I had bathed and slept, and waked once more to the deep, resonant notes
of a conch-shell blowing; and I still lay abed, blinking at the sunset
through the soiled panes of my western window, when Cato scraped at the
door to enter, bearing my sea-boxes one by one.
Reaching behind me, I drew the keys from under my pillow and tossed them
to the solemn black, lying still once more to watch him unlock my boxes
and lay out my clothes and linen to the air.
"Company to sup, suh; gemmen from de No'th an' Guy Pahk, suh," he
hinted, rolling his eyes at me and holding up my best wristbands, made
of my mother's lace.
"I shall dress soberly, Cato," said I, yawning. "Give me a narrow
queue-ribbon, too."
The old man mumbled and muttered, fussing about among the boxes until he
found a full suit of silver-gray, silken stockings, and hound's-tongue
shoes to match.
"Dishyere clothes sho' is sober," he reflected aloud. "One li'l gole
vine a-crawlin' on de cuffs, nuvver li'l gole vine a-creepin' up de
wes'coat, gole buckles on de houn'-tongue--Whar de hat? Hat done loose
hisse'f! Here de hat! Gole lace on de hat--Cap'in Ormond sho' is quality
gemm'n. Ef he ain't, how come dishyere gole lace on de hat?"
"Come, Cato," I remonstrated, "am I dressing for a ball at Augustine,
that you stand there pulling my finery about to choose and pick? I tell
you to give me a sober suit!" I snatched a flowered robe from the bed's
foot-board, pulled it about me, and stepped to the floor.
Cato brought a chair and bowl, and, when I had washed once more I seated
myself while the old man shook out my hair, dusted it to its natural
brown, then fell to combing and brushing. My hair, with its obstinate
inclination to curl, needed neither iron nor pomade; so, silvering it
with my best French powder, he tied the short queue with a black ribbon
and dusted my shoulders, critically considering me the while.
"A plain shirt," I said, briefly.
He brought a frilled one.
"I want a plain shirt," I insisted.
"Dishyere sho't am des de plaines' an' de--"
"You villain, don't I know what I want?"
"No, suh!"
And, upon my honor, I could not get that black mule to find me the shirt
that I wished to wear. More than that, he utterly refused to permit me
to dress in a certain suit of mouse-color without lace, but actually
bundled me into the silver-gray, talking volubly all the while; and I,
half laughing and wholly vexed, almost minded to go burrowing myself
among my boxes and risk peppering silk and velvet with hair-powder.
But he dressed me as it suited him, patting my silk shoes into shape,
smoothing coat-skirt and flowered vest-flap, shaking out the lace on
stock and wrist with all the delicacy and cunning of a lady's-maid.
"Idiot!" said I, "am I tricked out to please you?"
"You sho' is, Cap'in Ormond, suh," he said, the first faint approach to
a grin that I had seen wrinkling his aged face. And with that he hung
my small-sword, whisked the powder from my shoulders with a bit of
cambric, chose a laced handkerchief for me, and, ere I could
remonstrate, passed a tiny jewelled pin into my powdered hair, where it
sparkled like a frost crystal.
"I'm no macaroni!" I said, angrily; "take it away!"
"Cap'in Ormond, suh, you sho' is de fines' young gemm'n in de province,
suh," he pleaded. "Dess regahd yo'se'f, suh, in dishyere lookum-glass.
What I done tell you? Look foh yo'se'f, suh! Cap'in Butler gwine see how
de quality gemm'n fixes up! Suh John Johnsing he gwine see! Dat ole
Kunnel Butler he gwine see, too! Heah yo' is, suh, dess a-bloomin' lak
de pink-an'-silver ghos' flower wif de gole heart."
"Cato," I asked, curiously, "why do you take pride in tricking out a
stranger to dazzle your own people?"
The old man stood silent a moment, then looked up with the mild eyes of
an aged hound long privileged in honorable retirement.
"Is you sho' a Ormond, suh?"
"Yes, Cato."
"Might you come f'om de Spanish grants, suh, long de Halifax?"
"Yes, yes; but we are English now. How did you know I came from the
Halifax?"
"I knowed it, suh; I knowed h'it muss be dat-away!"
"How do you know it, Cato?"
"I spec' you favor yo' pap, suh, de ole Kunnel--"
"My father!"
