I See Daisy and the Old Home Once More.
I rode beside Colonel Elias Dayton one forenoon some ten days later, up
the Valley road, my pulses beating fast at the growing familiarity of the
scene before us. We had crossed the Chuctenunda Creek, and were within
sight of the gray walls of Guy Park. Beyond rose the hills behind which
lay Fort Johnson. I was on the very threshold of my boyhood's
playfield--within a short hour's walk of my boyhood's home.
The air was full of sounds. Birds sang with merry discordance all through
the thicket to our right, flitting among the pale green tangle of spring's
foliage. The May sunshine had lured forth some pioneer locusts, whose
shrill cries came from who could tell where--the tall swale-grass on the
river edge, erect now again after the April floods, or the brown
broom-corn nearer the road, or from the sky above? We could hear the
squirrels' mocking chatter in the tree-tops, the whir of the kingfishers
along the willow-fringed water--the indefinable chorus of Nature's myriad
small children, all glad that spring was come. But above these our ears
took in the ceaseless clang of the drums, and the sound of hundreds of
armed men's feet, tramping in unison upon the road before us, behind us,
at our side.
For my second return to the Valley was at the head of troops, bringing
violence, perhaps bloodshed, in their train. I could not but contrast it
in my mind with that other home-coming, four years before, when I sat
turned to look eastward in the bow of Enoch's boat, and every soft dip of
the oars timed the glad carol in my heart of home and friends--and the
sweet maid I loved. I was so happy then!--and now, coming from the other
direction, with suggestions of force and cruel purposes in every echo of
our soldiers' tread, I was, to tell the plain truth, very
miserable withal.
My talk with Colonel Dayton had, in a way, contributed to this gloomy
feeling. We had, from choice, ridden side by side for the better part of
two days, and, for very need of confiding in some one, I had talked with
him concerning my affairs more freely than was my wont. This was the
easier, because he was a contemplative, serious, and sensible man, whose
words and manner created confidence. Moreover, he was neither Dutchman nor
Yankee, but a native Jerseyman, and so considered my story from an equable
and fair point of view, without bias.
It was, indeed, passing strange that this man, on his way to seize or
crush the Johnson clique, as the case might be, should have been the one
to first arouse in my mind the idea that, after all, the Tories had their
good side, and were doing what to them seemed right, at tremendous cost
and sacrifice to themselves. I had been telling him what a ruffian was
Philip Cross, and what grounds I had for hating him, and despitefully
describing the other chief Tories of the district. He said in reply,
I remember:
"You seem to miss the sad phase of all this, my friend. Your young blood
feels only the partisan promptings of dislike. Some day--soon, perhaps--
you will all at once find this youthful heat gone; you will begin to walk
around men and things, so to speak, and study them from all sides. This
stage comes to every sober mind; it will come to you. Then you will
realize that this baronet up yonder is, from his own stand-point, a
chivalrous, gallant loyal gentleman, who imperils estates, power, peace,
almost life itself, rather than do what he holds to be weak or wrong. Why,
take even this enemy of yours, this Cross. He was one of the notables of
these parts--rich, popular, influential; he led a life of utmost luxury
and pleasure. All this he has exchanged for the rough work of a soldier,
with its privations, cold, fatigue, and the risk of death. Ask yourself
why he did it."
"I see what you would enforce," I said. "Your meaning is that these men,
as well as our side, think the right is theirs."
"Precisely. They have inherited certain ideas. We disagree with them; we
deem it our duty to silence them, fight them, drive them out of the
country, and, with God's help, we will do it. But let us do this with our
eyes open, and with the understanding that they are not necessarily
scoundrels and heathen because they fail to see things as we see them."
"But you would not defend, surely, their plotting to use the savages
against their neighbors--against helpless women and children. That must be
heathenish to any mind."
