BURKE'S TAVERN
Now, whether it was the wetting I got on Mayfield Creek and the chill I
took on the long night's journey to Johnstown, or if my thigh-wound
became inflamed from that day's exertion at Fish House, Summer House,
and Mayfield, I do not know for certain.
But when at sunrise we drove up to Jimmy Burke's Tavern in Johnstown, I
discovered that I could not move my right leg; and, to my mortification,
Nick and my Indian were forced to make a swinging chair of their linked
hands, and carry me into the tavern, Penelope following forlornly, her
arms full of furs and blankets.
Here was a pretty dish! But try as I might I could not set my foot to
the ground; so they laid me upon a bed and stripped me, and my Saguenay
wrapped my leg in hot blankets and laid furs over me, till I was wet
with sweat to the hair.
Presently comes Jimmy Burke himself--that lively, lovable scamp, to whom
all were friendly; for he was both kind and gay, though a great
braggart, and few believed that he had any stomach for the deeds he said
he meant to do in battle.
"Faith," says he, "it's Misther Drogue, God bless him, an' in a sad
plight along o' the bloody Sacandaga Tories! Wisha then, sorr, had I
been there it's me would ha' trimmed the hair o' them!"
"Are you well, Jimmy?" I inquired, smiling, spite my pain.
"Am I well? I am that! I was never fitter f'r to fight thim dirty green
coats of Sir John's. Och--the poor lad! Lave me fetch a hot brick----"
"I'm lame as a one-legged duck, Jimmy," said I. "Send word to the Fort
that I've an account to render, and beg the Commandant to overlook my
tardiness until I can be carried thither on a litter."
"And th' yoong leddy, sorr? Will she bait here?"
"Yes; where is she?"
"She lies on a wolf-skin on the bed in the next chamber, foreninst the
wall, sorr. There's tears on her purty face, but I think she sleeps, f'r
all that. Is she hurted, too, Misther Drogue?"
"Oh, no. When she wakes send a maid-servant to care for her. Find a
loft-bed for my Indian and give him no rum--mind that, James Burke!--or
we quarrel."
"Th' red divil gets no sup in my shabeen!" said he. "Do I lave him gorge
or no?"
"Certainly. Let him stuff himself. And let no man use him with contempt.
He is faithful and brave. He is my _friend._ Do you mark me, Jimmy?"
"I do, sorr. And Nick Stoner--that long-legged limb of Satan!--av he
plays anny thricks on Jimmy Burke may God help him--the poor little
scut!----"
I had some faint recollection of pranks played upon Burke by Nick in
this same tavern; but what he had done to Jimmy I did not remember, save
that it had set Sir William and the town all a-laughing.
"Nick is a good lad and my friend," said I. "Use him kindly. Your wit is
a match for his, anyway, and so are your fists."
"Is it so!" muttered Burke, casting a smouldering side-look at me. "D'ye
mind what he done three year come Shrove Tuesday? The day I gave out I
was a better man than Sir William's new blacksmith? Well, then--av ye
disremember--that scut of a Nick shtole me breeches, an' he put them on
a billy-goat, an' tuk him to the tap-room where was company. An',
'Here,' says he, 'is a better Irishman than you, Jimmy Burke!--an' a
better fighter, too.' An' wid that the damned goat rares up an' butts me
over; an' up I gets an' he butts me over, an' up an' down I go, an' the
five wits clean knocked out o' me, an' the company an' Sir William all
yelling like loons an' laying odds on the goat----"
I lay there convulsed with laughter, remembering now this prank of the
most mischievous boy I ever knew.
Burke licked his lips grimly at the memory of that ancient wrong.
"Sure, he's th' bould wan f'r to come into me house wid the score
unreckoned an' all that balance agin' him."
"Touch pewter with him and forgive the lad," said I. "These are sterner
days, Jimmy, and we should cherish no private malice here where we may
be put to it to stand siege."
"Is it thrue, sor, that the destructives are on the Sacandaga?"
"Yes, it is true. Fish House, Summer House, and Fonda's Bush are in
ashes, Jimmy, and your late friend, Sir John, is at Buck Island with a
thousand Indians, regulars, and Tories, and like to pay us a call before
planting time."