"Mah ole marster, suh; I was raised 'long Matanzas, suh. Spanish man
done cotch me on de Tomoka an' ship me to Quebec. Ole Suh William
Johnsing, he done buy me; Suh John, he done sell me; Mars Varick, he buy
me; an' hyah ah is, suh--heart dess daid foh de Halifax san's."
He bent his withered head and laid his face on my hands, but no tear
fell.
After a moment he straightened, snuffled, and smiled, opening his lips
with a dry click.
"H'it's dat-a-way, suh. Ole Cato dess 'bleged to fix up de young
marster. Pride o' fambly, suh. What might you be desirin' now, Mars'
Ormond? One li'l drap o' musk on yoh hanker? Lawd save us, but you sho'
is gallus dishyere day! Spec' Miss Dorry gwine blink de vi'lets in her
eyes. Yaas, suh. Miss Dorry am de only one, suh; de onliest Ormond in
dishyere fambly. Seem mos' lak she done throw back to our folk, suh.
Miss Dorry ain' no Varick; Miss Dorry all Ormond, suh, dess lak you an'
me! Yaas, suh, h'its dat-a-way; h'it sho' is, Mars' Ormond."
I drew a deep, quivering breath. Home seemed so far, and the old slave
would never live to see it. I felt as though this steel-cold North held
me, too, like a trap--never to unclose.
"Cato," I said, abruptly, "let us go home."
He understood; a gleam of purest joy flickered in his eyes, then died
out, quenched in swelling tears.
He wept awhile, standing there in the centre of the room, smearing the
tears away with the flapping sleeves of his tarnished livery, while,
like a committed panther, I paced the walls, to and fro, to and fro,
heart aching for escape.
The light in the west deepened above the forests; a long, glowing crack
opened between two thunderous clouds, like a hint of hidden hell, firing
the whole sky. And in the blaze the crows winged, two and two, like
witches flying home to the infernal pit, now all ablaze and kindling
coal on coal along the dark sky's sombre brink.
Then the red bars faded on my wall to pink, to ashes; a fleck of rosy
cloud in mid-zenith glimmered and went out, and the round edges of the
world were curtained with the night.
Behind me, Cato struck flint and lighted two tall candles; outside the
lawn, near the stockade, a stable-lad set a conch-horn to his lips,
blowing a deep, melodious cattle-call, and far away I heard them
coming--tin, ton! tin, ton! tinkle!--through the woods, slowly, slowly,
till in the freshening dusk I smelled their milk and heard them lowing
at the unseen pasture-bars.
I turned sharply; the candle-light dazzled me. As I passed Cato, the old
man bowed till his coat-cuffs hung covering his dusky, wrinkled fingers.
"When we go, we go together, Cato," I said, huskily, and so passed on
through the brightly lighted hallway and down the stairs.
Candle-light glimmered on the dark pictures, the rusted circles of arms,
the stags' heads with their dusty eyes. A servant in yellow livery,
lounging by the door, rose from the settle as I appeared and threw open
the door on the left, announcing, "Cap'm Ormond!" in a slovenly fashion
which merited a rebuke from somebody.
The room into which the yokel ushered me appeared to be a library, low
of ceiling, misty with sour pipe smoke, which curled and floated level,
wavering as the door closed behind me.
Through the fog, which nigh choked me with its staleness, I perceived a
bulky gentleman seated at ease, sucking a long clay pipe, his bulging
legs cocked up on a card-table, his little, inflamed eyes twinkling red
in the candle-light.
[Illustration: "YOU'RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I'M THE FATTEST LIAR
SOUTH OF MONTREAL!".]
"Captain Ormond?" he cried. "Captain be damned; you're my cousin, George
Ormond, or I'm the fattest liar south of Montreal! Who the devil put 'em
up to captaining you--eh? Was it that minx Dorothy? Dammy, I took it
that the old Colonel had come to plague me from his grave--your father,
sir! And a cursed fine fellow, if he was second cousin to a Varick,
which he could not help, not he!--though I've heard him damn his luck to
my very face, sir! Yes, sir, under my very nose!"
He fell into a fit of fat coughing, and seized a glass of
spirits-and-water which stood on the table near his feet. The draught
allayed his spasm; he wiped his broad, purple face, chuckled, tossed off
the last of the liquor with a smack, and held out a mottled, fat hand,
bare of wrist-lace. "Here's my heart with it, George!" he cried. "I'd
stand up to greet you, but it takes ten minutes for me to find these
feet o' mine, so I'll not keep you waiting. There's a chair; fill it
with that pretty body of yours; cock up your feet--here's a pipe--here's
snuff--here's the best rum north o' Norfolk, which that ass Dunmore laid
in ashes to spite those who kicked him out!"
