answer was forthcoming. The quarrel was none of my manufacture,
and it was not my business to explain it to him. The Tories were secretly
disgusted, I fancy, with the personal aspects of the dispute, and had
nothing to say. Only Cross, who unfortunately did not know the new-comer,
and perhaps would not have altered his manner if he had known him, said
uncivilly:
"The matter concerns us alone, sir. It is no affair of outsiders."
I saw the blood mount to Mr. Ten Broeck's dark cheeks, and the fire flash
in his eyes. But the Dutch gentleman kept tight bit on his tongue
and temper.
"Perhaps I am not altogether an outsider, young sir," he replied, calmly.
"It might be thought that I would have a right to civil answers here."
"Who is he?" asked Cross, contemptuously turning his head toward Sir John.
Mr. Ten Broeck took the reply upon himself. "I am the uncle and guardian
of your boy-host," he said, quietly. "In a certain sense I am myself your
host--though it may be an honor which I shall not enjoy again."
There was a stateliness and solidity about this rebuke which seemed to
impress even my headstrong antagonist. He did not retort upon the instant,
and all who listened felt the tension upon their emotions relaxed. Some on
the outskirts began talking of other things, and at least one of the
principals changed his posture with a sense of relief.
Philip Cross presently went over to where the ladies stood, exchanged a
few words with them, and then with his male friends left the room,
affecting great composure and indifference. It was departing time; the
outer hall was beginning to display cloaks, hoods, and tippets, and from
without could be heard the voices of the negroes, bawling out demands for
carriages.
I had only a momentary chance of saying farewell to Daisy. Doubtless I
ought to have held aloof from her altogether, but I felt that to be
impossible. She gave me her hand, looking still very pale and distrait,
and murmured only, "It was brave of you, Douw."
I did not entirely agree with her, so I said in reply: "I hope you will
be happy, dear girl; that I truly hope. Give my love and duty to Mr.
Stewart, and--and if I may be of service to you, no matter in how exacting
or how slight a matter, I pray you command me."
We exchanged good-byes at this, with perfunctory words, and then she left
me to join Lady Johnson and to depart with their company.
Later, when I walked homeward with Teunis, sauntering in the moonlight, he
imparted something to me which he had heard, in confidence of course, from
one of the ladies who had formed the anxious little group that watched
our quarrel.
"After Ten Broeck came in, Cross went over to his wife, and brusquely said
to her, in the hearing of her friends, that your acquaintance with her was
an insult to him, and that he forbade her ever again holding converse
with you!"
We walked a considerable time in silence after this, and I will not essay
to describe for you my thoughts. We had come into the shadow of the old
Dutch church in the square, I know, before Teunis spoke again.
"Be patient yet a little longer, Douw," he said. "The break must come soon
now, and then we will drive all these insolent scoundrels before us
into the sea!"
I shook hands with him solemnly on this, as we parted.