"Oh, my God," says Burke, "the divil take Sir John an' the black heart
of him av he comes back here to murther his old neighbors! Sorra the day
we let him scape!--him an' Alex White, an' Toby Tice an' moody Wally
Butler,--an' ould John, an' Indian Claus, an' Black Guy!--may the divil
take the whole Tory ruck o' them!----"
He checked himself; behind him, through the door, entered a Continental
Captain; and I sat up in bed to do him courtesy.
As I suspected, here proved to be our Commandant come to learn of me my
news; and it presently appeared that Nick had run to the jail with an
account of how I lay here crippled.
Well, the Commandant was a simple, kindly man, whose present anxiety
made little of military custom. And so he had come instantly to learn my
news of me; and we talked there alone for an hour.
At his summons a servant fetched paper, ink, pen and sand; and, whilst
he looked on, I wrote out my report to him.
Also, I made for him a drawing of the Drowned Lands from Fish House to
Mayfield, marking all roads and paths and trails, and all canoe water,
carries, and cleared land. For, as Brent-Meester, no man had more
accurate knowledge of Tryon than had I; and it was all clearly in my
mind, so that to make a map of it proved no task at all.
I asked him if I was to remain detached and with authority to raise a
company of rangers--as had once been given me--or whether, perhaps, the
Line lacked commissioned officers, saying that it was all one to me and
that I wished only to serve where most needed.
He replied that, unless I went to Morgan's corps of Virginia Riflemen,
concerning which detail he had heard some talk, my full value lay in my
woodcraft and in my wide, personal knowledge of the wilderness.
"Who better than you, Mr. Drogue, could take a scout to this same Buck
Island, where Sir John's hordes are gathering? Who better than yourself
could undertake a swift and secret mission to any point within the
confines of this vast desolation of mountain, lake, and forest, which
promises soon to be the theatre of a most bloody struggle?
"Champlain already spews red-coats upon us in the North. Sir John
threatens in the West. A great army menaces the Highland Forts and
Albany from the South. And only such officers as you, sir, are
competent to discover and dog the march of enemy marauders, come to
touch with their scouts, follow and ambush them, and lead others to
vital points across an uncharted world of woods when there are raiders
to check or communications to threaten and cut."
He rose, hooked up his sword, and shook hands with me.
"I have asked Colonel Willett," said he, "to use your talents in this
manner, and he has very kindly consented. Johnstown will remain your
base, therefore, and your employment is certain as soon as you are able
to walk."
I thanked him and said very confidently that I should be rid of all
lameness and pain within a day or so.
* * * * *
That night I had a fever; and for pearly four weeks my leg remained
swollen and red, and the pain was such that I could not bear the weight
of a linen sheet, and Nick made a frame for my bed-covers, like a tent,
so that they should not touch me.
Dr. Younglove came from the Flatts,--who was surgeon in General
Herkimer's brigade of militia--and he said it was a pernicious
rheumatism consequent upon the cold wetting I got upon a wound still
green.
Further, he concluded, there was naught to do save that I must lie on my
back until my trouble departed of its own accord; but he could not say
how soon that might me--whether within a day or two or as many months,
or more.
He recommended hot blankets and some draughts which they sent me from
the pharmacy at the Fort, but I think they did me neither good nor evil,
but were pleasant and spicy and cooled my throat.
So that was now the dog's life I led during the early summer in
Johnstown,--a most vexatious and inglorious career, laid by the heels at
a time when, from three points o' the compass, three separate storms
were brewing and darkening the heavens, and a tempest more frightful
than man could conceive was threatening to shatter Tryon, sweep the
whole Mohawk Valley, and leave Johnstown but a whirl of whitened ashes
in the evening winds.
We were comfortably established at Burke's Inn, and, as always, baited
well where food and bed were ever clean and good.
Penelope had the chamber next to mine; Nick slept in the little bedroom
on my left; and the Saguenay haunted the kitchen, with a perpetual
appetite never damaged by gorging.
All the news of town and country was fetched me by word o' mouth, by
penny broadsides, by journals, so that I never wanted for gossip to
entertain or alarm me.
Town tattle, rumours from West and North, camp news conveyed by
Coureurs-du-Bois, by runners, by expresses, all this came to my chamber
where I lay impatient, brought sometimes by Burke, often by Nick, more
often by Penelope.
She was very kind and patient with me. In the first feverish and
agonizing days of my illness I had sent for her, and begged her to take
the first convenient waggon and escort into Albany, where surely Douw
Fonda would now care for her and the Patroon's household would welcome
and shelter her until the oncoming storm had passed and her aged charge
should again return to Caughnawaga.