He squeezed my hand affectionately. "Pretty bird! Dammy, but you'll
break a heart or two, you rogue! Oh, you are your father all over again;
it's that way with you Ormonds--all alike, and handsome as that young
devil Lucifer; too proud to be proud o' your dukes and admirals, and a
thousand years of waiting on your King. As lads together your father
used to take me by the ear and cuff me, crying, 'Beast! beast! You eat
and drink too much! An Ormond's heart lies not in his belly!' And I
kicked back, fighting stoutly for the crust he dragged me from. Dammy,
why not? There's more Dutch Varick than Irish Ormond in me. Remember
that, George, and we shall get on famously together, you and I. Forget
it, and we quarrel. Hey! fill that tall Italian glass for a toast. I
give you the family, George. May they keep tight hold on what is theirs
through all this cursed war-folly. Here's to the patroons, God
bless 'em!"
Forced by courtesy to drink ere I had yet tasted meat, I did my part
with the best grace I could muster, turning the beautiful glass
downward, with a bow to my host.
"The same trick o' grace in neck and wrist," he muttered, thickly,
wiping his lips. "All Ormond, all Ormond, George, like that vixen o'
mine, Dorothy. Hey! It's not too often that good blood throws back; the
mongrel shows oftenest; but that big chit of a lass is no Varick; she's
Ormond to the bones of her. Ruyven's a red-head; there's red in the rest
o' them, and the slow Dutch blood. But Dorothy's eyes are like those
wild iris-blooms that purple all our meadows, and she has the Ormond
hair--that thick, dull gold, which that French Ormond, of King Stephen's
time, was dowered with by his Saxon mother, Helen. Eh? You see, I read
it in that book your father left us. If I'm no Ormond, I like to find
out why, and I love to dispute the Ormond claim which Walter Butler
makes--he with his dark face and hair, and those dusky, golden eyes of
his, which turn so yellow when I plague him--the mad wild-cat that
he is."
Another fit of choking closed his throat, and again he soaked it open
with his chilled toddy, rattling the stick to stir it well ere he
drained it at a single, gobbling gulp.
A faint disgust took hold on me, to sit there smothering in the fumes of
pipe and liquor, while my gross kinsman guzzled and gabbled and
guzzled again.
"George," he gasped, mopping his crimsoned face, "I'll tell you now that
we Varicks and you Ormonds must stand out for neutrality in this war.
The Butlers mean mischief; they're mad to go to fighting, and that means
our common ruin. They'll be here to-night, damn them."
"Sir Lupus," I ventured, "we are all kinsmen, the Butlers, the Varicks,
and the Ormonds. We are to gather here for self-protection during this
rebellion. I am sure that in the presence of this common danger there
can arise no family dissension."
"Yes, there can!" he fairly yelled. "Here am I risking life and property
to persuade these Butlers that their interest lies in strictest
neutrality. If Schuyler at Albany knew they visited me, his dragoons
would gallop into Varick Manor and hang me to my barn door! Here am I, I
say, doing my best to keep 'em quiet, and there's Sir John Johnson and
all that bragging crew from Guy Park combating me--nay, would you
believe their impudence?--striving to win me to arm my tenantry for this
King of England, who has done nothing for me, save to make a knight of
me to curry favor with the Dutch patroons in New York province--or
state, as they call it now! And now I have you to count on for support,
and we'll whistle another jig for them to-night, I'll warrant!"
He seized his unfilled glass, looked into it, and pushed it from him
peevishly.
"Dammy," he said, "I'll not budge for them! I have thousands of acres,
hundreds of tenants, farms, sugar-bushes, manufactories for pearl-ash,
grist-mills, saw-mills, and I'm damned if I draw sword either way! Am I
a madman, to risk all this? Am I a common fool, to chance anything now?
Do they think me in my dotage? Indeed, sir, if I drew blade, if I as
much as raised a finger, both sides would come swarming all over
us--rebels a-looting and a-shooting, Indians whooping off my cattle,
firing my barns, scalping my tenants--rebels at heart every one, and I'd
not care tuppence who scalped 'em but that they pay me rent!"
