_A Surprise for Royal_
When the two girls had reached the porch, Kate paused with a suppressed
laugh, then she beckoned Marianne around to where, through a half-open
doorway, she could see the group in the room beyond. Here, before the
crackling open fire, sat Royal, Jack, and Sue. They were roasting
chestnuts in the hot embers and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying
themselves. Jack had emptied his pockets of the nuts he had remembered
to gather at the last moment, and they lay in a shining brown heap upon
the hearth.
"It was a sight, I assure you," Jack was saying, "to see the American's
general, Van Rensselaer, with old Judge Peck in cocked hat and carrying
a big sword, riding up and down, trying to get their brave troops to
come over and fight us. But not an inch would they budge; they simply
stood there and sulked. If that's the kind of soldiers we have to
confront, who run at the first sound of a bugle, there will not be much
of a war. We have a lot of prisoners. Did you see General Scott? He is
a fine-looking fellow, if ever there was one."
"No, I didn't see him," returned Royal, "but I did see what must have
been gall and bitterness to the other side,--their heroes of Tippecanoe
and the garrisons of Mackinac and Detroit, five hundred or so, I should
say. We marched them from Fort Erie to Fort George, and a parade we
made of it that must have been a dose to the Americans."
Here he was interrupted by a figure which came flying in through the
doorway,--a figure clad in a blue Empire gown, which, falling to her
feet in soft folds, made her look taller than she really was. With
scarlet cheeks and snapping eyes the girl cried: "American yourself,
Royal Reyburn. Suppose it had been your father who was driven along
like an ox, could you have borne to see it? For shame on you, to boast
of the woes of your countrymen!"
Royal sprang to his feet, surprise and confusion written upon his face.
"Marianne, how in the world came you here?" he exclaimed.
"I'll explain," Kate made answer. "Jack discovered your sister in the
woods, where she had made a misstep and had fallen into a bog. You know
what a rainy autumn we have had, and there are many treacherous spots
under the fallen leaves. Jack pulled her out, it seems, and brought her
here to us, that she might dry her clothes and get rid of the mud upon
them. If it were not for the discomfort she has undergone, I should be
glad of an accident which has given us an opportunity of making her
acquaintance." And she smiled down on Marianne, but met no response,
for her visitor was still smarting from the effects of her brother's
speech.
"You ought to suffer for it," Marianne went on, still addressing
Royal, "and when your own father was wounded and is still a prisoner,
it shows you are very heartless. You will be a prisoner yourself some
day, and perhaps you will find it no laughing matter. As for General
Van Rensselaer," she turned to Jack, "he was ill when he went on the
field of battle. He carried away five painful wounds. Was he a coward?
And General Scott wore his bravest regimentals, and by so doing became
all the more a target for your men. Was he a poltroon? And I have heard
even your own soldiers say that no fiercer nor braver attack was ever
made than by our men who stormed Queenston Heights. Before this war is
over you will not be laughing at the exploits of my countrymen, I'll
venture to say; and by that time you may be old enough to do something
more than play at soldiering." There was silence all around; but at
last Royal said, a little awkwardly, "But, you see, Marianne, we didn't
know you were listening."
"It doesn't make any difference who was listening. You can jest at the
misfortunes of your own people, and that is enough. I want to go home,
if you please," she said, turning to Kate. "I don't care if my clothes
are wet."
"No, please," Kate's voice began coaxingly; "we'll not mention the
war nor anything approaching it. We are not responsible for all the
dreadful things that are done. Please let us be friends, even if we
don't think exactly alike. You cannot, you ought not, to go home alone,
for the country is overrun with all sorts of riffraff. What with the
soldiers and the Indians and the refugees, no one on the border is
safe. Do stay with us and don't mind what our brothers say; I'm sure
I wouldn't." She shot a saucy look at Royal. "This is my sister Sue,"
she went on. "You haven't met her yet. Let me whisper something in your
ear: Sue is half on your side. She always stands up for the Americans."
Here was one friend at court, and Marianne looked at Sue with more
favor. This other sister was not unlike her brother and sister, except
that her features were more delicate and her eyes and mouth more
serious. She was taller and more slender than Kate, too. Marianne put
her hand into Sue's extended one and responded to its warm pressure.
"You see," Sue told her, "we were Americans once; that is, our
grandparents were. The family lived in New York from the settlement of
the colony till the Revolutionary War, and then my grandfather, being a
loyalist, fled across the border into Canada."
"By loyalist you mean Tory," said Marianne, bluntly.
"Yes, if you like that word better. He called himself loyal to the
king. He was an English subject before the war broke out, and he kept
on being one; that was all. He thought he had a right to." A merry,
mischievous look came into her eyes as she said this, and Marianne felt
that she was showing rather an aggressive spirit.
"Of course he had a right to," she returned, with more exhibition of
tolerance, "only I don't see how he could think he ought not to stay
and fight for freedom."
"I don't either," Sue replied, "but then, you know, we don't all think
alike. Don't let's talk about it any more. Come over here and sit down
by the fire, and let Jack roast you some chestnuts. You deserve a big
share, for he says you helped him to gather them."
