_The Husking and What Followed_
For a couple of hours the fun over the husking was fast and furious;
and by ten o'clock three rousing cheers gave evidence that the task was
completed, though to her discomfiture, Marianne's was not the winning
side.
A big, burly Frenchman was hoisted upon a clumsy platform, and soon
his fiddle sung out a merry tune; then amid much laughter the dancing
began. A fantastic picture the scene made, only possible on the
frontier. Erect young soldiers, decked out in the best uniforms at
their command, stepped through the figures with dignified carriage;
gay young Frenchmen, some clad in the silks and satins brought over by
their forefathers a century before; others, in the deerskin garments
of the habitant, bowed and pirouetted with an elegance handed down
from some courtly sire; rough militiamen, farmer boys in homespun or
buckskin, galloped about awkwardly, making the floor resound with the
energy of their steps. The smoky flare of the torches lighted up the
fair faces of the girls, most of them in gay calicoes, though some
wore the silken gowns hoarded by their mothers. Few wore other shoes
than moccasins, though here and there a pair of satin-clad feet would
twinkle from under the brocaded petticoats. The big room was dingy with
smoke, illy lighted, and none too warm. Against its rough walls the
entertainers had fastened long stalks of corn, whose dry blades rustled
as the dancers swept by. Clumsy benches were ranged along the sides,
and mixed with the odor of the burning pine-knots was the scent of the
corn and the leathery odor of the deerskin garments.
Marianne and Kate wore cotton prints, and, in imitation of a fashion
then in vogue, they had each contrived from some "book-muslin" curtains
which had been lying away, a scarf, trimmed around the hem with a frill
of lace lent by Mrs. Reyburn for the occasion. They were a little
conscious of the responsibility their vanity brought them, for Mrs.
Reyburn had given them many charges to be careful of the lace which
her mother's mother had brought from France, and which could never be
replaced if anything were to happen to it. Rather incongruous it was,
to be sure, worn with the gay calico gowns, but the girls were vastly
pleased with this addition of elegance to their costumes.
"I am sure we will look as fine as any one," Marianne had declared as
she stood on tiptoe to peep into the small mirror over her bureau. "I
am so pleased that we found this book-muslin. It is a little stiff, but
it will become more flowing the longer we wear it. Mother has lent me
her brooch. I should like to have my curious bracelet, but it does not
spoil my pleasure to be deprived of it."
Nothing did spoil her pleasure, although she felt a small pang of envy
to see that Minerva Ashman, the prettiest girl in the room, was one
of the few who wore a silk gown. And although she could not bear Jack
Silverthorn, Marianne told herself that he needn't have singled out the
belle of the evening for his special attentions. He might have been
more polite to her, if only for appearance' sake; but she remembered
that he had begun their acquaintance by being rude, and she didn't
care, she had plenty of partners,--which in truth she had, and so did
Kate, who acquitted herself nobly in the matter of dancing, in spite of
her declaring that she had no knowledge of the figures.
Marianne's most devoted admirer was a young Kentuckian, who claimed
distant cousinship. Mr. Reyburn had brought him up to present to his
daughter, and beamed with pleasure as he told her he had discovered a
kinsman from his native State. "This is Sergeant Frederic Lyle," he
told her. "Come to find out, he is a cousin upon my mother's side; your
grandmother was a Lyle, you know, and you must make your cousin Fred
feel at home."
"A cousin? How nice!" Marianne exclaimed. "I have not many cousins. Am
I to say Cousin Fred or Mr. Lyle?"
"Cousin Fred, please," said the young man, eagerly. "It will make it
seem so much more like home; and I hope I may say Cousin Marianne."
"Why, yes, I have no objection; and it is a poor rule that will not
work both ways. Do you dance? Shall I find you a partner? Minerva
Ashman is the belle of the evening, you see, and if you have not been
presented--"
"I need not be. She seems to be quite well attended. The young
gentlemen hover around her like moths around a candle. I must confess
such brilliant beauty does not attract me. I can find greater charms
closer at hand." He bowed gallantly. "If you have not promised the next
dance, may I hope that you will honor me?"
"I am afraid the next is promised, but--"
"The next, then?"
"Yes, I can give you that." And her father nodded approvingly as she
swept by with this new cousin.
