Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 110
He paused.
“I should have sought it,” he said, dropping his head. “No wilderness, no wintry terrors, neither French scalping parties nor the savages of all the Canadas could have kept me from instruction had I, in my youth, been favoured by the opportunity I offer you.”
I gazed at him in silence while the blood, overrunning my leather pocket, ran down to my knee-buckles.
“I was poor, without means, without counsel, save for the letters Sir Peter Warren wrote me. I traded for my daily bread; I read Ovid by lighted pine splinters; I worked — God knows I worked my flesh to the bone.”
He sat, fingering the bunch of scarlet feather-flies in his breast.
“Our Lord gives us according to our needs — when we take it,” he said, without irreverence. “I could have gone to England, to Oxford; I had saved enough. I did neither; I did not take the instruction I wished for, and God did not teach me Greek in my dreams,” he added, bitterly.
The blood was now stealing down my stocking towards my shoe. I turned the leg so he could not observe it.
“Come, lad,” he said, brightening up; “learning lies not always between thumbed leaves. I only wish that you bear yourself modestly and nobly through the world; that you keep faith with men, that your word once given shall never be withdrawn.
“This is the foundation. It includes courage. Further than that, I desire you, once a purpose formed and a course set, to steer fearlessly to the goal.
“I know you to be brave and honest; I know you to be a very Mohawk in the forest; I believe you to be merciful and tender underneath that boy’s thoughtless and cruel hide.
“As for learning, I can do no more for you than I have done and have offered to do. If it pleases you, you may go to England, and learn the arts, bearing, and deportment you can never acquire here with us. No? Well, then, stay with us. I want you, Micky. We Irish are fond of each other — and I am an old man now — I am nigh sixty years, Michael — sixty years of battle. I would be glad of rest — with those I love.”
My heart was very soft now. I looked at Sir William with an affection I had never before understood.
“There is one last thing I wish to add,” he said, gravely, almost sadly. “Perhaps I may again refer to it — but I pray that it may not be necessary.”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes to clear them from the sickly faintness which stole upward from my throbbing hand.
“It is this,” he continued, in a low voice. “If it ever comes to you to choose between his Majesty our King and — and your native land — which God forbid! — go to your closet and kneel down, and stay there on your knees, hours, days! — until you have learned your own heart. Then — then — God go with you, Michael Cardigan.”
He rose, and his face was years older. Slowly the colour came back into his cheeks; he fumbled with the brass-work on his fish-rod, then smiled.
“That is all,” he said; “let Pluto chase Proserpine to hell, lad; and a devilish good place they say it is for those who like it! Where is that ferret? What! Running about unmuzzled! Hey! Vix! Vix! Come here, little reptile!”
“I’ll catch her, sir,” said I, stumbling forward.
But as I laid my hand on Vix the floor rose and struck me, and there I lay sprawling and senseless, with the blood running over the floor; and Sir William, believing me bitten by the ferret, pouched the poor beast and lifted me to a bench.
He must have seen my hand, however, for, when a cup of cold water set me spluttering and blinking, I found my hand tied up in Sir William’s handkerchief and Sir William himself eying me strangely.
“How came that wound?” he said, bluntly.
I could not reply — or would not.
He asked me again whether the ferret bit me, and I was tempted to say yes. Treachery was abhorrent to me; I hated Silver Heels, but could not betray her, and it was easy to clap the blame on Vix.
“Sir?” I stammered.
“I asked what bit you,” he said, icily.
I tried to say Vix, but the lie, too, stuck in my throat.
“I cannot tell you,” I muttered.
“Then,” said Sir William, with a strange smile of relief, “I shall not force you, Michael. May I honourably ask you how you come by this jack-knife?”
I shook my head. My face was on fire.
“Very well,” he said. “Only remember that you are a man, now — a man of sixteen, and that I have to-day treated you as a man, and shall continue. And remember that a man’s first duty is to protect the weaker sex, and his second duty is to endure from them all taunts, caprice, and torments without revenge. It is a hard lesson to learn, Micky, and only the true and gallant gentleman can ever learn it.”
