A NIGHT AND A MORNING
As our coach passed Crown Street I could no longer doubt whither we
were bound. The shock of certainty aroused me from the stunned lethargy
which had chained me to silence. At the same moment Sir Peter thrust
his head from the window and called to his coachman:
"Drive home first!" And to me, resuming his seat: "We had nigh
forgotten the case of pistols, Carus."
The horses swung west into Maiden Lane, then south through Nassau
Street, across Crown, Little Queen, and King Streets, swerving to the
right around the City Hall, then sharp west again, stopping at our own
gate with a clatter and clash of harness.
Sir Peter leaped out lightly, and I followed, leaving Dr. Carmody, with
his surgical case, to await our return.
Under the door-lanthorn Sir Peter turned, and in a low voice asked me
if I could remember where the pistol-case was laid.
My mind was now clear and alert, my wits already busily at work. To
prevent Sir Peter's facing Walter Butler; to avoid Cunningham's
gallows; could the first be accomplished without failure in the second?
Arrest might await me at any instant now, here in our own house, there
at the Coq d'Or, or even on the very field of honor itself.
"Where did you leave the pistol-case that day you practised in the
garden?" I asked coolly.
"'Twas you took it, Carus," he said. "Were you not showing the pistols
to Elsin Grey?"
I dropped my head, pretending to think. He waited a moment, then drew
out his latch-key and opened the door very softly. A single
sconce-candle flared in the hall; he lifted it from the gilded socket
and passed into the state drawing-room, holding the light above his
head, and searching over table and cabinet for the inlaid case.
Standing there in the hall I looked up the dark and shadowy stairway.
There was no light, no sound. In the drawing-room I heard Sir Peter
moving about, opening locked cupboards, lacquered drawers, and crystal
doors, the shifting light of his candle playing over wall and ceiling.
Why he had not already found the case where I had placed it on the
gilded French table I could not understand, and I stole to the door and
looked in. The French table stood empty save for a vase of shadowy
flowers; Sir Peter was on his knees, candle in hand, searching the
endless lines of book-shelves in the library. A strange suspicion stole
into my heart which set it drumming on my ribs. Had Elsin Grey removed
the pistols? Had she wit enough to understand the matters threatening?
I looked up at the stairs again, then mounted them noiselessly, and
traversed the carpeted passage to her door. There was a faint light
glimmering under the sill. I laid my face against the panels and
whispered, "Elsin!"
"Who is there?" A movement from within, a creak from the bed, a rustle
of a garment, then silence. Listening there, ear to her door, I heard
distinctly the steady breathing of some one also listening on the other
side.
"Elsin!"
"Is it you, Carus?"
She opened the door wide and stood there, candle in one hand, rubbing
her eyes with the other, lace night-cap and flowing, beribboned robe
stirring in the draft of air from the dark hallway. But under the
loosened neck-cloth I caught a gleam of a metal button, and instantly I
was aware of a pretense somewhere, for beneath the flowing polonaise of
chintz, or Levete, which is a kind of gown and petticoat tied on the
left hip with a sash of lace, she was fully dressed, aye, and shod for
the street.
Instinctively I glanced at the bed, made a quick step past her, and
drew the damask curtain. The bed had not been slept in.
"What are you thinking of, Carus?" she said hotly, springing to the
curtain. There was a sharp sound of cloth tearing; she stumbled, caught
my arm, and straightened up, red as fire, for the hem of her Levete was
laid open to the knee, and displayed a foot-mantle, under which a tiny
golden spur flashed on a lacquered boot-heel.
"What does this mean?" I said sternly. "Whither do you ride at such an
hour?"
She was speechless.
"Elsin! Elsin! If you had wit enough to hide Sir Peter's pistols,
render them to me now. Delay may mean my ruin."
She stood at bay, eying me, uncertain but defiant.
"Where are they?" I urged impatiently.
"He shall not fight that man!" she muttered. "If I am the cause of this
quarrel I shall end it, too. What if he were killed by Walter Butler?"
"The pistols are beneath your mattress!" I said suddenly. "I must have
them."
Quick as thought she placed herself between me and the bed, blue eyes
sparkling, arms wide.
"Will you go?" she whispered fiercely. "How dare you intrude here!"
Taken aback by the sudden fury that flashed out in my very face, I gave
ground.
"You little wildcat," I said, amazed, "give me the pistols! I know how
to act. Give them, I say! Do you think me a poltroon to allow Sir Peter
to face this rascal's fire?"
She straightened with a sudden quiver.
"You! The pistols were for _you!_"
"For me and Walter Butler," I said coolly. "Give them, Elsin. What has
been done this night has set me free of my vow. Can you not understand?
I tell you he stands in my light, throwing the shadow of the gallows
over me! May a man not win back to life but a chit of a maid must
snatch his chance away? Give them, or I swing at dawn upon the common!"
A flush of horror swept her cheeks, leaving her staring. Her wide-flung
arms dropped nervelessly and hung beside her.
"Is it _true_," she faltered--"what he came here to tell us on his way
to that vile tavern? I gave him the lie, Carus. I gave him the lie there
in the hall below." She choked, laying her white hand on her throat.
"Speak!" she said harshly; "do you fear to face this dreadful charge he
flung in my teeth? I"--she almost sobbed--"I told him that he lied."
"He did not lie. I am a spy these four years here," I said wearily.
"Will you give me those pistols now?--or I take them by force!"
"Carus," called Sir Peter from the hall, "if Lady Coleville has my
pistols, she must render them to you on the instant."
His passionless voice rang through the still, dark house.
"She has gone to the Coq d'Or," muttered Elsin Grey, motionless before
me.
"To stop this duel?"
"To stop it. Oh, my God!"
There was a silence, broken by a quick tread on the stairs. The next
moment Sir Peter appeared, staring at us there, candle flaring in his
hand, his fingers striped with running wax.