He clinched his fat fists and beat the air angrily.
"I'm lord of this manor!" he bawled. "I'm Patroon Varick, and I'll do as
I please!"
Amazed and mortified at his gross frankness, I sat silent, not knowing
what to say. Interest alone swayed him; the right and wrong of this
quarrel were nothing to him; he did not even take the trouble to pay a
hypocrite's tribute to principle ere he turned his back on it;
selfishness alone ruled, and he boasted of it, waving his short, fat
arms in anger, or struggling to extend them heavenward, in protest
against these people who dared urge him to declare himself and stand or
fall with the cause he might embrace.
A faint disgust stirred my pulse. We Ormonds had as much to lose as he,
but yelled it not to the skies, nor clamored of gain and loss in such
unseemly fashion, ignoring higher motive.
"Sir Lupus," I said, "if we can remain neutral with honor, that surely
is wisest. But can we?"
"Remain neutral! Of course we can!" he shouted.
"Honorably?"
"Eh? Where's honor in this mob-rule that breaks out in Boston to spot
the whole land with a scurvy irruption! Honor? Where is it in this vile
distemper which sets old neighbors here a-itching to cut each other's
throats? One says, 'You're a Tory! Take that!' and slips a knife into
him. T'other says, 'You're a rebel!' Bang!--and blows his head off!
Honor? Bah!"
He removed his wig to wipe his damp and shiny pate, then set the wig on
askew and glared at me out of his small, ruddy eyes.
"I'm for peace," he said, "and I care not who knows it. Then, whether
Tory or rebel win the day, here am I, holding to my own with both hands
and caring nothing which rag flies overhead, so that it brings peace and
plenty to honest folk. And, mark me, then we shall live to see these
plumed and gold-laced glory-mongers slinking round to beg their bread at
our back doors. Dammy, let 'em bellow now! Let 'em shout for war! I'll
keep my mills busy and my agent walking the old rent-beat. If they can
fill their bellies with a mess of glory I'll not grudge them what they
can snatch; but I'll fill mine with food less spiced, and we'll see
which of us thrives best--these sons of Mars or the old patroon who
stays at home and dips his nose into nothing worse than old Madeira!"
He gave me a cunning look, pushed his wig partly straight, and lay back,
puffing quietly at his pipe.
I hesitated, choosing my words ere I spoke; and at first he listened
contentedly, nodding approval, and pushing fresh tobacco into his clay
with a fat forefinger.
I pointed out that it was my desire to save my lands from ravage, ruin,
and ultimate confiscation by the victors; that for this reason he had
summoned me, and I had come to confer with him and with other branches
of our family, seeking how best this might be done.
I reminded him that, from his letters to me, I had acquired a fair
knowledge of the estates endangered; that I understood that Sir John
Johnson owned enormous tracts in Tryon County which his great father,
Sir William, had left him when he died; that Colonel Claus, Guy Johnson,
the Butlers, father and son, and the Varicks, all held estates of
greatest value; and that these estates were menaced, now by Tory, now by
rebel, and the lords of these broad manors were alternately solicited
and threatened by the warring factions now so bloodily embroiled.
"We Ormonds can comprehend your dismay, your distress, your doubts," I
said. "Our indigo grows almost within gunshot of the British outpost at
New Smyrna; our oranges, our lemons, our cane, our cotton, must wither
at a blast from the cannon of Saint Augustine. The rebels in Georgia
threaten us, the Tories at Pensacola warn us, the Seminoles are
gathering, the Minorcans are arming, the blacks in the Carolinas watch
us, and the British regiments at Augustine are all itching to ravage and
plunder and drive us into the sea if we declare not for the King who
pays them."
Sir Lupus nodded, winked, and fell to slicing tobacco with a small, gold
knife.
"We're all Quakers in these days--eh, George? We can't fight--no, we
really can't! It's wrong, George,--oh, very wrong." And he fell
a-chuckling, so that his paunch shook like a jelly.
"I think you do not understand me," I said.
He looked up quickly.
"We Ormonds are only waiting to draw sword."
"Draw sword!" he cried. "What d'ye mean?"
"I mean that, once convinced our honor demands it, we cannot choose but
draw."
"Don't be an ass!" he shouted. "Have I not told you that there's no
honor in this bloody squabble? Lord save the lad, he's mad as
Walter Butler!"