There was no resisting this sweetness, and Marianne yielded, feeling
that she had been rather ungracious, and that she might take a lesson
from these sisters of him whom she had termed a discourteous boy.
Yet in her character of young lady Jack's deference to her was very
noticeable, and the members of the little party before the fire soon
were laughing and talking, becoming better friends every moment,
though it was chiefly to the girls that Marianne unbent; for she did
not intend that Jack should be admitted to her good graces. The short
afternoon had nearly gone when she came to a realizing sense that it
was getting very dark, and she looked quite aghast. "Oh," she cried, "I
ought to have been home an hour ago."
"Don't go," begged her entertainers. "Stay all night with us. It is so
late for you to be going home, and we should so like to have you."
"But they will miss me, and will wonder where I am and will be so
worried," Marianne objected.
"I'll ride over and tell them where you are," Jack offered. "They know
me. I have been there often."
"I never saw you there," Marianne returned.
"No; it has just happened that you haven't seen me. I don't always go
to the house. We haven't been living very long on this place, for we
used to live farther up the country; and that is why you and the girls
have never met before, I suppose. Please stay."
"Do you like pumpkin cake?" Kate asked. "We are going to have some for
supper."
If there was anything that Marianne did like, it was pumpkin cake; that
mixture of pumpkin and corn-meal, sweetened with maple sugar, spiced,
and baked, had always been something that she considered a great
treat. She looked out of the window. It certainly was dark. She looked
down at her little boots drying before the fire.
Kate stooped to feel them. "They are still very wet, you see."
"You'd better stay, Marianne," said her brother; and Marianne
doubtfully consented. "Only I don't like to have you go so far for me."
She turned her blue eyes on Jack, and in them he saw the first gentle
expression she had yet shown him.
"I'd go twice as far," he said, in a low, eager voice; and she felt
her cheeks grow hot under his look. To hide her confusion she tossed
her head with a saucy laugh. "Little boys don't usually like to go on
errands," she said.
Jack laughed, too, and from one to the other passed a look of
understanding.
"What are you two laughing at?" Kate asked.
"At each other," Marianne replied. Then she nodded to Jack. "If you
like to go, very well; but I would rather stay, if I were you."
"So I would," Jack answered quickly.
"Oh, then I wouldn't have you go for the world," Marianne made haste to
assure him; and Jack stammered that he only wanted to please her, and
whatever she desired was his wish. And he made such a mess of it that
Kate had to come to his relief by saying: "We all know what you want to
say, Jack. Just go along and hurry back. We'll wait supper for you."
"I'll take Duke; he's the fastest horse on the place," said Jack, as he
hurried from the room.
They had been having such a cosey time of it, just this group of young
people, that Marianne quite forgot that there were probably other
members of the family; and she was rather taken aback when two men
strode into the kitchen, where the three girls were busy over the
preparations for supper. "This is Royal Reyburn's sister Marianne,
father. Grandfather, you haven't met Miss Reyburn," were the words with
which Kate presented her; and Marianne was suddenly conscious that here
was the grandfather whom she had called a Tory, and whose actions she
had discussed with Sue. He was rather a fierce-looking old fellow, she
thought, and she felt that she would rather not bring up the subject
of politics before him. She hoped he would not introduce the subject,
and was half sorry that she had consented to remain. Kate's father she
liked better, and saw at once how Jack had become possessed of his good
nature and his love of teasing; for when Grandfather Silverthorn left
the room, his son began lazily to ask the girls if they had sent Jack
for the doctor, that he had ridden off in such hot haste.
"No," Sue explained; "he went to tell them at Madame Desvouges's that
Marianne would stay with us all night."
"He was in the mischief of a hurry to get there," said Mr. Silverthorn,
with a quizzical look at Marianne.
"He wanted to get back to supper," put in Kate. "We are going to have
pumpkin cake, and no doubt he is afraid he will not get his share if he
does not hurry."
Mr. Silverthorn laughed. "Judging by the way he was riding, I should
say that he thought there was some other sweet thing for him to hurry
back for."
Marianne caught his teasing look, and blushed scarlet. Kate shook her
head at him, and went on to say, "You are quite right, father; we are
going to have some honey."
"Come here, honey," said Mr. Silverthorn, turning to Marianne. And then
she could but join in the laugh that followed, while half angry, half
pleased, she dropped him a curtsey, and stood smiling down at him as he
lounged on the big settle by the fire.
"You're not a bit like your brother," he said.
"No," returned Marianne, "I am like my father."
"And he is about five feet one or two in his stockings?" Mr.
Silverthorn asked quizzically.
"No, he is six feet two; but except for height I am exactly like him,
only my skin is not so fair."
"Must be a pretty good-looking man," Mr. Silverthorn added. "I'll be
switched, if there isn't Jack back again. That horse must be in a
perfect lather. I'll have to go out and look to it that Jack gives him
a good rubbing down. See here, Miss Marianne, if you send my boy off
on many such trips, I'll have to fix him up a flying machine, or else
he'll ruin my horses." And the man went out, leaving his daughters
laughing at Marianne's confusion.