"What does this mean?" he asked, confused. "Where is Lady Coleville?"
"She has gone to the Coq d'Or," I said. "Your pistols are hidden, sir."
He paled, gazing at Elsin Grey.
"She guessed that I meant to--to exchange a shot with Captain Butler?"
he stammered.
"It appears," said I, "that Mr. Butler, with that delicacy for which he
is notorious, stopped here on his way to the tavern. You may imagine
Lady Coleville could not let this matter proceed."
He gazed miserably at Elsin, passing his hand over his haggard face.
Then, slowly turning to me: "My honor is engaged, Carus. What is best
now? I am in your hands."
I laid my arm in his, quietly turning him and urging him to the stairs.
"Leave it to me," I whispered, taking the candle he held. "Go to the
coach and wait there. I will be with you in a moment."
The door of Elsin's chamber closed behind us. He descended the black
stairway, feeling his way by touch along the slim rail of the
banisters, and I waited there, lighting him from above until the front
doors clashed behind him. Then I turned back to the closed door of
Elsin's chamber and knocked loudly.
She flung it wide again, standing this time fully dressed, a gilt-edged
tricorn on her head, and in her hands riding-whip and gloves.
"I know what need be done," she said haughtily. "Through this meshed
tangle of treachery and dishonor there leads but one clean path. That I
shall tread, Mr. Renault!"
"Let the words go," I said between tightening lips, "but give me that
pair of pistols, now!"
"For Sir Peter's use?"
"No, for mine."
"I shall not!"
"Oh, you would rather see me hanged, like Captain Hale?"
She whitened where she stood, tugging at her gloves, teeth set in her
lower lip.
"You shall neither fight nor hang," she said, her blue eyes fixed on
space, busy with her gloves the while--so busy that her whip dropped,
and I picked it up.
There was a black loup-mask hanging from her girdle. When her gloves
were fitted to suit her she jerked the mask from the string and set it
over her eyes.
"My whip?" she asked curtly.
I gave it.
"Now," she said, "your pistol-case lies hid beneath my bed-covers. Take
it, Mr. Renault, but it shall serve a purpose that neither you nor
Walter Butler dream of!"
I stared at her without a word. She opened the beaded purse at her
girdle, took from it a heaping handful of golden guineas, and dropped
them on her dresser, where they fell with a pleasant sound, rolling
together in a shining heap. Then, looking through her mask at me, she
fumbled at her throat, caught a thin golden chain, snapped it in two,
and drew a tiny ivory miniature from her breast; and still looking
straight into my eyes she dropped it face upward on the polished floor.
It bore the likeness of Walter Butler. She set her spurred heel upon it
and crushed it, grinding the fragments into splinters. Then she walked
by me, slowly, her eyes still on mine, the hem of her foot-mantle
slightly lifted; and so, turning her head to watch me, she passed the
door, closed it behind her, and was gone.
What the strange maid meant to do I did not know, but I knew what lay
before me now. First I flung aside the curtains of her bed, tore the
fine linen from it, burrowing in downy depths, under pillow, quilt, and
valance, until my hands encountered something hard; and I dragged out
the pistol-case and snapped it open. The silver-chased weapons lay
there in perfect order; under the drawer that held them was another
drawer containing finest priming-powder, shaped wads, ball, and a case
of flints.
So all was ready and in order. I closed the case and hurried up the
stairway to my room, candle in hand. Ha! The wainscot cupboard I had so
cunningly devised was swinging wide. In it had been concealed that
blotted sheet rejected from the copy of my letter to his
Excellency--nothing more; yet that alone was quite enough to hang me,
and I knew it as I stood there, my candle lighting an empty cupboard.
Suddenly terror laid an icy hand upon me. I shook to my knees,
listening. Why had he not denounced me, then? And in the same instant
the answer came: _He_ was to profit by my disgrace; _he_ was to be
aggrandized by my downfall. The drama he had prepared was to be set in
scenery of his own choosing. His savant fingers grasped the tiller,
steering me inexorably to my destruction.
Yet, as I stood there, teeth set, tearing my finery from me, flinging
coat one way, waistcoat another, and dressing me with blind haste in
riding-clothes and boots, I felt that just a single chance was left to
me with honor; and I seized the passes that Sir Henry had handed me for
Sir Peter and his lady, and stuffed them into my breast-pocket.
Gloved, booted, spurred, I caught up the case of pistols, ran down the
stairs, flung open the door, and slammed it behind me.
Sir Peter stood waiting by the coach; and when he saw me with his
pistol-case he said: "Well done, Carus! I had no mind to go hammering
at a friend's door to beg a brace of pistols at such an hour."
I placed the case after he had entered the coach. Dr. Carmody made room
for me, but I shook my head.
"I ride," I said. "Wait but an instant more."
"Why do you ride?" asked Sir Peter, surprised.
"You will understand later," I said gaily. "Be patient, gentlemen;" and
I ran for the stables. Sleepy hostlers in smalls and bare feet tumbled
out in the glare of the coach-house lanthorn at my shout.
"The roan," I said briefly. "Saddle for your lives!"
The stars were no paler in the heavens as I stood there on the grass,
waiting, yet dawn must be very near now; and, indeed, the birds' chorus
broke out as I set foot to stirrup, though still all was dark around
me.
"Now, gentlemen," I said, spurring up to the carriage-door. I nodded to
the coachman, and we were off at last, I composed and keenly alert,
cantering at Sir Peter's coach-wheels, perfectly aware that I was
riding for my liberty at last, or for a fall that meant the end of all
for me.
There was a chaise standing full in the light of the tavern windows
when we clattered up--a horse at the horse-block, too, and more horses
tied to the hitching-ring at the side-door.
At the sound of our wheels Mr. Jessop appeared, hastening from the
cherry grove, and we exchanged salutes very gravely, I asking pardon
for the delay, he protesting at apology; saying that an encounter by
starlight was, after all, irregular, and that his principal desired to
wait for dawn if it did not inconvenience us too much.