"They make a pretty good-looking couple," he said with satisfaction
to his wife. But Mrs. Reyburn did not reply. There was Victor, absent
and out of mind. She agreed with her mother that no better match for
Marianne could be found than Victor, and in time it might be brought
about. Yet she did not forget that her husband, with American notions,
would hardly second her in arranging a marriage French fashion, and in
thinking of this she sighed.
"Why that sigh, my wife?" Mr. Reyburn asked. "Are you tired, or does
the supper not satisfy your housewifely desires?"
"It is the war of which I think," she made reply. "At all festivities
we have had my family present, and now they cannot get to us nor we to
them."
"To be sure; that is too bad. Well, the war will not last long, and it
has brought us an increase of guests in all these soldier lads. The
girls do not lack for beaux to-night."
"Ours never did," returned Mrs. Reyburn. Her eyes followed Marianne,
who was smiling up into the face of the tall Kentuckian. And then her
gaze wandered to where Royal sat toying with the end of Kate's scarf.
"He will ruin the lace with his clumsy fingers," Mrs. Reyburn murmured.
And with this thought came another of Victorine, patient and loving; of
Victor, faithful and devoted, on the other side of the river.
It was nearly morning when the dance broke up. "It was a great
success," declared Kate, when the two girls had sought their chilly
little room. "I never had such a good time,--no, never. I wish Sue
could have been here, and then my happiness would have been complete."
Marianne was dreamily smoothing out her scarf, and did not answer.
"What makes you so quiet?" Kate asked. "Are you disappointed?"
Marianne roused herself with a start. "No, no, I am not. Yes, I wish
Sue could have been here; and I am glad you had a good time, Kate." She
paused for a moment and then asked, "Do you think Minerva Ashman very
beautiful?"
"Not beautiful, but quite handsome. She is dark and brilliant and
showy, and in that dress looked very well."
"Yes, the dress was handsome. Oh, Kate, is not my new cousin a fine
lad? He will be here very often, for he is homesick, poor fellow, and
my father wishes him to feel that he can come here at will."
"And that will please you?"
"Certainly; a cousin, yet not too nearly related, and one who is almost
a stranger; the situation is full of promise. He is a devoted patriot,
and on that question we can strike hands. You can see how my father
approves of him, and his manners are certainly those of a gentleman. He
is not like some persons, who forget to be polite."
"Do you chance to mean any one in particular?" Kate asked.
"Oh, no," returned Marianne, indifferently. "I was speaking in a
general way. But mercy! it is not far from morning, and we shall lose
every bit of our beauty sleep." At which terrible suggestion Kate
hurried off her clothes, and they climbed shivering into bed, to sink
down comfortably into the feathers which billowed up warmly around them.
The winter promised to pass pleasantly enough. There were no specially
aggressive movements upon the Niagara frontier, with the exception of
a few skirmishes; the volunteers had gone to their homes, and only the
regulars were in their winter camp. It was Virginia and Maryland that
at this time were suffering from the depredations of the enemy, for
Cockburn and his men were not idle there. On the ocean, too, battles
were frequent, and from time to time came the news of more than one
naval victory.
At the Reyburn farmstead there was no lack of jollity. Given an
encampment of soldiers near the home of two lively girls, and it
could not be expected but that good times would follow. Among the
most frequent visitors was Fred Lyle, who proved himself to be a good
comrade for riding, skating, or in fact for any indoor or outdoor
sport. He and Marianne were on the best of terms, and if any kind of
frolic were proposed, he was the first to offer his escort. Well
bundled up in furs, the merry sleigh-riders would enjoy a dash over the
hard snow and appear at the house of some neighbor, who always kept on
hand a supply of provisions for the comfort of just such visitors; then
after the hot supper was eaten, off again they would dash. Or it might
be an afternoon on the ice, cutting fantastic figures; or on mild days
a horseback ride would be taken along the side of the great gorge to
the wonderful falls above.
Between Marianne and Jack there had not arisen a better appearance of
friendliness. They were constantly differing. "It seems to me that
Marianne goes out of her way to say sharp things," Jack complained to
his sister, "and she is hand in glove with that long-legged Kentucky
chap, who knows entirely too well how to presume upon his distant
relationship."
