XX

HE went, first depositing his suit-case on the step outside by the cats,

and followed her into a large, comfortable sitting room.

"By jove," he said, "you know this is really mighty pretty! What a

corking collection of old furniture! Where in the world did you find--or

perhaps this is the original furniture of the place?"

She said, looking around the room as though slightly perplexed: "This

furniture was made to order for me in Boston."

"Then it isn't genuine," he said, disappointed. "But it's a very clever

imitation of antique colonial. It is really a wonderful copy."

"I don't think it is a copy."

"It certainly doesn't look like it; but it must be if it was made in

Boston for you. They're ingenious fellows, these modern makers of

colonial furniture. Every antique shop in New York is loaded up with

excellent copies of this sort--only not nearly as well done."

She assented, apparently with no very clear understanding of what he

meant.

"What a charming setting this old house makes for such things," he said.

She nodded, looking doubtfully at the rag carpet.

"The Manor House was much finer," she observed. "Come to the window and

I'll show you where it stood. They were fine folk, the Lockwoods, Hunts,

and Fanchers."

They rose and she laid one pretty hand on his sleeve and guided him into

a corner of the window, where he could see.

"Hello," he said uneasily, "there is a main travelled road! I thought

that here we were at the very ends of civilisation!"

"That is the Bedford road," she said. "Over there, beyond those

chestnuts, is the Stamford road. Can you see those tall old poplars?

Beyond the elms I mean--there--where the crows are flying?"

"Yes. Eight tall poplars."

"The Manor House stood there. Tarleton burnt it--set it afire with all

its beautiful furniture and silver and linen! His hussars ran through it,

setting it afire and shooting at the mirrors and slashing the silks and

pictures! And when the Major's young wife entered the smoking doorway to

try to save a pitiful little trinket or two, an officer--never mind who,

for his descendants may be living to-day in England--struck her with the

flat of his sword and cut her and struck her to her knees! That is the

truth!"

He said politely: "You are intensely interested in--er--colonial and

revolutionary history."

"Yes. What else have I to think of--here?"

"I suppose many interesting memories of those times cluster around this

old place," he said, violently stifling a yawn. He had risen early and

run far. Hunger and slumber contended for his mastery.

"Many," she said simply. "Just by the gate yonder they captured young

Alsop Hunt and sent him away to the Provost Prison in New York. In the

road below John Buckhout, one of our dragoons, was trying to get away

from one of Tarleton's dragoons of the 17th Regiment; and the British

trooper shouted, 'Surrender, you damned rebel, or I'll blow your brains

out!' and the next moment he fired a bullet through Buckhout's helmet.

'There,' said the dragoon, 'you damned rebel, a little more and I should

have blown your brains out!' 'Yes, damn you,' replied John, 'and a little

more and you wouldn't have touched me!'"

Brown looked at her amused and astonished to hear such free words slip so

eagerly from a mouth which, as he looked at it, seemed to him the sweet

mouth of a child.

"Where did _you_ ever hear such details?" he asked.

"People told me. Besides, the house is full of New York newspapers. You

may read them if you wish. I often do. Many details of the fight are

there."

"Reading such things out of old newspapers published at the time

certainly must bring those events very vividly before you."

"Yes. . . . It is painful, too. The surprise and rout of Sheldon's 2nd

dragoons--the loss of their standard; the capture, wounding, and death of

more than two score--and--oh! that young death there in the wheat! the

boy lying in the sun with one arm across his face and the broken pistol

in his hand! and his wife--the wife of a month--dragging him back to this

house--with the sunset light on his dead face!"

"To _this_ house?"

She dropped her hand lightly on his shoulder and pointed.

"Tarleton's troopers came stamping and cursing in by that very door after

they had burned Judge Lockwood's and the meeting house--but they left her

alone with her dead, here on the floor where you and I are standing. . .

. She was only seventeen; she died a few months later in child-birth.

God dealt very gently with her."

He looked around him in the pleasant light of the room, striving to

comprehend that such things had happened in such a sleepy, peaceful

place. Sunlight fell through the curtains, casting the wild roses' shadow

across the sill; the scent of lilacs filled the silence.

"It's curious--and sad," he said in a low voice. "How odd that I should

come here to the very spot where that old ancestor of mine died----"

"He was only twenty when he died," she interrupted.

"I know. But somehow a fellow seems to think of any ancestor as a snuffy

old codger----"

"He was very handsome," she said, flushing up.

There was a silence; then she looked around at him with a glint of humour

in her pretty eyes--one hazel-brown, one hazel tinged with grey; and the

delicious mouth no longer drooped.

"Can't you imagine him as young as you are? gay, humorous, full of

mischievous life, and the love of life? something of a dandy in his

uniform--and his queue tied smartly à la Française!--gallant--oh,

gallant and brave in the dragoon's helmet and jack-boots of Sheldon's

Horse! Why, he used to come jingling and clattering into this room and

catch his young wife and plague and banter and caress her till she fled

for refuge, and he after her, like a pair of school children

released--through the bed-rooms, out by the kitchen, and into the garden,

till he caught her again in the orchard yonder and held her tight and

made her press her palms together and recite:

_I love thee_

_I love thee_

_Through all the week and Sunday_

--until for laughing and folly--I--they----"

To his amazement her voice broke; into her strange eyes sprang tears, and

she turned swiftly away and went and stood by the curtained window.

"Well, by gad!" he thought, "of all morbid little things! affected to

tears by what happened to somebody else a hundred and thirty odd years

ago! Women are sure the limit!"

And in more suitable terms he asked her why she should make herself

unhappy.

She said: "I _am_ happy. It is only when I am here that I am lonely and

the dead past lives again among these wooded hills."