Then, hat in hand, he asked Sir Peter's indulgence for a private
conference with me, and led me away by the arm into a sweet-smelling
lane, all thick with honeysuckle and candleberry shrub.
"Carus," he said, "this is painfully irregular. We are proceeding as
passion dictates, not according to code. Mr. Butler has no choice but
to accept, yet he is innocent of wrong intent, and has so informed me."
"Does he deny his marriage?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, most solemnly. The lady was his mistress, since discarded.
He is quite guiltless of this affront to Sir Peter Coleville, and
desires nothing better than to say so."
"That concerns us all," I said seriously. "I am acting for Sir Peter,
and I assume the responsibility without consulting him. Where is Mr.
Butler?"
"In the tap-room parlor."
"Say to him that Sir Peter will receive him in the coffee-room," I said
quietly.
Jessop impulsively laid his honest hand upon my shoulder as we turned
toward the tavern.
"Thank you, Carus," he said. "I am happy that I have to deal with you
instead of some fire-eating, suspicious bullhead sniffing for secret
mischief where none lies hid."
"I hear that Lady Coleville is come to stop the duel at any cost," I
observed, halting at the door. "May we not hope to avoid a distressing
scene, Jessop?"
"We must," he answered, as I left him in the hallway and entered the
coffee-room where Sir Peter waited, seated alone, his feet to the empty
fireplace.
"Where is Lady Coleville?" he asked, as I stepped up. "She must not
remain here, Carus."
"You are not to fight," I said, smiling.
"Not to fight!" he repeated, slowly rising, eyes ablaze.
"Pray trust me with your honor," I replied impatiently, opening the
door to a servant's knock. And to the wide-eyed fellow I said: "Go and
say to Lady Coleville that Sir Peter is not to fight. Say to her----"
I stopped short. Lady Coleville appeared in an open doorway across the
hall, her gaze passing my shoulder straight to Sir Peter, who stood
facing her behind me.
"What pleasantry is this?" she asked, advancing, a pale smile stamped
on her lovely face.
I made way. She stepped before me, walking straight to Sir Peter. I
followed, closing the door behind me.
"Have I ever, ever in all these years, counseled you to dishonor?" she
asked. "Then listen now. There is no honor in this thing you seek to
do, but in it there lies a dreadful wrong to me."
"He offered insult to our kin--our guest. I can not choose but ask the
only reparation he can give," said Sir Peter steadily.
"And leave me to the chance of widowhood?"
Sir Peter whitened to a deathly hue; his distressed eyes traveled from
her to me; he made to speak, but no sound came.
"This is all useless," I said quietly, as a knock came at the door. I
stepped back and opened it to Walter Butler.
When he saw me his dark eyes lit up with that yellow glare I knew
already. Then he turned, bowing to Lady Coleville and to Sir Peter,
who, pale and astounded, stared at the man as though the fiend himself
stood there before him.
"Sir Peter," began his enemy, "I have thought----"
But I cut him short with a contemptuous laugh.
"Sir Peter," I said, "Mr. Butler is here to say that he is not wedded
to his Tryon County mistress--that is all; and as he therefore has not
offended you, there is no reason for you to challenge him. Now, sir, I
pray you take Lady Coleville and return. Go, in God's name, Sir Peter,
for time spurs me, and I have business here to keep me!"
"Let Sir Peter remain," said Butler coldly. "My quarrel is not with
him, nor his with me."
"No," said I gaily, "it is with me, I think."
"Carus," cried Lady Coleville, "I forbid you! What senseless thing is
this you seek?"
"Pray calm yourself, madam," said Mr. Butler; "he stands in more danger
of the gallows than of me."
Sir Peter pushed forward. I caught his arm, forcing him aside, but he
struggled, saying: "Did you not hear the man? Let me go, Carus; do you
think such an insult to you can pass me like a puff of sea-wind?"
"It strikes me first," I said. "It is to me that Mr. Butler answers."
"No, gentlemen, to _me!_" said a low voice behind us--the voice of Elsin
Grey.
Amazed, we turned, passion still marring our white faces. Calm,
bright-eyed, a smile that I had never seen imprinted on her closed
lips, she walked to the table, unlocked the case of pistols, lifted
them, and laid them there in the yellow lamplight.
"Elsin! Elsin!" stammered Lady Coleville; "have you, too, gone mad?"
"This is _my_ quarrel," she said, turning on me so fiercely that I
stepped back. "If any shot is fired in deference to me, _I_ fire it;
if any bullet is sped to defend my honor, _I_ speed it, gentlemen.
Why"--and she turned like a flash upon Sir Peter--"why do you assume to
interfere in this? Is not an honest man's duty to his own wife first?
Small honor you do yourself or her!--scant love must you bear her to
risk your life to chance in a quarrel that concerns not you!"
Astounded and dumb, we stood there as though rooted to the floor.
She looked at Butler and laughed; picked up a pistol, loaded it with
incredible deftness, laid it on the table, and began loading the other.
"Elsin! Elsin!" cried Lady Coleville, catching her by the waist, "what
is this wild freak of yours? Have you all gone mad to-night?"
"You shake my hand and spill the powder," said the Hon. Miss Grey,
smiling.
"Elsin," murmured Walter Butler, "has this fellow Renault poisoned you
against me?"
"Why, no, sir. You are married to a wife and dare to court me! There
lies the poison, Mr. Butler!"
"Hush, Elsin!" murmured Lady Coleville. "It was a mistake, dear. Mr.
Butler is not married to the--the lady--to anybody. He swears it!"
"Not wedded?" She stared, then turned scarlet to her hair. And Walter
Butler, I think, mistook the cause and meaning of that crimson shame,
for he smiled, and drawing a paper from his coat, spread it to Sir
Peter's eyes.