He smiled, then said:
“Pray find our little Silver Heels and return to her the jack-knife, which was her wampum-belt of faith in the honour of a gentleman.”
And so he walked away, smoothing the fur of the red-eyed ferret against his breast.
CHAPTER II
WHEN SIR WILLIAM left me in the school-room, he left a lad of sixteen puffed up in a glow of pride. To be treated no longer as a fractious child — to be received at last as a man among men!
And what would Esk say? And Silver Heels, poor little mouse harnessed in the stocks below?
I had entered the school-room that morning a lazy, sullen, defiant lad, heavy-hearted, with chronic resentment against the discipline of those who had sent me into a hateful trap from the windows of which I could see the young, thirsty year quaffing spring sunshine. Now I was free to leave the accursed trap forever, a man of discretion, responsible before men, exacting from other men the same courtesies, attentions, and considerations which I might render them.
What a change had come to me, all in one brief May morning! As I stood there, resting my bandaged hand in the palm of the other, looking about me to realize the fortune which set my veins tingling, a great tide of benevolent condescension for the others swept over me, a ripple of pity and good-will for the hapless children whose benches lay in a row before me.
I no longer detested Silver Heels. I walked on tiptoe to her bench. There lay her slate and slate-pen; upon it I read a portion of the longer catechism. There, too, lay her quill and inky horn and a foolscap book sewed neatly and marked:
Felicity Warren
1
HER BOOKE.
Poor child, doomed for years still to steep her little fingers in ink-powder while, with the powder I should require hereafter, 18 I expected to write fiercer tales on living hides with plummets cast in bullet-moulds!
Cramped with importance, I cast a contemptuous eye upon my poem which embellished the great slate, and scoured it partly out with the buckskin.
“My books,” said I, to myself, “I will bestow upon Silver Heels and Esk;” and I carried out my philanthropic impulse, piling speller, reader, and arithmetic on Esk’s bench; my Cæsar, my pair of globes, my compass, and my algebra I laid with Silver Heels’s copy-book, first writing in the books, with some malice:
SILVER HEELS HER GIFT BOOKE FROM
MICHAEL CARDIGAN
BE DILIGENT AND OF GOOD THRIFT
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER.
For fat Peter, because I allowed Vix to bite his tight breeches, I left a pile of jacks beside his horn-book, namely, a slate-pen, three mended quills, a birchen box of ink-powder, a screw to trade with, two tops and an alley, pumice, a rule, and some wax.
Peter, though duck-limbed and half Mohawk, wrote very well in the Boston style, and could even copy in the Lettre Frisée — a poor art in some repute, but smelling to my nose of French flummery and deceit.
Having bestowed these gifts with a light heart, I walked slowly around the room, and I fear my walk was somewhat a strut.
I knew my small head was all swelled with vain imaginings; I saw myself in a flapped coat and lace, fingering the hilt of a sword at my hip, saluted by the sentries and the militia; I saw myself riding with Sir William as his deputy; I heard him say, “Mr. Cardigan, the enemy are upon us! We must fly!” — and I: “Sir William, fear nothing. The day is our own!” And I saw a lad of sixteen, with sword pointing upward and one hand twisted into Pontiac’s scalp-lock, smile benignly upon Sir William, who had cast himself 19 upon my breast, protesting that I had saved the army, and that the King should hear of it.
Then, unbidden, the apparition of Mr. Butler rose into my vain dreaming, and, though I am no prophet, nor can I claim the gift of seeing behind the veil, yet I swear that Walter Butler appeared to me all aflame and bloody with scalps bunched at his girdle — and the scalps were not of the red men!
Now my imagination smoking into fire, I saw myself dogging Mr. Butler with firelock a-trail and knife loosened, on! on! through fathomless depths of forest and by the still deeps of shadowy lakes, fording the roaring tumble of rivers, swimming silent pools as otters swim, but tracking him, ever tracking Captain Butler by the scent of his reeking scalps.
