The Maid-At-Arms

These were the half-formed, maddened thoughts that went a-racing through my mind as I paced the porch that night; and I think they were, perhaps, the most unworthy thoughts that ever tempted me. For I hated Sir George and wished him a quick flight to immortality unless he changed in his desire for wedlock with my cousin.

Gnawing my lips in growing rage I saw the messenger for the pleasure house mount and gallop out of the stockade, and I wished him evil chance and a fall to dash his senses out ere he rode up with his cursed message to Sir George's door.

Passion blinded and deafened me to all whispers of decency; conscience lay stunned within me, and I think I know now what black obsession drives men's bodies into murder and their souls to punishments eternal.

Quivering from head to heel, now hot, now cold, and strangling with the fierce desire for her whom I was losing more hopelessly every moment, I started aimlessly through the starlight, pacing the stockade like a caged beast, and I thought my swelling heart would choke me if it broke not to ease my breath.

So this was love! A ghastly thing, God wot, to transform an honest man, changing and twisting right and wrong until the threads of decency and duty hung too hopelessly entangled for him to follow or untwine. Only one thing could I see or understand: I desired her whom I loved and was now fast losing forever.

Chance and circumstance had enmeshed me; in vain I struggled in the net of fate, bruised, stunned, confused with grief and this new fire of passion which had flashed up around me until I had inhaled the flames and must forever bear their scars within as long as my seared heart could pulse.

As I stood there under the dim trees, dumb, miserable, straining my ears for the messenger's return, came my cousin Dorothy in the pale, flowered gown she wore at supper, and ere she perceived me I saw her searching for me, treading the new grass without a sound, one hand pressed to her parted lips.

When she saw me she stood still, and her hands fell loosely to her side.

"Cousin," she said, in a faint voice.

And, as I did not answer, she stepped nearer till I could see her blue eyes searching mine.

"What have you done!" I cried, harshly.

"I do not know," she said.

"I know," I retorted, fiercely. "Time was all we had–a few poor hours–a day or two together. And with time there was chance, and with chance, hope. You have killed all three!"

"No; … there was no chance; there is no longer any time; there never was any hope."

"There was hope!" I said, bitterly.

"No, there was none," she murmured.

"Then why did you tell me that you were free till the yoke locked you to him? Why did you desire to love? Why did you bid me teach you? Why did you consent to my lips, my arms? Why did you awake me?"

"God knows," she said, faintly.

"Is that your defence?" I asked. "Have you no defence?"

"None.... I had never loved.... I found you kind and I had known no man like you.... Every moment with you entranced me till, … I don't know why, … that sweet madness came upon … us … which can never come again–which must never come.... Forgive me. I did not understand. Love was a word to me."

"Dorothy, Dorothy, what have I done!" I stammered.

"Not you, but I, … and now it is plain to me why, unwedded, I stand yoked together with my honor, and you stand apart, fettered to yours.... We have shaken our chains in play, the links still hold firm and bright; but if we break them, then, as they snap, our honor dies forever. For what I have done in idle ignorance forgive me, and leave me to my penance, … which must last for all my life, cousin.... And you will forget.... Hush! dearest lad, and let me speak. Well, then I will say that I pray you may forget! Well, then I will not say that to grieve you.... I wish you to remember–yet not know the pain that I–"

"Dorothy, Dorothy, do you still love me?"

"Oh, I do love you!… No, no! I ask you to spare me even the touch of your hand! I ask it, I beg you to spare me! I implore–Be a shield to me! Aid me, cousin. I ask it for the Ormond honor and for the honor of the roof that shelters us both!… Now do you understand?… Oh, I knew you to be all that I adore and worship!

Our fault was in our ignorance. How could we know of that hidden fire within us, stirring its chilled embers in all innocence until the flames flashed out and clothed us both in glory, cousin? Heed me, lest it turn to flames of hell!

And now, dear lad, lest you should deem me mad to cut short the happy time we had to hope for, I must tell you what I have never told before. All that we have in all the world is by charity of Sir George. He stood in the breach when the Cosby heirs made ready to foreclose on father; he held off the Van Rensselaers; he threw the sop to Billy Livingston and to that great villain, Klock. To-day, unsecured, his loans to my father, still unpaid, have nigh beggared him. And the little he has he is about to risk in this war whose tides are creeping on us through this very night.