She would not go, but gave no reason. And, my sickness making me
peevish, I was often fretful and short with her; and so badgered and
bullied her that one night, in desperation, she wrote a letter to Douw
Fonda at my request, offering to go to Albany and care for him if he
desired it.
But presently there came a polite letter in reply, writ kindly to her by
the young Patroon himself, who very delicately revealed how it was with
Mr. Fonda. And it appeared that he had become childish from great age,
and seemed now to retain no memory of her, and desired not to be cared
for by anybody--as he said--who was a stranger to him.
Which was sad to know concerning so good and wise and gallant an old
gentleman as had been Mr. Douw Fonda,--a fine, honourable, educated and
cultivated man, whose chiefest pleasure was in his books and garden, and
who never in all his life had uttered an unkind word.
This news, too, was disturbing in another manner; for Mr. Fonda had
wished, as all knew, to adopt Penelope and make provision for her. And
now, if his mind had begun to cloud and his memory betray him, no
provision was likely to be made to support this young girl who was
utterly alone in the world, and entirely without fortune.
* * * * *
On an afternoon late in May I was feeling less pain, and could permit
the covers to rest on me, and was impatient for a dish o' porridge.
About five o'clock Penelope brought me a bowl of chocolate. When she had
seated herself near me, she took her sewing from her apron pocket, and
stitched away busily whilst I drank my sweet, hot brew, and watched her
over the blue bowl's edge.
"Are you better this afternoon, sir?" she inquired presently, not
lifting her eyes.
I told her, fretfully, that I was but a lame dog and fit only to be
knocked on the head by some obliging Tory. "I'm sick o' life," said I,
"where no one heeds me, and I am left alone all day without food or
companionship, to play at twiddle-thumb."
At that she looked at me in sweet concern, but, seeing me wear a wry
grin, smiled too.
"Poor lad," said she, "it is nearly a month you lie there so patiently."
"Not patiently; no! And if I knew more oaths than I think up all day
long it might ease me to endure more meekly this accursed sickness....
What is it you sew?"
"Wrist-bands."
"Whose?"
As she offered no reply I supposed that she was making a pair o' bands
for Nick.
"Do you hear further from Albany?" I inquired.
"No, sir."
"Then it is sure that Mr. Fonda has become childish and his memory is
gone," said I, "because if he comprehended your present situation and
your necessity he would surely have sent for you long since."
"He always was kind," she said simply.
I lay on my pillows, sipping chocolate and watching her fingers so deft
with thread and needle. After a long silence I asked her rather bluntly
why she had not long ago consented to the necessary legal steps offered
her by Mr. Fonda, which would have secured her always against want.
As she made me no answer, I looked hard at her over my bowl, and saw her
eyes very faintly glimmering with tears.
"The news of Mr. Fonda's condition has greatly saddened you," said I.
"Yes. He was kind to me."
"Why, then, did you evade his expressed wishes?" I repeated. "He must
surely have loved you like a father to offer you adoption."
"I could not accept," she said in a low voice, sewing rapidly the while.
"Why not?"
"I scarcely know. It was because of pride, perhaps.... I was his
servant. He paid me well. I could not permit him to overpay my poor
services.... And he has other children, and grandchildren, with whose
proper claims I would not permit myself--or him--to interfere. No, it
was unthinkable--however kindly meant----"
"That," said I impatiently, "smacks of a too Scotch and stubborn
conscience, does it not, Penelope?"
"Stubborn Scotch pride, I fear. For it is not in my Scottish nature to
accept benefits for which I never can hope to render service in return."
"Imaginary obligation!" said I scornfully, yet admiring the independence
which, naked and defenceless, prefers to spin its own raiment rather
than accept the divided cloak of charity.
And it was plain to me that this girl was no beggar, no passive accepter
of bounties unearned from anybody. And now I was secretly chagrined and
ashamed that I had so postured before her as My Lord Bountiful, and had
offered her the Summer House who had refused a modest fortune from a
good old man who loved her and who had some excuse and reason to so deal
by one to whom his bodily comfort had long been beholden.
"Few," said I, "would have put aside so agreeable an opportunity for
ease and comfort in life. I fear you were foolish, Penelope."
She smiled at me: "There is a family saying, 'A Grant grants but never
accepts'.... I have youth, health, two arms, two legs, and a pair of
steady eyes. If these can not keep me alive through the world's journey,
then I ought to perish and make room for another."