There was a dew on my eyebrows as I waked into sense. Yet again I fell straightway to imagining the glories of my young future. Truly I painted life in cloying colours; and always, when I accomplished gallant deeds, there stood Silver Heels to observe me, and to marvel, and to stamp her little moccasins in vexation that I, the pride and envy of all men, applauded, courted, nay, worshipped — I, the playmate she had in her silly ignorance flouted, now stood so far beyond her that she dared not twitch the skirt of my coat nor whisper, “Sir Michael, pray condescend to notice one who passes her entire life in admiring your careless exploits.”
Perhaps I would smile at her — yes, I certainly should speak to her — not with familiarity. But I would be magnanimous; she should receive gifts, spoils from wars, and I would select a suitable husband for her from the officers of my household who adored me! No, I would not be hasty concerning a husband. That would be foolish, for Silver Heels must remain heart-whole and fancy-free to concentrate her envious admiration upon me.
In a sort of ecstasy I paraded the school-room, the splendour of my visions dulling eyes and ears, and it was not until he had called me thrice that I observed Mr. Butler standing within the doorway.
The unwelcome sight cleared my brains like a dash of spring-water in the face.
“It is one o’clock,” said Mr. Butler, “and time for your 20 carving lesson. Did you not hear the bugles from the forts?”
“I heard nothing, sir,” said I, giving him a surly look, which he returned with that blank stare of the eyes, noticeable in hawks and kites and foul night birds surprised by light.
“Sir William dines early,” he said, as I followed him through the dim hallway, past the nursery, and down stairs. “If he has to wait your pleasure for his slice of roast, you will await his pleasure for the remainder of the day in the school-room.”
“It is not true!” I said, stopping short in the lower hallway. “I am free of that ratty pit forever! And of the old ferret, too,” I added, insolently.
“By your favour,” said Mr. Butler, “may I ask whether your erudition is impairing your bodily health, that you leave school so early in life, Master Cardigan?”
“If you were a real schoolmaster,” said I, hotly, “I would answer you with a kennel lash, but you are an officer and a gentleman.” And in a low voice I bade him go to the devil at his convenience.
“One year more and I could call you out for this,” he said, staring at me.
“You can do it now!” I retorted, angrily, raising myself a little on my toes.
Suddenly all the hatred and contempt I had so long choked back burst out in language I now blush for. I called him a coward, a Huron, a gentleman with the instincts of a pedagogue. I heaped abuse upon him; I dared him to meet me; nay, I challenged him to face me with rifle or sword, when and where he chose. And all the time he stood staring at me with that deathly laugh which never reached his eyes.
“Measure me!” I said, venomously; “I am as tall as you, lacking an inch. I am a man! This day Sir William freed me from that spider-web you tenant, and now in Heaven’s name let us settle that score which every hour has added to since I first beheld you!”
“And my honour?” he asked, coldly.
“What?” I stammered. “I ask you to maintain it with rifle or rapier! Blood scours tarnished names!”
“Not your blood,” he said, with a stealthy glance at the dining-room door; “not the blood of a boy. That would rust my honour. Wait, Master Cardigan, wait a bit. A year runs like a spotted fawn in cherry-time!”
“You will not meet me?” I blurted out, mortified.
“In a year, perhaps,” he said, absently, scarcely looking at me as he spoke.
Then from within the dining-hall came Sir William’s roar: “Body o’ me! Am I to be kept here at twiddle-thumbs for lack of a carver!”
I stepped back in an instant, bowing to Mr. Butler.
“I will be patient for a year, sir,” I said. And so opened the door while he passed me, and into the dining-hall.
“I am sorry, sir,” said I, but Sir William cut me short with:
“Damnation, sir! I am asking a blessing!”
So I buried my nose in my hollowed hand and stood up, very still.
Having given thanks in a temper, Sir William’s frown relaxed and he sat down and tucked his finger-cloth under his neck with an injured glance at me.
“Zounds!” he said, mildly; “hell hath no fury like a fisherman kept waiting. Captain Butler, bear me out.”
“I am no angler,” said Mr. Butler, in his deadened voice.
“That is true,” observed Sir William, as though condoling with Mr. Butler for a misfortune not his fault. “Perhaps some day the fever may scorch you — like our young kinsman Micky — eh, lad?”