And when he honored me by asking me in marriage, I, knowing all this, knowing all his goodness and his generosity–though he was not aware I knew it–I was thankful to say yes–deeming it little enough to please him–and I not knowing what love meant–"

Her soft voice broke; she laid her hands on her eyes, and stood so, speaking blindly. "What can I do, cousin? What can I do? Tell me! I love you. Tell me, use me kindly; teach me to do right and keep my honor bright as you could desire it were I to be your wife!"

It was that appeal, I think, that brought me back through the distorted shadows of my passion; through the dark pit of envy, past snares of jealousy and malice, and the traps and pitfalls dug by Satan, safe to the trembling rock of honor once again.

Like a blind man healed by miracle, yet still groping in the precious light that mazed him, so I peering with aching eyes for those threads to guide me in my stunned perplexity. But when at last I felt their touch, I found I held one already–the thread of hope–and whether for good or evil I did not drop it, but gathered all together and wove them to a rope to hold by.

"What is it I must swear," I asked, cold to the knees.

"Never again to kiss me."

"Never again."

"Nor to caress me."

"Nor to caress you."

"Nor speak of love."

"Nor speak of love."

"And … that is all," she faltered.

"No, not all. I swear to love you always, never to forget you, never to prove unworthy in your eyes, never to wed; living, to honor you; dying, with your name upon my lips."

She had stretched out her arms towards me as though warning me to stop; but, as I spoke slowly, weighing each word and its cost, her hands trembled and sought each other so that she stood looking at me, fingers interlocked and her sweet face as white as death.

And after a long time she came to me, and, raising my hands, kissed them; and I touched her hair with dumb lips; and she stole away through the starlight like a white ghost returning to its tomb.

And long after, long, long after, as I stood there, broke on my wrapt ears the far stroke of horse's hoofs, nearer, nearer, until the black bulk of the rider rose up in the night and Sir Lupus came to the porch.

"Eh! What?" he cried. "Sir George away with the Palatine rebels? Where? Gone to Stanwix? Now Heaven have mercy on him for a madman who mixes in this devil's brew! And he'll drown me with him, too! Dammy, they'll say that I'm in with him. But I'm not! Curse me if I am. I'm neutral–neither rebel nor Tory–and I'll let 'em know it, too; only desiring quiet and peace and a fair word for all. Damnation!"

And so had ended that memorable day and night; and now for two whole wretched days I had not seen Dorothy, nor heard of her save through Ruyven, who brought us news that she lay on her bed in the dark with no desire for company.

"There is a doctor at Johnstown," he said; "but Dorothy refuses, saying that she is only tired and requires peace and rest. I don't like it, Cousin George. Never have I seen her ill, nor has any one. Suppose you look at her, will you?"

"If she will permit me," I said, slowly. "Ask her, Ruyven."

But he returned, shaking his head, and I sat down once more upon the porch to think of her and of all I loved in her; and how I must strive to fashion my life so that I do naught that might shame me should she know.

Now that it was believed that factional bickering between the inhabitants of Tryon County might lead, in the immediate future, to something more serious than town brawls and tavern squabbles; and, more-over, as the Iroquois agitation had already resulted in the withdrawal to Fort Niagara of the main body of the Mohawk nation–for what ominous purpose it might be easy to guess–Sir Lupus forbade the children to go a-roaming outside his own boundaries.

Further, he had cautioned his servants and tenants not to rove out of bounds, to avoid public houses like the "Turtle-dove and Olive," and to refrain from busying themselves about matters in which they had no concern.

Yet that very day, spite of the patroon's orders, when General Schuyler's militia-call went out, one-half of his tenantry disappeared overnight, abandoning everything save their live-stock and a rough cart heaped with household furniture; journeying with women and children, goods and chattels, towards the nearest block-house or fort, there to deposit all except powder-horn, flint, and rifle, and join the district regiment now laboring with pick and shovel on the works at Fort Stanwix.