"That's not for you to complain of," Kate told him. "If her parents
and her brother are satisfied with his way of acting, it is none of
our business. He is a good fellow, Jack, and you know it. Besides,
you might expect that he would receive more consideration, being an
American soldier."
"But I am not in arms," grumbled Jack.
"No; but you have been."
"I just wish I had him on the other side of the river," said Jack, with
decision.
"What would you do with him?" asked Kate, her dimples showing.
"I'd keep him there."
"And stay there yourself to watch him. I don't see that you'd be any
better off than you are now. You might have gone home long ago, but you
stayed here from preference; so you have no one to blame but yourself,
if you don't like it. What's the use of fussing, Jack, just because a
girl flouts you,--and a girl that you don't specially care for, too.
It's just because you want to play first fiddle; and that's all there
is to it."
"That's all you know about it," returned Jack. "I think my own sister
might side with me, but you always stand up for Marianne every time."
"Of course I do, because she's a girl, and I'm a girl."
"Oh, and not because she's Roy's sister."
Kate drew herself up with dignity. "Jack, if you ever say such a thing
again, I'll--I'll not speak to you. Don't you know that it is arranged
that Royal is to marry Victorine La Rue?"
Jack stared. "Who told you such a thing?" he asked.
"Mrs. Reyburn."
"Well, I vow! Why, Kit, she's almost a hunchback."
"But she is beautiful."
"Who says so?"
"Marianne."
"Who else?"
"Her mother--and Royal."
"Well, I vow!" repeated Jack. Then after a pause, "Well, all is, I
think Royal is treating you pretty shabbily."
"Jack, don't you dare to say such a thing!" cried Kate, bursting into
tears. "It isn't true. We are only good friends, and I don't want him
to be anything more. Any one can see that. Every one can, can't they.
Jack?"
"I can't see it, then. Look here, Kate,"--Jack put his arm around his
sister,--"I wouldn't for the world make you cry. By George! I wish we'd
gone home long ago. We're both pretty well knocked out by the pair of
them."
Kate wiped her eyes, and rested her head on Jack's shoulder. "You
mean--Marianne and Royal?"
Jack nodded.
"You are knocked out, Jack? Are you really? Do you actually care
how Marianne treats you? I thought it was just your vanity that was
touched. I didn't know it was your heart. Poor old Jack!"
"Don't 'poor old' me! I can stand it, I suppose; but I wish I had never
seen the saucy little witch. Let's drop it, Kate. I'm not going to
give up, though. I have that much of the British bulldog about me that
I know how to hold on. Yet what you tell me about Roy confounds me. I
should think if there were anything of that kind settled upon, that he
would have told me."
"Let's drop that, too," said Kate. "We'll try to stand it as best we
can. They are all awfully good to us, Jack; and we've no claim on them.
They never make us feel that we are aliens and here under protest; but
oh! I want to see Sue and father."
"And I am the one who has been keeping you here all this time. It is
all my fault. I ought to have thought of some one else besides myself."
Jack patted the curly head resting against his shoulder. "Well, cheer
up, old girl; we'll try to get back. I guess it's what is best for us
both."
This conversation occurred the day upon which a little party started
out for an afternoon ride. It was a mild day for the season, but the
air was crisp and exhilarating. Marianne rode ahead with her two
attendant knights, Jack and Fred; Kate followed with Royal. In spite of
the fact that she directed most of her conversation to Fred, Jack stuck
close by Marianne's side. As for Kate, she had no reason to complain
of the lack of attention from her cavalier; if there was any fault to
find, it was because of his too devoted air. It hurt Kate. Why could
he not joke and laugh and tease as Fred was doing? It half annoyed her
that there should be long lapses of silence in which Royal would give
her such glances as should be given only to the woman he loved. She
tried to keep before her the face of Victorine La Rue as Marianne had
described it: the face of a saint with glorious eyes, a perfect mouth,
and that marvellous cloud of hair falling over her shoulders. She spoke
out her thought: "It must be very hard for you to be deprived of going
to your grandmother's."
"It would be under some circumstances," returned Royal. "I never
thought I could be so content at home. I have always chafed under my
father's rule, but now nothing seems to make much difference." He
looked at Kate with a tender smile.
