A striking figure the lad made riding into the old capital one afternoon
just before the sun sank behind the western woods. Had it been dusk he
might have been thought to be an Indian sprung magically from the wilds
and riding into civilization on a stolen thoroughbred. Students no
longer wandered through the campus of William and Mary College. Only an
occasional maid in silk and lace tripped along the street in high-heeled
shoes and clocked stockings, and no coach and four was in sight. The
governor's palace, in its great yard amid linden-trees, was closed and
deserted. My Lord Dunmore was long in sad flight, as Erskine later
learned, and not in his coach with its six milk-white horses. But there
was the bust of Sir Walter in front of Raleigh Tavern, and there he drew
up, before the steps where he was once nigh to taking Dane Grey's life.
A negro servant came forward to care for his horse, but a coal-black
young giant leaped around the corner and seized the bridle with a
welcoming cry:
"Marse Erskine! But I knowed Firefly fust." It was Ephraim, the groom
who had brought out Barbara's ponies, who had turned the horse over to
him for the race at the fair.
"I come frum de plantation fer ole marse," the boy explained. The host
of the tavern heard and came down to give his welcome, for any Dale, no
matter what his garb, could always have the best in that tavern. More
than that, a bewigged solicitor, learning his name, presented himself
with the cheerful news that he had quite a little sum of money that had
been confided to his keeping by Colonel Dale for his nephew Erskine. A
strange deference seemed to be paid him by everybody, which was a
grateful change from the suspicion he had left among his pioneer
friends. The little tavern was thronged and the air charged with the
spirit of war. Indeed, nothing else was talked. My Lord Dunmore had come
to a sad and unbemoaned end. He had stayed afar from the battle-field of
Point Pleasant and had left stalwart General Lewis to fight Cornstalk
and his braves alone. Later my Lady Dunmore and her sprightly daughters
took refuge on a man-of-war--whither my lord soon followed them. His
fleet ravaged the banks of the rivers and committed every outrage. His
marines set fire to Norfolk, which was in ashes when he weighed anchor
and sailed away to more depredations. When he intrenched himself on
Gwynn's Island, that same stalwart Lewis opened a heavy cannonade on
fleet and island, and sent a ball through the indignant nobleman's
flag-ship. Next day he saw a force making for the island in boats, and
my lord spread all sail; and so back to merry England, and to Virginia
no more. Meanwhile, Mr. Washington had reached Boston and started his
duties under the Cambridge elm. Several times during the talk Erskine
had heard mentioned the name of Dane Grey. Young Grey had been with
Dunmore and not with Lewis at Point Pleasant, and had been conspicuous
at the palace through much of the succeeding turmoil--the hint being his
devotion to one of the daughters, since he was now an unquestioned
loyalist.
Next morning Erskine rode forth along a sandy road, amidst the singing
of birds and through a forest of tiny upshooting leaves, for Red Oaks on
the James. He had forsworn Colonel Dale to secrecy as to the note he had
left behind giving his birthright to his little cousin Barbara, and he
knew the confidence would be kept inviolate. He could recall the
road--every turn of it, for the woodsman's memory is faultless--and he
could see the merry cavalcade and hear the gay quips and laughter of
that other spring day long ago, for to youth even the space of a year is
very long ago. But among the faces that blossomed within the old coach,
and nodded and danced like flowers in a wind, his mind's eye was fixed
on one alone. At the boat-landing he hitched his horse to the low-swung
branch of an oak and took the path through tangled rose-bushes and
undergrowth along the bank of the river, halting where it would give him
forth on the great, broad, grassy way that led to the house among the
oaks. There was the sun-dial that had marked every sunny hour since he
had been away. For a moment he stood there, and when he stepped into the
open he shrank back hastily--a girl was coming through the opening of
boxwood from the house--coming slowly, bareheaded, her hands clasped
behind her, her eyes downward. His heart throbbed as he waited, throbbed
the more when his ears caught even the soft tread of her little feet,
and seemed to stop when she paused at the sun-dial, and as before
searched the river with her eyes. And as before the song of negro
oarsmen came over the yellow flood, growing stronger as they neared.
Soon the girl fluttered a handkerchief and from the single passenger in
the stern came an answering flutter of white and a glad cry. At the bend
of the river the boat disappeared from Erskine's sight under the bank,
and he watched the girl. How she had grown! Her slim figure had rounded
and shot upward, and her white gown had dropped to her dainty ankles.
Now her face was flushed and her eye flashed with excitement--it was no
mere kinsman in that boat, and the boy's heart began to throb
again--throb fiercely and with racking emotions that he had never known
before. A fiery-looking youth sprang up the landing-steps, bowed
gallantly over the girl's hand, and the two turned up the path, the girl
rosy with smiles and the youth bending over her with a most protecting
and tender air. It was Dane Grey, and the heart of the watcher turned
mortal sick.