"I spoke of the gallows, Sir Peter, and you felt yourself once more
affronted. Yet, if you will glance at this----"
"What is it?" asked Sir Peter, looking him in the eye.
"Treason, Sir Peter--a letter--part of one--to the rebel Washington,
written by a spy!"
"A lie! _I_ wrote it!" said the Hon. Miss Grey.
Walter Butler turned to her, amazed, doubting his ears.
"A jest," she continued carelessly, "to amuse Mr. Renault."
"Amuse _him_! It is in his own hand!" stammered Butler.
"Apparently. But I wrote it, imitating his hand to plague him. It is
indifferently done," she added, with a shrug. "I hid it in the cupboard
he uses for his love-letters. How came it in your fingers, Mr. Butler?"
In blank astonishment he stood there, the letter half extended, his
eyes almost starting from his face. Slowly she moved forward,
confronting him, insolent eyes meeting his; and, ere he could guess
what she purposed, she had snatched the blotted fragment from him and
crushed it in her hand, always eying him until he crimsoned in the
focus of her white contempt.
"Go!" she said. Her low voice was passionless.
He turned his burning eyes from her to Lady Coleville, to Sir Peter,
then bent his gaze on me. What he divined in my face I know not, but
the flame leaped in his eyes, and that ghastly smile stretched the
muscles of his visage.
"My zeal, it seems, has placed me at a sorry disadvantage," he said.
"Error piled on error growing from a most unhappy misconstruction of my
purposes has changed faith to suspicion, amity to coldness. I know not
what to say to clear myself--" He turned his melancholy face to Elsin;
all anger had faded from it, and only deepest sadness shadowed the pale
brow. "I ventured to believe, in days gone by, that my devotion was not
utterly displeasing--that perhaps the excesses of a stormy and
impetuous youth might be condoned in the humble devotion of an honest
passion----"
The silence was intense. He turned dramatically to Sir Peter, his
well-shaped hand opening in graceful salute as he bowed.
"I ask you, sir, to lend a gentle judgment till I clear myself. And of
your lady, I humbly beg that mercy also." Again he bowed profoundly,
hand on hilt, a perfect figure of faultless courtesy, graceful,
composed, proudly enduring, proudly subduing pride.
Then he slowly raised his dark head and looked at me. "Mr. Renault," he
said, "it is my misfortune that our paths have crossed three times. I
trust they cross no more, but may run hereafter in pleasant parallel. I
was hasty, I was wrong to judge you by what you said concerning the
Oneidas. I am impatient, over-sensitive, quick to fire at what I deem
an insult to my King. I serve him as my hot blood dictates--and,
burning with resentment that you should dare imperil my design, I
searched your chamber to destroy the letter you had threatened warning
the Oneidas of their coming punishment. How can you blame me if I took
this lady's playful jest for something else?"
"I do not blame you, Captain Butler," I said disdainfully.
"Then may we not resume an intercourse as entertaining as it was full
of profit to myself?"
"Time heals--but Time must not be spurred too hard," I answered,
watching him.
His stealthy eyes dropped as he inclined his head in acquiescence.
Then Sir Peter spoke, frankly, impetuously, his good heart dictating
ever to his reason; and what he said was amiable and kind, standing
there, his sweet lady's arm resting on his own. And she, too, spoke
graciously but gravely, with a gentle admonition trailing at the end.
But when he turned to Elsin Grey, she softened nothing, and her gesture
committed him to silence while she spoke: "End now what you have said
so well, nor add one word to that delicate pyramid of eloquence which
you have raised so high to your own honor, Captain Butler. I am
slow-witted and must ask advice from that physician, Time, whom Mr.
Renault, too, has called in council."
"Am I, then, banished?" he asked below his breath.
"Ask yourself, Mr. Butler. And if you find no reply, then I shall
answer you."
All eyes were on her. What magic metamorphosis had made this woman from
a child in a single night! Where had vanished that vague roundness of
cheek and chin in this drawn beauty of maturity? that untroubled eye,
that indecision of caprice, that charming restlessness, that childish
confidence in others, accepting as a creed what grave lips uttered as a
guidance to the lesser years that rested lightly on her?
And Walter Butler, too, had noted some of this, perplexed at the
reserve, the calm self-confidence, the unimagined strength and cold
composure which he had once swayed by his passion, as a fair and
clean-stemmed sapling tosses in tempests that uproot maturer growth.
His furtive, unconvinced eyes sought the floor as he took his leave
with every ceremony due himself and us. Dawn already whitened the east.
He mounted by the tavern window, and I saw him against the pallid sky
in silhouette, riding slowly toward the city, Jessop beside him, and
their horses' manes whipping the rising sea-wind from the west.
"What a nightmare this has been!" whispered Lady Coleville, her
husband's hands imprisoned in her own. And to Elsin: "Child! what
scenes have we dragged you through! Heaven forgive us!--for you have
learned a sorry wisdom here concerning men!"
"I have learned," she said steadily, "more than you think, madam. Will
you forgive me if I ask a word alone with Mr. Renault?"
"Not here, child. Look! Day comes creeping on us yonder in the hills.
Come home before you have your talk with Carus. You may ride with him
if you desire, but follow us."
Sir Peter turned to gather up his pistols; but Elsin laid her hand on
them, saying that I would care for everything.
"Sure, she means to have her way with us as well as with Walter
Butler," he said humorously. "Come, sweetheart, leave them to this new
wisdom Elsin found along the road somewhere between the Coq d'Or and
Wall Street. They may be wiser than they seem; they could not well be
less wise than they are."
The set smile on Elsin's lips changed nothing as Sir Peter led his
lady, all reluctant, from the coffee-room, where the sunken candles
flickered in the pallid light of morning.
From the front windows we saw the coach drive up, and Lady Coleville,
looking back in protest, enter; and after her Sir Peter, and Dr.
Carmody with his cases.
