Under a flare of yellow candle-light we entered the dining-hall and
seated ourselves before a table loaded with flowers and silver, and the
most beautiful Flemish glass that I have ever seen; though they say that
Sir William Johnson's was finer.
The square windows of the hall were closed, the dusty curtains closely
drawn; the air, though fresh, was heavily saturated with perfume.
Between each window, and higher up, small, square loop-holes pierced the
solid walls. The wooden flap-hoods of these were open; through them
poured the fresh night air, stirring the clustered flowers and the
jewelled aigrets in the ladies' hair.
The spectacle was pretty, even beautiful; at every lady's cover lay a
gift from the patroon, a crystal bosom-glass, mounted in silver
filigree, filled with roses in scented water; and, at the sight, a gust
of hand-clapping swept around the table, like the rattle of December
winds through dry palmettos.
In a distant corner, slaves, dressed fancifully and turbaned like
Barbary blackamoors, played on fiddles and guitars, and the music was
such as I should have enjoyed, loving all melody as I do, yet could
scarcely hear it in the flutter and chatter rising around me as the
ladies placed the bosom-bottles in their stomachers and opened their
Marlborough fans to set them waving all like restless wings.
Yet, under this surface elegance and display, one could scarcely choose
but note how everywhere an amazing shiftlessness reigned in the
patroon's house. Cobwebs canopied the ceiling-beams with their silvery,
ragged banners afloat in the candle's heat; dust, like a velvet mantle,
lay over the Dutch plates and teapots, ranged on shelves against the
panelled wall midway 'twixt ceiling and unwaxed floor; the gaudy yellow
liveries of the black servants were soiled and tarnished and ill
fitting, and all wore slovenly rolls, tied to imitate scratch-wigs, the
effect of which was amazing. The passion for cleanliness in the Dutch
lies not in their men folk; a Dutch mistress of this manor house had
died o' shame long since--or died o' scrubbing.
I felt mean and ungracious to sit there spying at my host's table, and
strove to forget it, yet was forced to wipe furtively spoon and fork
upon the napkin on my knees ere I durst acquaint them with my mouth; and
so did others, as I saw; but they did it openly and without pretence of
concealment, and nobody took offence.
Sir Lupus cared nothing for precedence at table, and said so when he
seated us, which brought a sneer to Sir John Johnson's mouth and a scowl
to Walter Butler's brow; but this provincial boorishness appeared to be
forgotten ere the decanters had slopped the cloth twice, and fair faces
flushed, and voices grew gayer, and the rattle of silver assaulting
china and the mellow ring of glasses swelled into a steady, melodious
din which stirred the blood to my cheeks.
We Ormonds love gayety--I choose the mildest phrase I know. Yet, take us
at our worst, Irish that we are, and if there be a taint of license to
our revels, and if we drink the devil's toast to the devil's own
undoing, the vital spring of our people remains unpolluted, the nation's
strength and purity unsoiled, guarded forever by the chastity of
our women.
Savoring my claret, I glanced askance at my neighbors; on my left sat my
cousin Dorothy Varick, frankly absorbed in a roasted pigeon, yet
wielding knife and fork with much grace and address; on my right
Magdalen Brant, step-cousin to Sir John, a lovely, soft-voiced girl,
with velvety eyes and the faintest dusky tint, which showed the Indian
blood through the carmine in her fresh, curved cheeks.
I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of the
table, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility he
expressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing,
and reversed our glasses with a cheer.
Then Walter Butler gave us "The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran," an
amazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious to
see Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at the
head of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding on
his pedigree.
Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundy
being decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I was
obliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling with
the memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.
"I give you," I said, "a republic where self-respect balances the
coronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a clean
altar, served by the parliament of a united people. Gentlemen, raise
your glasses to the colonies of America and their ancient liberties!"
And, amazed at what I had said, and knowing that I had not meant to say
it, I lifted my glass and drained it.
Astonishment altered every face. Walter Butler mechanically raised his
glass, then set it down, then raised it once more, gazing blankly at me;
and I saw others hesitate, as though striving to recollect the exact
terms of my toast. But, after a second's hesitation, all drank sitting.
Then each looked inquiringly at me, at neighbors, puzzled, yet already
partly reassured.
"Gad!" said Colonel Claus, bluntly, "I thought at first that Burgundy
smacked somewhat of Boston tea."
"The Burgundy's sound enough," said Colonel John Butler, grimly.
"So is the toast," bawled Sir Lupus. "It's a pacific toast, a soothing
sentiment, neither one thing not t'other. Dammy, it's a toast no Quaker
need refuse."
"Sir Lupus, your permission!" broke out Captain Campbell. "Gentlemen, it
is strange that not one of his Majesty's officers has proposed the
King!" He looked straight at me and said, without turning his head: "All
loyal at this table will fill. Ladies, gentlemen, I give you his Majesty
the King!"