"What do you meditate to keep you?" I asked uneasily.
"For the present," said she, still smiling, "what I am doing is well
enough to keep me in food and clothes and lodging."
At first I did not understand her, then an odd suspicion seized me; for
I remembered during the last two weeks, when I lay sick, hearing strange
voices in her ante-chamber, and strange people coming and going in the
passageway.
Seeing me perplexed and frowning, she laughed and took the empty bowl
from my hands, and set it aside. Then she smoothed my pillow.
"I am employed by the garrison," said she, "to work for them with needle
and shears. I do their mending; I darn, stitch, sew, and alter. I patch
shirts and under-garments; I also make shirts, and devise officers'
neck-cloths, stocks, and wrist-bands at request.
"Also, I now employ a half-breed Oneida woman as tailoress; and she
first measures and then I cut out patterns of coats, breeches,
rifle-frocks, and watch-coats, which she then takes home and sews, then
tries on her customers, and finally finishes,--I sewing on all galons,
laces, and braids.... And so you see I pay my way, Mr. Drogue, and am in
no stress for the present at any rate."
"Good heavens!" said I amazed, "I never dreamed that you were so
employed!"
"But I am obliged to eat, John Drogue!"
"I have sufficient for both," I muttered. "I thought it was
understood----"
"That I should live on your bounty, my lord?"
"Will you ever have done with lording me?" I said angrily. "I think you
do it to plague me."
"I ask forgiveness," she murmured, still smiling. "Also, I crave pardon
for refusing to live on your kind bounty."
"I do not mean it that way!" said I sharply. "Besides, you kept Summer
House for us, and did all things indoors and most things outdoor; and
had no pay for the labour----"
"I had food and a bed. And your protection.... And most excellent
company," she added, smiling saucily upon me. "You owe me nothing, John
Drogue. Nor do I mean to owe you,--or any man,--more than that proper
debt of kindness which kindness to me begets."
I lay back on my pillows, not knowing whether to laugh or scowl. That
Penelope had become a tailoress and sempstress to the garrison did not
pleasure me at all; and it was as though I had lost some advantage or
influence over this girl, whose present situation and whose future did
now considerably begin to concern me.
Yet, what was I to say against this business, or what offer make her
that her modesty and pride could consider?
It was perfectly clear to me that she never had intended to be obliged
to me for anything, and never would be. And now her saucy smile and
gentle mockery confirmed this conclusion and put me out of countenance.
I cast a troubled glance at her from my pillow, where she sat by my bed
sewing on a pair of wrist-bands for some popinjay of the garrison--God
knew who he might be!--and, as I regarded her, further and further she
seemed to be slipping out of my influence and out of the care which,
mentally at least, I had felt it my duty to give to her.
She troubled me. She troubled me deeply. Her independence, her
sufficiency, her beauty, her sly and pretty mockery of me, all conspired
to give me a new concern for her, and I had not experienced the like
since Steve Watts kissed her by the lilacs.
I had seen her in many phases, but never before in this phase, and I
knew not what face to put on such a disturbing situation.
* * * * *
For a while I lay there frowning and sulky, and spoke not. She
tranquilly finished her wrist-bands, went to her chamber, returned with
a dozen stocks, all cut out and basted, and picked up one to fit a plain
military frill to it.
From my window, near where my head rested, I saw a gold sunset between
the maple trees and the roofs across the street. Birds sang their
evening carols,--robins on every fence post, orioles in the elms, and
far away a wood-thrush filled the quiet with his liquid ecstasies.
And suddenly it seemed to me horrible and monstrous that this heavenly
tranquillity should be shattered by the red blast of war!--that men
could actually be planning to devastate this quiet land where already
the new harvest promised, tender and green; where cattle grazed in
blossoming meadows; where swallows twittered and fowls clucked; where
smoke drifted from chimneys and the homely sights and sounds of a
peaceful town sweetened the evening silence.
Then the thought of my own helplessness went through me like a spear,
and I groaned,--not meaning to,--and turned over on my pillow.... And
presently felt her hand lightly on my shoulder.
"Is it pain?" she asked softly.
"No, only the weariness of life," I muttered.
She was silent, but presently her hand smoothed back my hair, and passed
in a sort of gentle rhythm across my forehead and my hair.
"If I lie here long enough," said I bitterly, "I may have to beg a crust
of you. So get you to your sewing and see that you earn enough against a
beggared cripple's need."