"Defend it? No! I do not defend any acts of theirs. Rid your mind of the
idea that because a man tries to understand a thing he therefore defends
it. But I can see how they would defend it to their own consciences--just
as these thrifty Whig farmers hereabout explain in their own minds as
patriotic and public-spirited their itching to get hold of Johnson's
Manor. Try and look at things in this light. Good and bad are relative
terms; nothing is positively and unchangeably evil. Each group of men has
its own little world of reasons and motives, its own atmosphere, its own
standard of right and wrong. If you shut your eyes, and condemn or praise
these wholly, without first striving to comprehend them, you may or may
not do mischief to them; you assuredly injure yourself."
Thus, and at great length, spoke the philosophical colonel. I could not
help suspecting that he had too open a mind to be a very valuable fighter,
and, indeed, this proved to be true. He subsequently built some good and
serviceable forts along the Mohawk, one of which to this day bears his
name, but he attained no distinction as a soldier in the field.
But, none the less, his words impressed me greatly. What he said had never
been put to me in clear form before, and at twenty-seven a man's mind is
in that receptive frame, trembling upon the verge of the meditative
stage, when the presentation of new ideas like these often marks a
distinct turn in the progress and direction of his thoughts. It seems
strange to confess it, but I still look back to that May day of 1776 as
the date of my first notion that there could be anything admirable in
my enemies.
At the time, these new views and the tone of our talk helped to disquiet
me. The swinging lines of shoulders, the tramp! tramp! in the mud, the
sight of the guns and swords about me, were all depressing. They seemed to
give a sinister significance to my return. It was my home, the dearest
spot on earth--this smiling, peaceful, sunlit Mohawk Valley--and I was
entering it with soldiers whose mission was to seize and despoil the son
of my boyhood's friend, Sir William. More than one of my old play-mates,
now grown to man's estate, would note with despair our approach, and curse
me for being of it. The lady of Johnson Hall, to whom all this would be
horrible nigh unto death, was a close, warm friend of Daisy's. So my
thoughts ran gloomily, and I had no joy in any of the now familiar sights
around me.
The march up from Schenectady had been a most wearisome one for the men,
owing to the miserable condition of the road, never over-smooth and now
rendered doubly bad and difficult by the spring freshets and the oozing
frost. When we reached the pleasant little hollow in which Fort Johnson
nestles, a halt was accordingly ordered, and the tired soldiers prepared
to refresh themselves with food by the banks of the creek. It was now
afternoon; we were distant but a short mile from the Cedars, and I could
not abide the thought of lingering here, to no purpose, so close to the
goal of all my longings. I therefore exchanged some plans and suggestions
with Colonel Dayton and his companion Judge Duer, who represented the
civil law in the expedition, and so clapped spurs and dashed forward
up the road.
"It seems ten years, not four, since I was last here," I was saying to
Daisy half an hour later, and unconsciously framing in words the thoughts
which her face suggested.
I know not how to describe the changes which this lapse of time had
wrought upon her countenance and carriage. In the more obvious, outward
sense, it had scarcely aged her. She was now twenty-three years of age,
and I doubt a stranger would have deemed her older. Yet, looking upon her
and listening to her, I seemed to feel that, instead of being four years
her senior, I was in truth the younger of the two. The old buoyant,
girlish air was all gone, for one thing. She spoke now with gentle,
sweet-toned gravity; and her eyes, frankly meeting mine as of old, had in
their glance a soft, reposeful dignity which was new to me.
Almost another Daisy, too, she seemed in face. It was the woman in her
features, I dare say, which disconcerted me. I had expected changes,
perhaps, but not upon these lines. She had been the prettiest maiden of
the Valley, beyond all others. She was not pretty now, I should say, but
she _was_ beautiful--somewhat pallid, yet not to give an air of unhealth;
the delicate chiselling of features yielded now not merely the pleasure
of regularity, but the subtler charm of sensitive, thoughtful character.
The eyes and hair seemed a deeper hazel, a darker brown, than they had
been. The lips had lost some, thing of their childish curve, and met each
other in a straight line--fairer than ever, I thought, because more firm.
I am striving now, you see, against great odds, to revive in words the
impressions of difference which came to me in those first hours, as I
scanned her face. They furnish forth no real portrait of the dear lady:
how could I hope they should? But they help to define, even if dimly, the
changes toward strength and self-control I found in her.