The toast was finished amid cheers. I drained my glass and turned it
down with a bow to Captain Campbell, who bowed to me as though
greatly relieved.
The fiddles, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the slaves singing
when the noise of the cheering died away; and I heard Dorothy beside me
humming the air and tapping the floor with her silken shoe, while she
moistened macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled them with serene
satisfaction.
"You appear to be happy," I whispered.
"Perfectly. I adore sweets. Will you try a dish of cinnamon cake? Sop it
in Burgundy; they harmonize to a most heavenly taste.... Look at
Magdalen Brant, is she not sweet? Her cousin is Molly Brant, old Sir
William's sweetheart, fled to Canada.... She follows this week with
Betty Austin, that black-eyed little mischief-maker on Sir John's right,
who owes her diamonds to Guy Johnson. La! What a gossip I grow! But
it's county talk, and all know it, and nobody cares save the Albany
blue-noses and the Van Cortlandts, who fall backward with standing too
straight--"
"Dorothy," I said, sharply, "a blunted innocence is better than none,
but it's a pity you know so much!"
"How can I help it?" she asked, calmly, dipping another macaroon into
her glass.
"It's a pity, all the same," I said.
"Dew on a duck's back, my friend," she observed, serenely. "Cousin, if I
were fashioned for evil I had been tainted long since."
She sat up straight and swept the table with a heavy-lidded, insolent
glance, eyebrows raised. The cold purity of her profile, the undimmed
innocence, the childish beauty of the curved cheek, touched me to the
quick. Ah! the white flower to nourish here amid unconcealed corruption,
with petals stainless, with bloom undimmed, with all its exquisite
fragrance still fresh and wholesome in an air heavy with wine and the
odor of dying roses.
I looked around me. Guy Johnson, red in the face, was bending too
closely beside his neighbor, Betty Austin. Colonel Claus talked loudly
across the table to Captain McDonald, and swore fashionable oaths which
the gaunt captain echoed obsequiously. Claire Putnam coquetted with her
paddle-stick fan, defending her roses from Sir George Covert, while Sir
John Johnson stared at them in cold disapproval; and I saw Magdalen
Brant, chin propped on her clasped hands, close her eyes and breathe
deeply while the wine burned her face, setting torches aflame in either
cheek. Later, when I spoke to her, she laughed pitifully, saying that
her ears hummed like bee-hives. Then she said that she meant to go, but
made no movement; and presently her dark eyes closed again, and I saw
the fever pulse beating in her neck.
Some one had overturned a silver basin full of flowers, and a servant,
sopping up the water, had brushed Walter Butler so that he flew into a
passion and flung a glass at the terrified black, which set Sir Lupus
laughing till he choked, but which enraged me that he should so conduct
in the presence of his host's daughter.
Yet if Sir Lupus could not only overlook it, but laugh at it, I, certes,
had no right to rebuke what to me seemed a gross insult.
Toasts flew fast now, and there was a punch in a silver bowl as large as
a bushel--and spirits, too, which was strange, seeing that the ladies
remained at table.
Then Captain Campbell would have all to drink the Royal Greens, standing
on chairs, one foot on the table, which appeared to be his regiment's
mess custom, and we did so, the ladies laughing and protesting, but
finally planting their dainty shoes on the edge of the table; and
Magdalen Brant nigh fell off her chair--for lack of balance, as Sir
George Covert protested, one foot alone being too small to sustain her.
"That Cinderella compliment at our expense!" cried Betty Austin, but Sir
Lupus cried: "Silence all, and keep one foot on the table!" And a little
black slave lad, scarce more than a babe, appeared, dressed in a
lynx-skin, bearing a basket of pretty boxes woven out of scented grass
and embroidered with silk flowers.
At every corner he laid a box, all exclaiming and wondering what the
surprise might be, until the little black, arching his back, fetched a
yowl like a lynx and ran out on all fours.
"The gentlemen will open the boxes! Ladies, keep one foot on the table!"
bawled Sir Lupus. We bent to open the boxes; Magdalen Brant and Dorothy
Varick, each resting a hand on my shoulder to steady them, peeped
curiously down to see. And, "Oh!" cried everybody, as the lifted
box-lids discovered snow-white pigeons sitting on great gilt eggs.
The white pigeons fluttered out, some to the table, where they craned
their necks and ruffled their snowy plumes; others flapped up to the
loop-holes, where they sat and watched us.
"Break the eggs!" cried the patroon.
I broke mine; inside was a pair of shoe-roses, each set with a pearl and
clasped with a gold pin.
Betty Austin clapped her hands in delight; Dorothy bent double, tore off
the silken roses from each shoe in turn, and I pinned on the new
jewelled roses amid a gale of laughter.
"A health to the patroon!" cried Sir George Covert, and we gave it with
a will, glasses down. Then all settled to our seats once more to hear
Sir George sing a song.
A slave passed him a guitar; he touched the strings and sang with good
taste a song in questionable taste:
"Jeanneton prend sa fauçille."