"You mock me," she said in a low voice.
"Why, no," said I. "If I am to remain crippled my funds will dwindle and
go, and one day I shall sit in the sun like any poor old soldier, with
palm lifted for alms----"
"I beg--I beg you----" she stammered; and her hand closed on my lips as
though to stifle the perverse humour.
"Would you offer me charity if I remain crippled?" I managed to say.
"Hush. You sadden me."
"Would you aid me?" I insisted.
She drew a long, deep breath but made no answer.
"Tell me," I repeated, taking her by the hand, "would you aid me,
Penelope Grant?"
"Why do you ask?" she protested. "You know I would."
"And yet," said I, "although I am in funds, you refuse aid and choose
rather to play the tailoress! Is that fair?"
"But--I am nothing to you----"
"Are you not? And am I then more to you than are you to me, that you
would aid me in necessity?"
She drew her hand from mine and went back to her chair.
"That is my fate," said she, smiling at me. "I was born to give, not to
receive. I can not take; I can not refuse to give."
"Yes," said I, "you even gave me your lips once."
She blushed vividly, her eyes hard on her sewing.
"I shall not do the like again," said she, all rosy to the roots of her
gold hair.
"And why, pray?"
"Because I know better now."
After a silence I turned me on my pillow and sighed heavily.
"John?" she inquired in gentle anxiety, "are you in great pain?"
I groaned.
She came to me again and laid her cool, soft hand on my head; and I
caught it in both of mine and drew her down to me.
"I am a cripple and a beggar for your kindness, Penelope," I said. "I
ask alms of you. Will you kiss me?"
"Oh," she exclaimed, "you have deceived me! Let me go! Loose me
instantly!"
"Will you kiss me out of that charity which you say you practice?"
"That is not charity!----"
"What is begged for is charity. And you say you are made to give."
"But you taught me otherwise! And now you undo your own schooling!----"
"But I owe it you--this kiss!"
"How do you owe it me?"
"You kissed me in the snow, and left me in your debt."
"Oh, goodness! That frolic! Have you not long ago forgotten our winter
madness----"
"Like you," said I, "I must pay my just debts and owe nobody." And I
drew her nearer, all flushed with protest, firm to escape, yet gentle in
her supple, pretty way lest she hurt me.
I laughed, and saw my gaiety reflected in her eyes an instant.
Then, of a sudden, she put one arm around my neck and rested her lips on
mine. And so I kissed her, and she suffered it, resting so against me
with lowered eyes.
The flower-sweetness of her mouth bewildered me, and I was confused by
it and by the stifled tumult of my heart, so that I scarce had sense
enough to detain her when she drew away.
She sat at my side, the faint smile still stamped on her lips, but her
brown eyes seemed a little frightened, and her breast rose and fell like
a scared bird's under the snowy kerchief.
"Well--and well," says she in her pretty, breathless way--"I am
overpaid, I think, and you are now acquitted of your debt. And so--and
so our folly ends ... and now is finally ended."
She took her sewing. A golden light was in the room; and she seemed to
me the loveliest thing I had ever looked upon. I realized it. I knew she
was loveliest of all. And the swift knowledge seemed to choke me.
After a little while she stole a look at me, met my eyes, laughed
guiltily.
"You!" said she, "a schoolmaster! You teach me one thing and would have
me practice another. What confidence can I entertain for such wisdom as
is yours, John Drogue?"
"Rules," said I, "are made to be proven by their more interesting
exceptions. However, in future you are to endure no kiss and no
caress--unless from me."
"Oh. Is that the new lesson I am to learn and understand?"
"That is the lesson. Will you remember it when I am gone?"
"Gone?"
"Yes. When I am gone away on duty. Will you remember, Penelope?"
"I am like to," she said under her breath, and sewing rapidly.
She stitched on in silence for a while; but now the light was dimming
and she moved nearer the window, which was close by my bed head.
After a while her hands dropped in her lap; she looked out into the
twilight. I took her tired little hand in mine, but she did not turn her
head.
"I have," said I, "two thousand pounds sterling at my solicitor's in
Albany. I wish you to have it if any accident happens to me.... And my
glebe in Fonda's Bush.... I shall so write it in my will."
She shook her head slightly, still gazing from the window.
"Will you accept?" I asked.