"Come to the door and make as though we meant to mount and follow," she
said quietly. "Here, take these pistols. Raise the pan and lower the
hammers. They are loaded. Thrust them somewhere--beneath your coat. Now
follow me."
I obeyed in silence. As we came out of the tavern-door Lady Coleville
nodded, and her coach moved off, passing our horses, which the hostlers
were bringing round.
I put Elsin up, then swung astride my roan, following her out into the
road--a rod or two only ere she wheeled into the honeysuckle lane,
reining in so that I came abreast of her.
"Now ride!" she said in an unsteady voice. "I know the man you have to
deal with. There is no mercy in him, I tell you, and no safety now for
you until you make the rebel lines."
"I know it," I said; "but what of you?"
"What of me?" She laughed a bitter laugh, striking her horse so that he
bounded forward down the sandy lane, I abreast of her, stride for
stride. "What of me? Why, I lied to him, that is all, Mr. Renault. _And
he knew it!_"
"Is that all?" I asked.
"No, not all. _He_ told the truth to you and to Sir Peter. And _I_ knew
it."
"In what did he tell the truth?"
"In what he said about--his mistress." Her face crimsoned, but she held
her head steady and high, nor faltered at the word.
"How is it that you know?"
"How does a woman know? Tell me and I'll confess it. I know because a
woman knows such things. Let it rest there--a matter scarcely fitted
for discussion between a maid and a man--though I am being soundly
schooled, God wot, in every branch of infamy."
"Then turn here," I said, reining in, "and ride no more with what men
call a spy."
But she galloped on, head set, flushed and expressionless, and I
spurred to overtake her.
"Turn back!" I said hoarsely. "It may go hard with you if I am taken at
the lines!"
"Those passes that Sir Henry gave you--you have them?"
"Yes."
"For Sir Peter and his lady?"
"So they are made out."
"Do they know you at Kingsbridge?"
"Yes. The Fifty-fourth guard it."
"Then how can you hope to pass?"
"I shall pass one way or another," I said between my teeth.
She drew from her breast a crumpled paper, unfolded it, and passed it
to me, galloping beside me all the while. I scanned it carefully; it
was a pass signed by Sir Henry Clinton, permitting her and me to pass
the lines, and dated that very night.
"How in Heaven's name did you secure this paper in the last nick of
time?" I cried, astounded.
"I knew you needed it--from what you said there in my chamber. Do you
remember that Sir Henry left the Fort for a council? It is not far to
Queen Street; and when I left you I mounted and galloped thither."
"But--but what excuse----"
"Ask me not, Carus," she said impatiently, while a new color flowed
through cheek and temple. "Sir Henry first denied me, then he began to
laugh; and I--I galloped here with the ink all wet upon the pass.
Whither leads this lane?"
"To the Kingsbridge road."
"Would they stop and search us if dissatisfied?"
"I think not."
"Well, I shall take no risk," she said, snatching the blotted paper
from her bosom--the paper she had taken from Walter Butler, and which
was written in my hand. "Hide it under a stone in the hedgerow, and
place the passes that you had for Sir Peter with it," she said, drawing
bridle and looking back.
I dismounted, turned up a great stone, thrust the papers under, then
dropped it to its immemorial bed once more.
"Quick!" she whispered. "I heard a horse's iron-shod foot striking a
pebble."
"Behind us?"
"Yes. Now gallop!"
Our horses plunged on again, fretting at the curb. She rode a mare as
black as a crow save for three silvery fetlocks, and my roan's stride
distressed her nothing. Into the Kingsbridge road we plunged in the
white river-mist that walled the hedges from our view, and there, as we
galloped through the sand, far behind us I thought to hear a sound like
metal clipping stone.
"You shall come no farther," I said. "You can not be found in company
with me. Turn south, and strike the Greenwich road."
"Too late," she said calmly. "You forget I compromised myself with that
same pass you carry."
"Why in God's name did you include yourself in it?" I asked.
"Because the pass was denied me until I asked it for us both."
"You mean----"
"I mean that I lied again to Sir Henry Clinton, Mr. Renault. Spare me
now."
Amazed, comprehending nothing, I fell silent for a space, then turned
to scan her face, but read nothing in its immobility.
"Why did you do all this for me, a spy?" I asked.
"For that reason," she answered sharply--"lest the disgrace bespatter
my kinsman, Sir Peter, and his sweet lady."
"But--what will be said when you return alone and I am gone?"
"Nothing, for I do not return."
"You--you----"
"I ask you to spare me. Once the lines are passed there is no danger
that disgrace shall fall on any one--not even on you and me."
"But how--what will folk say----"
"They'll say we fled together to be wedded!" she cried, exasperated.
"If you will force me, learn then that I made excuse and got my pass
for that! I told Sir Henry that I loved you and that I was plighted to
Walter Butler. And Sir Henry, hating Mr. Butler, laughed until he could
not see for the tears, and scratched me off my pass for Gretna Green,
with his choicest blessing on the lie I offered in return! There, sir,
is what I have done. I said I loved you, and I lied. I shall go with
you, then ask a flag of the rebels to pass me on to Canada. And so you
see, Mr. Renault, that no disgrace can fall on me or mine through any
infamy, however black, that others must account for!"
And she drew her sun-mask from her belt and put it on.
Her wit, her most amazing resource, her anger, so amazed me that I rode
on, dazed, swaying in the stride of the tireless gallop. Then in a
flash, alert once more, I saw ahead the mist rising from the Harlem,
the mill on the left, with its empty windows and the two poplar-trees
beside it, the stone piers and wooden railing of the bridge, the
sentinels on guard, already faced our way, watching our swift approach.
As we drew bridle in a whirlwind of sand the guard came tumbling out at
the post's loud bawling, and the officer of the guard followed,
sauntering up to our hard-breathing horses and peering up into our
faces.
"Enderly!" I exclaimed.