I was, indeed, all unprepared for what awaited me here at the Cedars. My
heart had been torn by all manner of anxieties and concern. I had hastened
forward, convinced that my aid and protection were direly needed. I sat
now, almost embarrassed, digesting the fact that the fortunes of the
Cedars were in sufficient and capable hands.
Mr. Stewart's condition was in truth sad enough. He had greeted me with
such cordiality and clear-wittedness of utterance and manner that at first
I fancied his misfortunes to have been exaggerated in my mother's letter.
His conversation for a moment or two was also coherent and timely. But his
mind was prone to wander mysteriously. He presently said: "Assuredly I
taught you to shave with both hands. I knew I could not be mistaken." I
stole a glance toward Daisy at this, and her answering nod showed me the
whole case. It was after old Eli had come in and wheeled Mr. Stewart in
his big chair out into the garden, that I spoke to Daisy of the
differences time had wrought.
"Ay," she said, "it must be sadly apparent to you--the change in
everything."
How should I approach the subject--the one thing of which I knew we were
both thinking? There seemed a wall between us. She had been unaffectedly
glad to see me; had, for the instant, I fancied, thought to offer me her
cheek to kiss--yet was, with it all, so self-possessed and reserved that I
shrank from touching upon her trouble.
"Perhaps not everything is sad," I made answer, falteringly. "Poor Mr.
Stewart--that is indeed mournful; but, on the other hand--" I broke
off abruptly.
"On the other hand," she took up my words calmly, "you are thinking that I
am advantaged by Philip's departure."
My face must have showed that I could not deny it.
"In some respects," she went on, "yes; in others, no. I am glad to be able
to speak freely to you, Douw, for you are nearest to me of all that are
left. I do not altogether know my own mind; for that matter, does any one?
The Philip to whom I gave my heart and whom I married is one person; the
Philip who trampled on the heart and fled his home seems quite another and
a different man. I hesitate between the two sometimes. I cannot always say
to myself: 'The first was all fancy; the second is the reality.' Rather,
they blend themselves in my mind, and I seem to see the fond lover
remaining still the good husband, if only I had had the knowledge and
tenderness to keep him so!"
"In what are you to be reproached, Daisy?" I said this somewhat testily,
for the self-accusation nettled me.
"It may easily be that I was not wise, Douw. Indeed, I showed small wisdom
from the beginning."
"It was all the doing of that old cat, Lady Berenicia!" I said, with
melancholy conviction.
"Nay, blame not her alone. I was the silly girl to be thus befooled. My
heart would have served me better if it had been all good. The longing for
finery and luxury was my own. I yearned to be set above the rest. I
dreamed to be called 'My lady,' too, in good time. I forgot that I came
from the poor people, and that I belonged to them. So well and truly did I
forget this that the fact struck me like a whip when--when it was brought
to my notice."
"He taunted you with it, then!" I burst forth, my mind working quickly for
once.
She made no answer for the time, but rose from her chair and looked out
upon the group in the garden. From the open door she saw the van of
Dayton's soldiers trudging up the Valley road. I had previously told her
of their mission and my business.
"Poor Lady Johnson," she said, resting her head against her hand on the
door-frame, and looking upon the advancing troops with a weary expression
of face. "Her trouble is coming--mine is past." Then, after a pause:
"Will they be harsh with Sir John, think you? I trust not. They have both
been kind to me since--since Philip went. Sir John is not bad at heart,
Douw, believe me. You twain never liked each other, I know. He is a bitter
man with those who are against him, but his heart is good if you touch
it aright."
I had not much to say to this. "I am glad he was good to you," I managed
to utter, not over-graciously, I fear.
The troops went by, with no sound of drums now, lest an alarm be raised
prematurely. We watched them pass in silence, and soon after I took my
leave for the day, saying that I would go up to see the Fondas at
Caughnawaga, and cross the river to my mother's home, and would return
next morning. We shook hands at parting, almost with constraint.