"Are you not--usually--here?" he asked, surprised. "I thought you lived

here."

"No. I live elsewhere, usually. I am too unhappy here. I never remain

very long."

"Then why do you ever come here?" he asked, amused.

"I don't know. I am very happy elsewhere. But--I come. Women do such

things."

"I don't exactly understand why."

"A woman's thoughts return eternally to one place and one person. _One_

memory is her ruling passion."

"What is that memory?"

"_The Place and the Man._"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean that a woman, in spirit, journeys eternally to the old, old

rendezvous with love; makes, with her soul, the eternal pilgrimage back

to the spot where Love and she were first acquainted. And, moreover, a

woman may even leave the man with whom she is happy to go all alone for

a while back to the spot where first she knew happiness because of him.

. . . You don't understand, do you?"

Brown was a broker. He did _not_ understand.

She looked at him, smiling, sighing a little--and, in spite of her fresh

and slender youth--and she was certainly not yet twenty--he felt

curiously young and crude under the gentle mockery of her unmatched

eyes--one hazel-brown, one hazel tinged with grey.

Then, still smiling wisely, intimately to herself, she went away into an

inner room; and through the doorway he saw her slim young figure moving

hither and thither, busy at shelf and cupboard. Presently she came back

carrying an old silver tray on which stood a decanter and a plate of

curious little cakes. He took it from her and placed it on a tip-table.

Then she seated herself on the ancient sofa, and summoned him to a place

beside her.

"Currant wine," she said laughingly; "and old-fashioned cake. Will you

accept--under this roof of mine?"

He was dreadfully hungry; the wine was mild and delicious, the crisp

cakes heavenly, and he ate and ate in a kind of ecstasy, not perfectly

certain what was thrilling him most deeply, the wine or the cakes or this

slender maid's fresh young beauty.

On one rounded cheek a bar of sunlight lay, gilding the delicate skin and

turning the curling strands of hair to coils of fire.

He thought to himself, with his mouth a trifle fuller than convention

expects, that he would not wish to resist falling in love with a girl

like this. _She_ would never have to chase him very far. . . . In fact,

he was perfectly ready to be captured and led blushing to the altar.

Once, as he munched away, he remembered the miserable fate of his late

companion Vance, and shuddered; but, looking around at the young girl

beside him, his fascinated eyes became happily enthralled, and matrimony

no longer resembled doom.

"What are these strange happenings in New York of which I hear vague

rumours?" she enquired, folding her hands in her lap and looking

innocently at him.

His jaw fell.

"Have _you_ heard about--what is going on in town?" he asked. "I thought

you didn't know."

"They say that the women there are ambitious to govern the country and

are even resolved to choose their own husbands."

"Something of that sort," he muttered uneasily.

"That is a very strange condition of affairs," she murmured, brooding

eyes remote.

"It's a darned sight worse than strange!" he blurted out--then asked

pardon for his inelegant vehemence; but she only smiled dreamily and

sipped her currant wine in the sunshine.

"Shall we talk of something pleasanter?" he said, still uneasy,

"--er--about those jolly old colonial days. . . . That's rather an odd

gown you wear--er--pretty you know--but--_is_ it not in the style

of--er--those days of--of yore--and all that?"

"It was made then."

"A genuine antique!" he exclaimed. "I suppose you found it in the garret.

There must be a lot of interesting things up there behind those flat

loop-holes."

"Chests full," she nodded. "We save everything."

He said: "You look wonderfully charming in the costume of those days. It

suits you so perfectly that--as a matter of fact, I didn't even notice

your dress when I first saw you--but it's a _wonder_!"

"Men seldom notice women's clothes, do they?"

"That is true. Still, it's curious I didn't notice such a gown as that."

"Is it _very_ gay and fine?" she asked, colouring deliciously. "I love

these clothes."

"They are the garments of perfection--robing it!"

"Oh, what a gallant thing to say to me. . . . Do you truly find me so--so

agreeable?"

"Agreeable! You--I don't think I'd better say it----"

"Oh, I beg you!"

"May I?"

[Illustration: "'Pray, observe my unmatched eyes.'"]

Her cheeks and lips were brilliant, her eyes sparkling; she leaned a

trifle toward him, frail glass in hand.

"May not a pretty woman listen without offense if a gallant man praises

her beauty?"

"You _are_ exactly that--a beauty!" he said excitedly. "The most

bewitching, exquisite, matchless----"

"Oh, I beg of you, be moderate," she laughed--and picked up a fan from

somewhere and spread it, laughing at him over its painted edge.

"Pray, observe my unmatched eyes before you speak again of me as

matchless."

"Your eyes _are_ matchlessly beautiful!--more wonderfully beautiful than

any others in all the world!" he cried.

Yet the currant wine was very, very mild.

"Such eyes," he continued excitedly, "are the most strangely lovely eyes

I ever saw or ever shall see. Nobody in all the world, except you, has

such eyes. I--I am going quite mad about them--about you--about

everything. . . . I--the plain fact is that I love--such eyes--and--and

every harmonious and lovely feature that--that b-b-belongs to them--and

to--to _you_!"

She closed her painted fan slowly, slowly left her seat, took from the

blue bowl on the window-sill the wild rose blooming there, turned and

looked back at him, half smiling, waiting.

He sprang to his feet, scarcely knowing now what he was about; she

waited, tall, slender, and fresh as the lovely flower she held.

Then, as he came close to her, she drew the wild rose through the lapel

of his coat, and he bent his head and touched his lips to the blossom.

"When she and you--and Love--shall meet at last, you will first know her

by her eyes," she began; and the next instant the smile froze on her face

and she caught his arm in both hands and clung there, white to the lips.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]