"You mustn't mind father," they told her. "He jokes with everybody and
has always been the greatest tease; but he is the dearest father in the
world, and ever since our mother died he has been father and mother
both to us. Grandfather can be pretty sharp sometimes, but father never
is."
Royal had gone out to help with the evening's chores in Jack's absence,
and presently all came in together, ready for the pumpkin cake, which,
done to a turn in the bake-kettle, was set smoking hot upon the table.
Kate's quickness of wit saved Marianne any wounded feelings, for,
though the subject of the war was begun, she turned it into a channel
of reminiscence, and Marianne found herself deeply interested in those
tales of hardship which the refugees had to tell. She looked with
renewed interest at the tall old clock, the weather-beaten chairs, and
the other carefully preserved pieces of furniture, relics of a former
luxury, and it gave her a new respect for these people, to learn how
cheerfully they had accepted privation and discomfort for conscience'
sake.
"Yes," said Mr. Silverthorn, as he rose from the table, "the only
gown my wife had when we were married was of deerskin; that was her
wedding-dress, and she came near not having that."
"Why?" Marianne asked, much interested.
"She took it off to wash it for the great occasion. Deerskin lasts
pretty well, but it does get greasy, so Kitty thought she'd be
specially particular and use lye for it, soap being scarce, but, bless
my soul! it shrank away to nothing, and she hadn't anything to wear
but a blanket till all the women folks around got together and helped
her get a new deerskin ready for her wedding. It looked for a time
as if we'd have to put off getting married, but they got her rigged
up finely, after all; at any rate I thought so. I wasn't thinking of
what she had on; it was the girl herself that was in my mind." He gave
a sigh, and Kate said softly: "And mother often told us it was the
happiest day of her life. She often used to tell us that story, to show
us that fine clothes aren't necessary for happiness."
Marianne glanced down at the blue dress she wore and smiled.
"That is the one bit of finery we possess," Kate told her. "It
belonged to our grandmother, and we made it over a few years ago for
Sue; but now she has out-grown it, yet it is full long for you. Doesn't
Marianne look well in it, grandfather?"
The old man turned his sharp eyes upon Marianne, who wondered how he
would like the idea of her parading around in his wife's one fine gown,
if he had known her dislike of Tories; but he made no comment, only
nodded assent and walked from the room.
Very amicably did the grandchildren of Tory and Whig spend their
evening, and Marianne went to bed feeling as if she must love these
new friends, whatever side their ancestors had fought upon; and she
parted from them the next morning with promise to see them soon again.
Royal and Jack escorted her back to her grandmother's house, which she
reached none the worse for her adventure.
It was when she came again into her father's presence and saw him still
pale and weak from his wounds, that she fully appreciated the fact that
she must make another effort to start the ball rolling which would urge
on the plan she had made for his escape. If he had belonged to the
militia instead of to the regular troops, he would simply be paroled
and returned home, as were the other militiamen, and the matter would
be very simply adjusted; but to think of his being sent to Quebec to
wait for exchange, was not to be thought of.
She gave a full account of her visit to the Silverthorns, and her
father listened gravely, shaking his head when she told him of her
adventure in the woods. "It was fortunate that it was no one but a
good-hearted lad that you met. I do not want my little girl to be
running wild in the woods and about the country when hordes of soldiers
are gathering; and if the Indians are on the war-path and learn that
you are the daughter of an American, what can you expect. No, no, my
child; let matters take their course."
This Marianne was determined not to do, though she said no more at the
time, but went to Victorine to relate her adventures. She received a
scolding for running off alone, and Victorine made minute inquiries
about her entertainers, at first a little disposed to discourage the
acquaintance. "What are they like, these girls?" she asked.
Marianne described them in glowing terms.
"I have heard Royal speak of them, but I did not know they were such
intimate friends," she said musingly. "I think it is the one you call
Kate that he likes best."
"Oh, I don't know. What makes you think so? When have you seen them?"
"I have not seen them," said Victorine, "but," with a wistful little
smile, "the last time he mentioned them he called her _she_, and when
he spoke of her sister he called her by her name."
Marianne pondered over this for a moment. "Anyhow," she said, "he
didn't talk to one more than the other. He likes Jack--I mean the
brother; and it is convenient and pleasant for him to have a place like
that to go to."
"Instead of coming here."
"He doesn't come here, because he thinks it would distress father to
see him."
"Perhaps. You haven't told me yet why it was that you went off in that
naughty way."
"I am not going to tell. I said I meant to run away. Don't you
remember? And one may have secrets."
"Oh, yes, one may."
"You have yours?"
"Yes, I have mine." Victorine spoke with a little sigh.
"Vic, dear," Marianne leaned over and kissed her, "I would tell you if
I could, but I can't now. Perhaps--yes, I am sure I will some day, and
then you will tell me, too."
Victorine drew a needle from the stocking she was knitting and began
the next row before she answered. "I cannot promise."
"Well, then, we will leave it." And she spoke no more of her secret,
though it was on her mind night and day how she could carry out her
schemes for her father's deliverance. The river was guarded by pickets;
there were encampments on both sides, batteries above and below;
desertions were frequent, and those in sympathy with the Americans
listened anxiously to the reports of disease and disaffection in the
camps.