"What good would it do me? If I accept it I should only divide it among
the needy--in memory of--of my dear boy friend--Jack Drogue----"
She rose hastily and walked to the door, then very slowly retraced her
steps to my bedside.
"You are so kind to me," she murmured, touching my forehead.
"You are so different to other men,--so truly gallant in your boy's
soul. There is no evil in you,--no ruthlessness. Oh, I know--I
know--more than I seem to know--of men.... And their importunities....
And of their wilful selfishness."
I sat up straight. "Has any man made you unhappy?" I demanded in angry
surprise.
She seated herself and looked at me gravely.
"Do you know," she said, "men have courted me always--even when I was
scarce more than a child? And mine is a friendly heart, Mr. Drogue. I
have a half shy desire to please. I am loath to inflict pain. But always
my kindness seems like to cost me more than I choose to pay."
"Pay to whom?"
"To any man.... For example, I would not elope with Stephen Watts when
he begged me at Caughnawaga. And Walter Butler addressed me also--in
secret--being a friend of the Fondas and so free of the house.... And
was ever stealthily importuning me to a stolen rendezvous which I had
sense enough to refuse, knowing him to be both married and a rake, and
cruel to women.
"Oh, I tell you that they all courted me,--not kindly,--for ever there
seemed to me in their ardent gaze and discreet whisperings something
vaguely sinister. Not that it frightened me, nor did I take alarm, being
too ignorant----"
She folded her hands and looked down at them.
"I like men.... I cared most for Stephen Watts.... Then one day I had a
great fright.... Shall I tell it?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, Sir John's gallantries neither pleased nor flattered me
from the first. But he was very cautious what he said and did in Douw
Fonda's house, and never spoke to me save coldly when others were
present, or when he was alone with us and Mr. Fonda was awake and not
dozing in his great chair.... Well, there came a day when Mr. Fonda went
to the house of Captain Fonda, and I was alone in the house....
"And Sir John came.... Shall I tell it?"
"Tell it, Penelope."
"I've had it long in my mind. I wished to ask you if it lessened me in
your esteem.... For Sir John was drunk, and, finding me alone, he
conducted roughly--and followed me and locked us in my chamber.... I was
horribly afraid.... I had never struck any living being before. But I
beat his red face with my hands until he became confused and stupid--and
there was blood on him and on me.... And my kerchief was torn off and my
hair all tangled.... I beat him till he dropped my door key, and so
unlocked my door and returned again to him, silent and flaming, and
drove him with blows out o' my chamber and out of the house--all over
blood as he was, and stupid and drunk.... His negro man got him on his
horse and rode off, holding him on.
"And none knew--none know, save Sir John and you and I."
After a silence I said in a controlled voice: "If Sir John comes this
way I shall hope not to miss him.... I shall pray God not to miss
this--gentleman."
"Do you think meanly of me that he used me so?"
I did not answer.
"I have told you all," she said timidly. "I am still honest. If I were
not I would not have let you touch my lips."
"Why not?"
"For both our sakes.... I would not do you any evil."
I said impatiently: "No need to tell me you never had a lover. I never
believed it of you from the day I saw you first. And, God willing, I
mean to stop a mouth or two in Tryon, war or no war----"
"John Drogue!" she exclaimed in consternation--"you shall seek no
quarrel on my account! Swear to me!"
But I made no reply. Whatever the quarrel, I knew now it was to be on my
own account; for whether or no I was falling in love with this girl,
Penelope Grant, I realized at all events that I would suffer no other
man to interfere, however he conducted, and should hold any man to stern
account who would make of this girl a toy and plaything.
And so, all hotly resolved on that point; sore, also, at the knowledge
of Sir John's baseness which seemed to touch my proper honour; and
swifter, too, with tenderness in my heart to reassure her, I did exactly
that for which I was now prepared to cut the throats of various other
gentlemen--I drew her into my arms and held her close, body and lips
imprisoned.
She sought her chair and sat there silent and subdued until a
maid-servant brought lights and my supper.
In the candle light she ventured to look at me and laugh.
"Such schooling" says she. "I never knew before that there was such a
personage as a sweetheart pro tem! But you seem to know the role by
heart, Mr. Drogue. And so, no doubt, feel warranted to instruct others.
But this is the end of it, my friend. For one day you shall have to
confess you to your wife! And I think my future Lady Northesk is like to
have a pretty temper and will give you a mauvais quart d'heur when she
hears of this May day's folly in a Johnstown public house!"