"Sir Lupus," I said, angrily, "is a man an ass to defend his own land?"
"He is when it's not necessary! Lie snug; nobody is going to harm you.
Lie snug, with both arms around your own land."
"I meant my own native land, not the miserable acres my slaves plant to
feed and clothe me."
He glared, twisting his long pipe till the stem broke short.
"Well, which land do you mean to defend, England or these colonies?" he
asked, staring.
"That is what I desire to learn, sir," I said, respectfully. "That is
why I came North. With us in Florida, all is, so far, faction and
jealousy, selfish intrigue and prejudiced dispute. The truth, the vital
truth, is obscured; the right is hidden in a petty storm where local
tyrants fill the air with dust, striving each to blind the other."
I leaned forward earnestly. "There must be right and wrong in this
dispute; Truth stands naked somewhere in the world. It is for us to find
her. Why, mark me, Sir Lupus, men cannot sit and blink at villany, nor
look with indifference on a struggle to the death. One side is right,
t'other wrong. And we must learn how matters stand."
"And what will it advance us to learn how matters stand?" he said, still
staring, as though I were some persistent fool vexing him with
unleavened babble. "Suppose these rebels are right--and, dammy, but I
think they are--and suppose our King's troops are roundly trouncing
them--and I think they are, too--do you mean to say you'd draw sword and
go a-prowling, seeking for some obliging enemy to knock you in the head
or hang you for a rebel to your neighbor's apple-tree?"
"Something of that sort," I said, good-humoredly.
"Oh, Don Quixote once more, eh?" he sneered, too mad to raise his voice
to the more convenient bellow which seemed to soothe him as much as it
distressed his listener. "Well, you've got a fool's mate in Sir George
Covert, the insufferable dandy! And all you two need is a pair o' Panzas
and a brace of windmills. Bah!" He grew angrier. "Bah, I say!" He broke
out: "Damnation, sir! Go to the devil!"
I said, calmly: "Sir Lupus, I hear your observation with patience; I
naturally receive your admonition with respect, but your bearing towards
me I resent. Pray, sir, remember that I am under your roof now, but when
I quit it I am free to call you to account."
"What! You'd fight me?"
"Scarcely, sir; but I should expect somebody to make your words good."
"Bah! Who? Ruyven? He's a lad! Dorothy is the only one to--" He broke
out into a hoarse laugh. "Oh, you Ormonds! I might have saved myself the
pains. And now you want to flesh your sword, it matters not in
whom--Tory, rebel, neutral folk, they're all one to you, so that you
fight! George, don't take offence; I naturally swear at those I differ
with. I may love 'em and yet curse 'em like a sailor! Know me better,
George! Bear with me; let me swear at you, lad! It's all I can do."
He spread out his fat hands imploringly, recrossing his enormous legs on
the card-table. "I can't fight, George; I would gladly, but I'm too fat.
Don't grudge me a few kindly oaths now and then. It's all I can do."
I was seized with a fit of laughter, utterly uncontrollable. Sir Lupus
observed me peevishly, twiddling his broken pipe, and I saw he longed to
launch it at my head, which made me laugh till his large, round, red
face grew grayer and foggier through the mirth-mist in my eyes.
"Am I so droll?" he snapped.
"Oh yes, yes, Sir Lupus," I cried, weakly. "Don't grudge me this laugh.
It is all I can do."
A grim smile came over his broad face.
"Touched!" he said. "I've a fine pair on my hands now--you and Sir
George Covert--to plague me and prick me with your wit, like mosquitoes
round a drowsy man. A fine family conference we shall have, with Sir
John Johnson and the Butlers shooting one way, you and Sir George Covert
firing t'other, and me betwixt you, singing psalms and getting all your
arrows in me, fore and aft."
"Who is Sir George Covert?" I asked.
"One o' the Calverts, Lord Baltimore's kin, a sort of cousin of the
Ormond-Butlers, a supercilious dandy, a languid macaroni; plagues me,
damn his impudence, but I can't hate him--no! Hate him? Faith, I owe him
more than any man on earth ... and love him for it--which is strange!"
"Has he an estate in jeopardy?" I inquired.
"Yes. He has a mansion in Albany, too, which he leases. He bought a mile
on the great Vlaic and lives there all alone, shooting, fishing, playing
the guitar o' moony nights, which they say sets the wild-cats wilder.