She lowered her lids and did not look at him as she said: "It
is unfortunate that you and your father cannot come to a good
understanding. If anything should happen to either of you, it would be
a great sorrow to remember that you were estranged."
"Yes, I think so now. I felt that when I saw him wounded and in the
hands of those savages."
"How glad you must have been to be able to rescue him, and to take him
to your grandmother's. They must miss you there, when you have always
spent so much of your time with them."
"No doubt they do miss me, but Victor is very capable, and he looks
after everything as a son of the house would; in fact he is a son,
though an adopted one."
"Victorine, his sister; I think you have told me that she is very
beautiful."
"Of face, yes, poor girl."
"And of character."
"She is an angel of goodness."
"Then, in spite of her deformity, she is very lovable."
"No one could help loving her. You would if you knew her, as I hope you
will some day."
Kate gave a little quick sigh. But just at that moment there was a
sudden stifled scream from Marianne, and Kate drew rein. Then from the
side of the road sprang out a figure which caught her bridle, and on
the other side a hand was laid on Royal. Sudden shots rung out upon the
air, then a horse went riderless along the road ahead. Jack was down on
the ground, and Fred Lyle was struggling with a man. Kate, bewildered
at this sudden onslaught, sat perfectly still, but recovering herself,
leaned forward to look below the furry cap of the man who had stopped
her progress. She gave an amazed cry: "Grandfather!"
"Sh!" said her captor. "Keep quiet, my girl; we'll have you home in a
trice."
By this time Fred was overpowered, and Marianne, held by a pair of
strong arms, was indignantly protesting against this procedure. "I'm
sorry," said a voice, which sounded very familiar to Kate, "but we'll
have to take you all along, if we want to get off at all. You needn't
be afraid that any one is going to treat you badly, Miss Reyburn. Come,
boys, we'll let the horses go."
"Oh, but my parents, they will be so alarmed!" cried Marianne. "They
will think something dreadful has happened to us."
The man picked up a bit of birch bark, and scribbled on it: "We are all
safe, but are prisoners. We are promised good care and a safe return."
"There, sign your name to that, and we'll let your horse carry that
home instead of you," said Marianne's captor, still holding her by
the wrist. Marianne obeyed, and the note was fastened securely. "That
will go as safe as by post," said the man. "The horse will probably go
straight home." He turned Marianne's gentle little mare, gave her a
light cut, and she cantered off.
By a short detour the members of the riding party were led along the
cliffs to a woody path which took them to the river, which was still
open. Here two boats were waiting. "This is a pretty how-do-you-do,"
said Fred to Marianne; "right here, in sight of our own shores, to
be carried off like a bundle of old clothes! I hope we will get over
without being fired upon by our own people."
"You'll not be fired upon," said his escort. "We brought over some
provender, and we've a right to go back. There are plenty of folks
along here who can be bought off with a small sum; and if you think
there's no bartering back and forth, you are mistaken. We are all good
loyalists here, except perhaps yourself."
"I am an American soldier, and no loyalist to your British king."
"I am no loyalist, either," spoke up Marianne. "At least, I am loyal to
my own country but not to that wicked old England."
"Sh!" warned Fred, fearing for the girl in her outspoken declaration;
but the man only laughed. "We don't care what little lasses profess to
be; it's only the men we are fighting. My son and daughter and the rest
of us are good loyalists, so we are in the majority."
"Your son and daughter!" cried Marianne. "Then you are Mr. Silverthorn.
I thought your voice sounded very familiar. Oh, now I don't so much
mind, though it was very mean of you to grab us in this way. You'll not
hurt Cousin Fred, Mr. Silverthorn? I think you ought to let him go."
She laid her hand on the young man's arm.
"He's your cousin Fred, is he. I guess we don't want to hurt him, but
we'll have to take him over just for the fun of the thing; and when
we get home, we'll see what Jack has to say about it. We'll treat you
rebels according to the way you've treated my boy and girl."
Marianne was conscious that personally she had not treated Jack very
well, but she knew his creature comforts had been well supplied, and
so far as the rest of her family were concerned, he would have no
complaint to make; so she concluded that she would have to accept the
situation, which was much less dreadful than it at first seemed.