"Well, what the devil, Carus--" he began, then bit his words in two and
bowed to the masked lady, perplexed eyes traveling from her to me and
back again. When I held out the pass for his inspection, he took it,
scrutinizing it gravely, nodded, and strolled back to the mill.
"Hurry, Enderly!" I called after him.
He struck a smarter gait, but to me it seemed a year ere he reappeared
with a pass viseed, and handed it to me.
"Have a care," he said; "the country beyond swarms with cowboys and
skinners, and the rebel horse ride everywhere unchecked. They've an
outpost at Valentine's, and riflemen along the Bronx----"
At that instant a far sound came to my ears, distant still on the road
behind us. It was the galloping of horses. Elsin Grey leaped from her
saddle, lifting her mask and smiling sweetly down at Captain Enderly.
"It's a sharp run to Gretna Green," she said. "If you can detain the
gentleman who follows us we will not forget the service, Captain
Enderly!"
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, his perplexed face clearing into grinning
comprehension. And to the sentries: "Fall back there, lads! Free way
for'ard!" he cried. "Now, Carus! Madam, your most obedient!"
The steady thud of galloping horses sounded nearer behind us. I turned,
expecting to see the horsemen, but they were still screened by the
hill.
"Luck to you!" muttered Enderly, as we swung into a canter, our horses'
hoofs drumming thunder on the quivering planks that jumped beneath us
as we spurred to a gallop. Ah! They were shouting now, behind us! They,
too, had heard the echoing tattoo we beat across the bridge.
"Pray God that young man holds them!" she whispered, pale face turned.
"There they are! They spy us now! They are riding at the bridge! Mercy
on us! the soldiers have a horse by the bit, forcing him back. They
have stopped Mr. Butler. _Now_, Carus!"
Into the sand once more we plunged, riding at a sheer run through the
semidarkness of the forest that closed in everywhere; on, on, the wind
whistling in our teeth, her hair blowing, and her gilt-laced hat flying
from the silken cord that held it to her shoulder. How grandly her
black mare bore her--the slight, pale-faced figure sitting the saddle
with such perfect grace and poise!
The road swung to the east, ascending in long spirals. Then through the
trees I caught the glimmer of water--the Bronx River--and beyond I saw
a stubble-field all rosy in the first rays of the rising sun.
The ascent was steeper now. Our horses slackened to a canter, to a
trot, then to a walk as the road rose upward, set with boulders and
loose stones.
I had just turned to caution my companion, and was pointing ahead to a
deep washout which left but a narrow path between two jutting boulders,
when, without the slightest sound, from the shadow of these same rocks
sprang two men, long brown rifles leveled. And in silence we drew
bridle at the voiceless order from the muzzles of those twin barrels
bearing upon us without a tremor.
[Illustration: From the shadow ... sprang two men, long brown rifles
leveled.]
An instant of suspense; the rifle of the shorter fellow swept from
Elsin Grey to me; and I, menaced by both weapons, sat on my heavily
breathing horse, whose wise head and questioning ears reconnoitered
these strange people who checked us at the rocky summit of the hill.
For they were strange, silent folk, clothed in doeskin from neck to
ankle, and alike as two peas in their caped hunting-shirts, belted in
with scarlet wampum, and the fringe falling in soft cascades from
shoulder to cuff, from hip to ankle, following the laced seams.
My roan had become nervous, shaking his head and backing, and Elsin's
restive mare began sidling across their line of fire.
"Rein in, madam!" came a warning voice--"and you, sir! Stand fast
there! Now, young man, from which party do you come?"
"From the lower," I answered cheerfully, "and happy to be clear of
them."
"And with which party do you foregather, my gay cock o' the woods?"
"With the upper party, friend."
"Friend!" sneered the taller fellow, lowering his rifle and casting it
into the hollow of his left arm. "It strikes me that you are somewhat
sudden with your affections--" He came sauntering forward, a giant in
his soft, clinging buckskins, talking all the while in an irritable
voice: "Friend? Maybe, and maybe not," he grumbled; "all eggs don't
hatch into dickey-birds, nor do all rattlers beat the long roll." He
laid a sudden hand on my bridle, looking up at me with swaggering
impudence, which instantly changed into amazed recognition.
"Gad-a-mercy!" he cried, delighted; "is it you, Mr. Renault?"
"It surely is," I said, drawing a long breath of relief to find in
these same forest-runners my two drovers, Mount and the little Weasel.
"How far is it to the lines, friend Mount?"
"Not far, not very far, Mr. Renault," he said. "There should be a post
of Jersey militia this side o' Valentine's, and we're like to see a
brace of Sheldon's dragoons at any moment. Lord, sir, but I'm contented
to see you, for I was loath to leave you in York, and Walter Butler
there untethered, ranging the streets, free as a panther on a sunset
cliff!"
The Weasel, rifle at a peaceful trail, came trotting up beside his
giant comrade, standing on tiptoe to link arms with him, his solemn
owl-like eyes roaming from Elsin Grey to me.
I named them to Elsin. She regarded them listlessly from her saddle,
and they removed their round skull-caps of silver moleskin and bowed to
her.
"I never thought to be so willing to meet rebel riflemen," she said,
patting her horse's mane and glancing at me.
"Lord, Cade!" whispered Mount to his companion, "he's stolen a Tory
maid from under their very noses! Make thy finest bow, man, for the
credit o' Morgan's Men!"
And again the strange pair bowed low, caps in hand, the Weasel with
quiet, quaint dignity, Mount with his elaborate rustic swagger, and a
flourish peculiar to the forest-runner, gay, reckless, yet withal
respectful.
A faint smile touched her eyes as she inclined her proud little head.
Mount looked up at me. I nodded; and the two riflemen wheeled in their
tracks and trotted forward, Mount leading, and his solemn little
comrade following at heel, close as a hound. When they had disappeared
over the hill's rocky summit our horses moved forward at a walk,
breasting the crest, then slowly descended the northern slope, picking
their way among the loosened slate and pebbles.