Mark me, George, a petty mile square and a shooting shanty, and this
languid ass says he means to fight for it. Lord help the man! I told him
I'd buy him out to save him from embroiling us all, and what d' ye
think? He stared at me through his lorgnons as though I had been some
queer, new bird, and, says he, 'Lud!' says he,' there's a world o'
harmless sport in you yet, Sir Lupus, but you don't spell your title
right,' says he. 'Change the a to an o and add an ell for good measure,
and there you have it,' says he, a-drawling. With which he minced off,
dusting his nose with his lace handkerchief, and I'm damned if I see the
joke yet in spelling patroon with an o for the a and an ell for
good measure!"
He paused, out of breath, to pour himself some spirits. "Joke?" he
muttered. "Where the devil is it? I see no wit in that." And he picked
up a fresh pipe from the rack on the table and moistened the clay with
his fat tongue.
We sat in silence for a while. That this Sir George Covert should call
the patroon a poltroon hurt me, for he was kin to us both; yet it seemed
that there might be truth in the insolent fling, for selfishness and
poltroonery are too often linked.
I raised my eyes and looked almost furtively at my cousin Varick. He had
no neck; the spot where his bullet head joined his body was marked only
by a narrow and soiled stock. His eyes alone relieved the monotony of a
stolid countenance; all else was fat.
Sunk in my own reflections, lying back in my arm-chair, I watched
dreamily the smoke pouring from the patroon's pipe, floating away, to
hang wavering across the room, now lifting, now curling downward, as
though drawn by a hidden current towards the unwaxed oaken floor.
No, there was no Ormond in him; he was all Varick, all Dutch, all
patroon.
I had never seen any man like him save once, when a red-faced Albany
merchant came a-waddling to the sea-islands looking for cotton and
indigo, and we all despised him for the eagerness with which he trimmed
his shillings at the Augustine taverns. Thrift is a word abused, and
serves too often as a mask for avarice.
As I sat there fashioning wise saws and proverbs in my busy mind, the
hall door opened and the first guest was announced--Sir George Covert.
And in he came, a well-built, lazy gentleman of forty, swinging
gracefully on a pair o' legs no man need take shame in; ruffles on cuff
and stock, hair perfumed, powdered, and rolled twice in French puffs,
and on his hand a brilliant that sparkled purest fire. Under one arm he
bore his gold-edged hat, and as he strolled forward, peering coolly
about him through his quizzing glass, I thought I had never seen such
graceful assurance, nor such insolently handsome eyes, marred by the
faint shadows of dissipation.
Sir Lupus nodded a welcome and blew a great cloud of smoke into the air.
"Ah," observed Sir George, languidly, "Vesuvius in irruption?"
"How de do," said Sir Lupus, suspiciously.
"The mountain welcomes Mohammed," commented Sir George. "Mohammed
greets the mountain! How de do, Sir Lupus! Ah!" He turned gracefully
towards me, bowing. "Pray present me, Sir Lupus."
"My cousin, George Ormond," said Sir Lupus. "George first, George
second," he added, with a sneer.
"No relation to George III., I trust, sir?" inquired Sir George,
anxiously, offering his cool, well-kept hand.
"No," said I, laughing at his serious countenance and returning his
clasp firmly.
"That's well, that's well," murmured Sir George, apparently vastly
relieved, and invited me to take snuff with him.
We had scarcely exchanged a civil word or two ere the servant announced
Captain Walter Butler, and I turned curiously, to see a dark, graceful
young man enter and stand for a moment staring haughtily straight at me.
He wore a very elegant black-and-orange uniform, without gorget; a black
military cloak hung from his shoulders, caught up in his sword-knot.
With a quick movement he raised his hand and removed his officer's hat,
and I saw on his gauntlets of fine doeskin the Ormond arms, heavily
embroidered. Instantly the affectation displeased me.
"Come to the mountain, brother prophet," said Sir George, waving his
hand towards the seated patroon. He came, lightly as a panther, his
dark, well-cut features softening a trifle; and I thought him handsome
in his uniform, wearing his own dark hair unpowdered, tied in a short
queue; but when he turned full face to greet Sir George Covert, I was
astonished to see the cruelty in his almost perfect features, which were
smooth as a woman's, and lighted by a pair of clear, dark-golden eyes.