I said, “Perhaps, sir,” with eyes on the smoking joint before me. It was Sir William’s pleasure that I learn to carve; and, in truth, I found it easy, save for the carving of a goose or of those wild-ducks we shot on the great Vlaie.
We were but four to dine that day: Sir William, Mr. Butler, Silver Heels, and myself. Mistress Molly remained in the nursery, where were also Peter and Esk, inasmuch as they slobbered and fouled the cloth, and so fed in the play-room.
Colonel Guy Johnson remained at Detroit, Captain John Johnson was on a mission to Albany, Thayendanegea in Quebec, and Colonel Claus, with his lady, had gone to Castle 22 Cumberland. There were no visiting officers or Indians at Johnson Hall that week, and our small company seemed lost in the great dining-hall.
Having carved the juicy joint, the gilly served Sir William, then Mr. Butler, then Silver Heels, whom I had scarcely noticed, so full was I of my quarrel with Mr. Butler. Now, as Saunders laid her plate, I gave her a look which meant, “I did not tell Sir William,” whereupon she smiled at her plate and clipped a spoonful from a dish of potatoes.
“Good appetite and good health, sir,” said I, raising my wine-glass to Sir William.
“Good health, my lad!” said Sir William, heartily.
Glasses were raised again and compliments said, though my face was sufficient to sour the Madeira in Mr. Butler’s glass.
“Your good health, Michael,” said Silver Heels, sweetly.
I pledged her with a patronizing amiability which made her hazel-gray eyes open wide.
Now, coxcomb that I was, I sat there, dizzied by my new dignity, yet carefully watching Sir William to imitate him, thinking that, as I was now a man, I must observe the carriage, deportment, and tastes of men.
When Sir William declined a dish of jelly, I also waved it away, though God knew I loved jellies.
When Sir William drank the last of the winter’s ale, I shoved aside my small-beer and sent for a mug.
“It will make a humming-top of your head,” said Sir William. “Stick to small-beer, Micky.”
Mortified, I tossed off my portion, and was very careful not to look at Silver Heels, being hot in the face.
Mr. Butler and Sir William spoke gravely of the discontent now rampant in the town of Boston, and of Captain John Johnson’s mission to Albany. I listened greedily, sniffing for news of war, but understood little of their discourse save what pertained to the Indians.
Some mention, indeed, was made of rangers, but, having always associated militia and rangers with war on the Indians, I thought little of what they discussed. I even forgot my new dignity, and secretly pinched a bread crumb into the shape of a little pig which I showed to Silver Heels. She 23 thereupon pinched out a dog with hound’s ears for me to admire.
I was roused by Sir William’s voice in solemn tones to Mr. Butler: “Now, God forbid I should live to see that, Captain Butler!” and I pricked up my ears once more, but made nothing of what followed, save that there were certain disloyal men in Massachusetts and New York who might rise against our King and that our Governor Tryon meant to take some measures concerning tea.
“Well, well,” burst out Sir William at length; “in evil days let us thank God that the fish still swim! Eh, Micky? I wish the ice were out.”
“The anchor-ice is afloat, and the Kennyetto is free, sir,” I said, quickly.
“How do you know?” asked Sir William, laughing.
I had, the day previous, run across to the Kennyetto to see, and I told him so.
He was pleased to praise my zeal and to say I ran like a Mohawk, which praise sounded sweet until I saw Silver Heels’s sly smile, and I remembered the foot-race and the jack-knife.
But I was above foot-races now. Others might run to amuse me; I would look on — perhaps distribute prizes.
“Some day, Sir William, will you not make me one of your deputies?” I asked, eagerly.
“Hear the lad!” cried Sir William, pushing back his chair. “On my soul, Captain Butler, it is time for old weather-worn Indian commissioners like me to resign and make way for younger blood! And his Majesty might be worse served than by Micky here; eh, Captain Butler?”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Butler, in his dead voice.
Sir William rose and we all stood up. The Baronet, brushing Silver Heels on his way to the door, passed his arm around her and tilted her chin up.
“Now do you go to Mistress Mary and beg her to place you in the stocks for an hour; and stay there in patience for your body’s grace. Will you promise me, Felicity?”