And now for the first time came to me a delicious thrill of exaltation
in my new-found liberty. Free at last of that prison city. Free at last
to look all men between the eyes. Free to bear arms, and use them, too,
under a flag I had not seen in four long years save as they brought in
our captured colors--a ragged, blood-blackened rag or two to match
those silken standards lost at Bennington and Saratoga.
I looked up into the cloudless sky, I looked around me. I saw the tall
trees tinted by the sun, I felt a free wind blowing from that wild
north I loved so well.
I drew my lungs full. I opened wide my arms, easing each cramped
muscle. I stretched my legs to the stirrup's length in sweetest
content.
Down through a fragrant birch-grown road, smelling of fern and
wintergreen and sassafras, we moved, the cool tinkle of moss-choked
watercourses ever in our ears, mingling with melodies of woodland
birds--shy, freedom-loving birds that came not with the robins to the
city. Ah, I knew these birds, being country-bred--knew them one and
all--the gray hermit, holy chorister of hymn divine, the white-throat,
sweetly repeating his allegiance to his motherland of Canada, the great
scarlet-tufted cock that drums on the bark in stillest depths, the
lonely little creeping-birds that whimper up and down the trunks of
forest trees, and the black-capped chickadee that fears not man, but
cities--all these I listened to, and knew and loved as guerdons of that
freedom which I had so long craved, and craved in vain.
And now I had it; it was mine! I tasted it, I embraced it with wide
arms, I breathed it. And far away I heard the woodland hermits singing
of freedom, and of the sweetness of it, and of the mercies of the Most
High.
Thrilled with happiness, I glanced at Elsin Grey where she rode a pace
or so ahead of me, her fair head bent, her face composed but colorless
as the lace drooping from her stock. The fatigue of a sleepless night
was telling on her, though as yet the reaction of the strain had not
affected me one whit.
She raised her head as I forced my horse forward to her side. "What is
it, Mr. Renault?" she asked coldly.
"I'm sorry you are fatigued, Elsin----"
"I am not fatigued."
"What! after all you have done for me----"
"I have done nothing for _you_, Mr. Renault."
"Nothing?--when I owe you everything that----"
"You owe me nothing that I care to accept."
"My thanks----"
"I tell you you owe me nothing. Let it rest so!"
Her unfriendly eyes warned me to silence, but I said bluntly:
"That Mr. Cunningham is not this moment fiddling with my neck, I owe to
you. I offer my thanks, and I remain at your service. That is all."
"Do you think," she answered quietly, "that a rebel hanged could
interest me unless that hanging smirched my kin?"
"Elsin! Elsin!" I said, "is there not bitterness enough in the world
but you and I must turn our friendship into hate?"
"What do you care whether it turn to hate or--love?" She laughed, but
there was no mirth in her eyes. "You are free; you have done your duty;
your brother rebels will reward you. What further have I to do with
you, Mr. Renault? You have used me, you have used my kin, my friends.
Not that I blame you--nay, Mr. Renault, I admire, I applaud, I
understand more than you think. I even count him brave who can go out
as you have done, scornful of life, pitiless of friendships formed,
reckless of pleasure, of what men call their code of honor; indifferent
to the shameful death that hovers like a shadow, and the scorn of all,
even of friends--for a spy has no friends, if discovered. All this,
sir, I comprehend, spite of my few years which once--when we were
friends--you in your older wisdom found amusing." She turned sharply
away, brushing her eyelashes with gloved fingers.
Presently she looked straight ahead again, a set smile on her tight
lips.
"The puppets in New York danced to the tune you whistled," she said,
"and because you danced, too, they never understood that you were
master of the show. Oh, we all enjoyed the dance, sir--I, too, serving
your designs as all served. Now you have done with us, and it remains
for us to make our exits as gracefully as may be."
She made a little salute with her riding-whip--gracious, quite free of
mockery.
"The fortune of war, Mr. Renault," she said. "Salute to the conqueror!"
"Only a gallant enemy admits as much," I answered, flushing.
"Mr. Renault, am I your enemy?"
"Elsin, I fear you are."
"Why? Because you waked me from my dream?"
"What dream? That nightmare tenanted by Walter Butler that haunted you?
Is it not fortunate that you awoke in time, even if you had loved him?
But you never did!"
"No, I never loved him. But that was not the dream you waked me from."
"More than that, child, you do not know what love means. How should you
know? Why, even I do not know, and I am twenty-three."
"Once," she said, smiling, "I told you that there is no happiness in
love. It is the truth, Mr. Renault; there is no joy in it. That much I
know of love. Now, sir, as you admit you know nothing of it, you can
not contradict me, can you?"
She smiled gaily, leaning forward in her saddle, stroking her horse's
mane.
"No, I am not your enemy," she continued. "There is enough of war in
the world, is there not, Mr. Renault? And I shall soon be on my way to
Canada. Were I your enemy, how impotent am I to compass your
destruction--impotent as a love-sick maid who chooses as her gallant a
gentleman most agreeable, gently bred, faultless in conduct and
address, upon whose highly polished presence she gazes, seeking depth,
and finds but her own silly face mirrored on the surface."
She turned from me and raised her head, gazing up through interlacing
branches into the blue above.
"Ah, we must be friends, Carus," she said wearily; "we have cost each
other too dear."
"I have cost you dear enough," I muttered.
"Not too dear for all you have taught me."
"What have I taught you?"
"To know a dream from the reality," she said listlessly.
"Better you should learn from me than from Walter Butler," I said
bluntly.
"From him! Why, he taught me nothing. I fell in love again--really in
love--for an hour or two--spite of the lesson he could not teach me. I
tell you he taught me nothing--not even to distrust the vows of men. If
it was a wrong he dared to meditate, it touches not me, Carus--touches
me no more than his dishonoring hand, which he never dared to lay upon
me."