Ah, those wonderful eyes of Walter Butler--ever-changing eyes, now
almost black, glimmering with ardent fire, now veiled and amber, now
suddenly a shallow yellow, round, staring, blank as the eyes of a caged
eagle; and, still again, piercing, glittering, narrowing to a slit.
Terrible mad eyes, that I have never forgotten--never, never can forget.
As Sir Lupus named me, Walter Butler dropped Sir George's hand and
grasped mine, too eagerly to please me.
"Ormond and Ormond-Butler need no friends to recommend them each to the
other," he said. And straightway fell a-talking of the greatness of the
Arrans and the Ormonds, and of that duke who, attainted, fled to France
to save his neck.
I strove to be civil, yet he embarrassed me before the others, babbling
of petty matters interesting only to those whose taste invites them to
go burrowing in parish records and ill-smelling volumes written by some
toad-eater to his patron.
For me, I am an Ormond, and I know that it would be shameful if I turned
rascal and besmirched my name. As to the rest--the dukes, the glory, the
greatness--I hold it concerns nobody but the dead, and it is a
foolishness to plague folks' ears by boasting of deeds done by those you
never knew, like a Seminole chanting ere he strikes the painted post.
Also, this Captain Walter Butler was overlarding his phrases with
"Cousin Ormond," so that I was soon cloyed, and nigh ready to damn the
relationship to his face.
Sir Lupus, who had managed to rise by this time, waddled off into the
drawing-room across the hallway, motioning us to follow; and barely in
time, too, for there came, shortly, Sir John Johnson with a company of
ladies and gentlemen, very gay in their damasks, brocades, and velvets,
which the folds of their foot-mantles, capuchins, and cardinals
revealed.
The gentlemen had come a-horseback, and all wore very elegant uniforms
under their sober cloaks, which were linked with gold chains at the
throat; the ladies, prettily powdered and patched, appeared a trifle
over-colored, and their necks and shoulders, innocent of buffonts,
gleamed pearl-tinted above their gay breast-knots. And they made a
sparkling bevy as they fluttered up the staircase to their cloak-room,
while Sir John entered the drawing-room, followed by the other
gentlemen, and stood in careless conversation with the patroon, while
old Cato disembarrassed him of cloak and hat.
Sir John Johnson, son of the great Sir William, as I first saw him was a
man of less than middle age, flabby, cold-eyed, heavy of foot and hand.
On his light-colored hair he wore no powder; the rather long queue was
tied with a green hair-ribbon; the thick, whitish folds of his double
chin rested on a buckled stock.
For the rest, he wore a green-and-gold uniform of very elegant
cut--green being the garb of his regiment, the Royal Greens, as I
learned afterwards--and his buff-topped boots and his metals were
brilliant and plainly new.
When the patroon named me to him he turned his lack-lustre eyes on me
and offered me a large, damp hand.
In turn I was made acquainted with the several officers in his
suite--Colonel John Butler, father of Captain Walter Butler, broad and
squat, a withered prophecy of what the son might one day be; Colonel
Daniel Claus, a rather merry and battered Indian fighter; Colonel Guy
Johnson, of Guy Park, dark and taciturn; a Captain Campbell, and a
Captain McDonald of Perth.
All wore the green uniform save the Butlers; all greeted me with
particular civility and conducted like the respectable company they
appeared to be, politely engaging me in pleasant conversation, desiring
news from Florida, or complimenting me upon my courtesy, which, they
vowed, had alone induced me to travel a thousand miles for the sake of
permitting my kinsmen the pleasure of welcoming me.
One by one the gentlemen retired to exchange their spurred top-boots for
white silk stockings and silken pumps, and to arrange their hair or
stick a patch here and there, and rinse their hands in rose-water to
cleanse them of the bridle's odor.
They were still thronging the gun-room, and I stood alone in the
drawing-room with Sir George Covert, when a lady entered and courtesied
low as we bowed together.
And truly she was a beauty, with her skin of rose-ivory, her powdered
hair a-gleam with brilliants, her eyes of purest violet, a friendly
smile hovering on her fresh, scarlet mouth.
"Well, sir," she said, "do you not know me?" And to Sir George: "I vow,
he takes me for a guest in my own house!"
And then I knew my cousin Dorothy Varick.
[Illustration: "SHE SUFFERED US TO SALUTE HER HAND".]
She suffered us to salute her hand, gazing the while about her
indifferently; and, as I released her slender fingers and raised my
head, she, rounded arm still extended as though forgotten, snapped her
thumb and forefinger together in vexation with a "Plague on it! There's
that odious Sir John!"
"Is Sir John Johnson so offensive to your ladyship?" inquired Sir
George, lazily.
"Offensive! Have you not heard how the beast drank wine from my slipper!
Never mind! I cannot endure him. Sir George, you must sit by me at
table--and you, too, Cousin Ormond, or he'll come bothering." She
glanced at the open door of the gun-room, a frown on her white brow.
"Oh, they're all here, I see. Sparks will fly ere sun-up. There's
Campbell, and McDonald, too, wi' the memory of Glencoe still stewing
betwixt them; and there's Guy Johnson, with a price on his head--and
plenty to sell it for him in County Tryon, gentlemen! And there's young
Walter Butler, cursing poor Cato that he touched his spur in drawing off
his boots--if he strikes Cato I'll strike him! And where are their fine
ladies, Sir George? Still primping at the mirror? Oh, la!" She stepped
back, laughing, raising her lovely arms a little. "Look at me. Am I well
laced, with nobody to aid me save Cecile, poor child, and Benny to hold
the candles--he being young enough for the office?"
"Happy, happy Benny!" murmured Sir George, inspecting her through his
quizzing-glass from head to toe.
"If you think it a happy office you may fill it yourself in future, Sir
George," she said. "I never knew an ass who failed to bray in ecstasy at
mention of a pair o' stays."
Sir George stared, and said, "Aha! clever--very, very clever!" in so
patronizing a tone that Dorothy reddened and bit her lip in vexation.
"That is ever your way," she said, "when I parry you to your confusion.
Take your eyes from me, Sir George! Cousin Ormond, am I dressed to your
taste or not?"
She stood there in her gown of brocade, beautifully flowered in peach
color, dainty, confident, challenging me to note one fault. Nor could I,
from the gold hair-pegs in her hair to the tip of her slim, pompadour
shoes peeping from the lace of her petticoat, which she lifted a trifle
to show her silken, flowered hose.
And--"There!" she cried, "I gowned myself, and I wear no paint. I wish
you would tell them as much when they laugh at me."
Now came the ladies, rustling down the stairway, and the gentlemen,
strolling in from their toilet and stirrup-cups in the gun-room, and I
noted that all wore service-swords, and laid their pistols on the table
in the drawing-room.
"Do they fear a surprise?" I whispered to Sir George Covert.
"Oh yes; Jack Mount and the Stoners are abroad. But Sir John has a troop
of his cut-throat horsemen picketed out around us. You see, Sir John
broke his parole, and Walter Butler is attainted, and it might go hard
with some of these gentlemen if General Schuyler's dragoons caught them
here, plotting nose to nose."
"Who is this Jack Mount?" I asked, curiously, remembering my companion
of the Albany road.
"One of Cresap's riflemen," he drawled, "sent back here from Boston to
raise the country against the invasion. They say he was a highwayman
once, but we Tories"--he laughed shamelessly--"say many things in these
days which may not help us at the judgment day. Wait, there's that
little rosebud, Claire Putnam, Sir John's flame. Take her in to table;
she's a pretty little plaything. Lady Johnson, who was Polly Watts, is
in Montreal, you see." He made a languid gesture with outspread
hands, smiling.
The girl he indicated, Mistress Claire Putnam, was a fragile, willowy
creature, over-thin, perhaps, yet wonderfully attractive and pretty, and
there was much of good in her face, and a tinge of pathos, too, for all
her bright vivacity.
"If Sir John Johnson put her away when he wedded Miss Watts," said Sir
George, coolly, "I think he did it from interest and selfish
calculation, not because he ceased to love her in his bloodless, fishy
fashion. And now that Lady Johnson has fled to Canada, Sir John makes
no pretence of hiding his amours in the society which he haunts; nor
does that society take umbrage at the notorious relationship so
impudently renewed. We're a shameless lot, Mr. Ormond."
At that moment I heard Sir John Johnson, at my elbow, saying to Sir
Lupus: "Do you know what these damned rebels have had the impudence to
do? I can scarce credit it myself, but it is said that their Congress
has adopted a flag of thirteen stripes and thirteen stars on a blue
field, and I'm cursed if I don't believe they mean to hoist the filthy
rag in our very faces!"
V