"What do you mean?" I asked, troubled. "Have you taken a brief fancy to
another? Do you imagine that you are in love again? What is it that you
mean, Elsin?"
"Mean? God knows. I am tired to the soul, Carus. I have no pride
left--not a shred--nothing of resentment. I fancy I love--yes--and the
mad fancy drags me on, trailing pride, shame, and becoming modesty
after me in the dust." She laughed, flinging her arm out in an
impatient gesture: "What is this war to me, Carus, save as it concerns
him? In Canada we wag our heads and talk of rebels; here we speak of
red-coats and patriots; and it's all one to me, Carus, so that no
dishonor touches the man I love or my own Canada. Your country here is
nothing to me except for the sake of this one man."
She turned toward me from her saddle.
"You may be right, you rebels," she said. "If aught threatened Canada,
no loyalty to a King whom I have never seen could stir me to forsake my
own people. That is why I am so bitter, I think; not because Sir
Frederick Haldimand is kin to me, but because your people dared to
storm Quebec."
"Those who marched thither march no more," I said gravely.
"Then let it be peace betwixt us. My enmity stops at the grave--and
they march no more, as you say."
"Do you give me your friendship again, Elsin?"
She raised her eyes and looked at me steadily.
"It was yours before you asked me, Carus. It has always been yours. It
has never faltered for one moment even when I said the things that a
hurt pride forced from me." She shook her head slowly, reining in. I,
too, drew bridle.
"The happiest moment of my life was when I knew that I had been the
instrument to unlock for you the door of safety," she said, and
stripped the glove from her white fingers. "Kiss my hand and thank me,
Carus. It is all I ask of friendship."
Her hand lay at my lips, pressed gently for an instant, then fell to
her side.
"Dear, dear Elsin!" I cried, catching her hand in both of mine again,
crushing it to my lips.
"Don't, Carus," she said tremulously. "If you--if you do that--you
might--you might conceive a--a regard for me."
"Lord, child!" I exclaimed, "you but this moment confessed your fancy
for a man of whose very name and quality I stand in ignorance!"
She drew her hand away, laughing, a tenderness in her eyes I never had
surprised there before.
"Silly," she said, "you know how inconstant I can be; you must never
again caress me as you did--that first evening--do you remember? If we
do that--if I suffer you to kiss me, maybe we both might find ourselves
at love's mercy."
"You mean we might really be in love?" I asked curiously.
"I do not know. Do you think so?"
I laughed gaily, bending to search her eyes.
"What is love, Elsin? Truly, I do not know, having never loved, as you
mean. Sir Peter wishes it; and here we are, with all the credit of
Gretna Green but none of the happiness. Elsin, listen to me. Let us
strive to fall in love; shall we? And the devil take your new gallant!"
"If you desire it----"
"Why not? It would please all, would it not?"
"But, Carus, we must first please one another----"
"Let us try, Elsin. I have dreamed of a woman--not like you, but
statelier, more mature, and of more experience, but I never saw such a
woman; and truly I never before saw so promising a maid as you. Surely
we might teach one another to love--if you are not too young----"
"I do not think I am," she said faintly.
"Then let us try. Who knows but you may grow into that ideal I cherish?
I shall attend you constantly, pay court to you, take counsel with you,
defer to you in all things----"
"But I shall be gone northward with the flag, Carus."
"A flag may not start for a week."
"But when it does?"
"By that time," said I, "we will be convinced in one fashion or
another."
"Maybe one of us will take fire slowly."
"Let us try it, anyhow," I insisted.
She bent her head, riding in silence for a while.
"Sweetheart," I said, "are you hungry?"
"Oh!" she cried, crimson-cheeked, "have you begun already? And am I--am
I to say that, too?"
"Not unless you--you want to."
"I dare not, Carus."
"It is not hard," I said; "it slipped from my lips, following my
thoughts. Truly, Elsin, I love you dearly--see how easily I say it! I
love you in one kind of way already. One of these days, before we know
what we're doing, we'll be married, and Sir Peter will be the happiest
man in New York."
"Sir Peter! Sir Peter!" she repeated impatiently; a frown gathered on
her brow. She swung toward me, leaning from her saddle, face
outstretched.
"Carus," she said, "kiss me! Now do it again, on the lips. Now again!
There! Now that you do it of your own accord you are advanced so far.
Oh, this is dreadful, dreadful! We have but a week, and we are that
backward in love that I must command you to kiss me! Where shall we be
this day week--how far advanced, if you think only of courting me to
please Sir Peter?"
"Elsin," I said, after a moment's deliberation, "I'm ready to kiss you
again."
"For Sir Peter's sake?"
"Partly."
"No, sir!" she said, turning her head; "that advances us nothing."
After a silence I said again:
"Elsin!"
"Yes, Carus."
"I'm ready."
"For Sir Peter's sake?"
"No, for my own."
"Ah," she said gaily, turning a bright face to me, "we are advancing!
Now, it is best that I refuse you--unless you force me and take what
you desire. I accord no more--nothing more from this moment--until I
give myself! and I give not that, either, until you take it!" she
added, and cast her horse forward at a gallop, I after her, leaning
wide from my saddle, until our horses closed in, bounding on in perfect
stride together. Now was my chance.
"Carus! I beg of you--" Her voice was stifled, for I had put my arm
around her neck and pressed her half-opened lips to mine. "You advance
too quickly!" she said, flushed and furious. "Do you think to win a
maid by mauling whether she will or no? I took no pleasure in that
kiss, and it is a shame when both are not made happy. Besides, you hurt
me with your roughness. I pray you keep your distance!"
I did so, perplexed, and a trifle sulky, and for a while we jogged on
in silence.
Suddenly she reined in, turning her face over her shoulder.
"Look, Carus," she whispered, "there are horsemen coming!"
A moment later a Continental dragoon trotted into sight around the
curve of the road, then another and another.
We were within the lines at last.