The Reckoning. Chambers Robert William
no strangers to me, whose blackened Broadalbin home lay a charred ruin to attest the love that old John Butler bore my family name.
And so I stood, smiling and silent, while she spoke of Walter Butler, describing him vividly, even to his amber black eyes and his pale face, and the poetic melancholy with which he clothed the hidden blood-lust that smoldered under his smooth pale skin. But there you have it—young, proud, and melancholy—and he had danced with her at Niagara, too, and—if I knew him—he had not spared her hints of that impetuous flame that burned for all pure women deep in the blackened pit of his own damned soul.
"Did you know his wife?" I asked, smiling.
"Walter Butler's—wife!" she gasped, turning on me, white as death.
There was a silence; she drew a long, deep breath; suddenly, the gayest, sweetest little laugh followed, but it was slowly that the color returned to lip and cheek.
"Is he not wedded?" I asked carelessly—the damned villain—at his Mohawk Valley tricks again!—and again she laughed, which was, no doubt, my wordless answer.
"Does he dance well, this melancholy Ranger?" I asked, smiling to see her laugh.
"Divinely, sir. I think no gentleman in New York can move a minuet with Walter Butler's grace. Oh, you New Yorkers! You think we are nothing—fit, perhaps, for a May-pole frolic with the rustic gentry! Do not deny it, Mr. Renault. Have we not heard you on the subject? Do not your officers from Philadelphia and New York come mincing and tiptoeing through Halifax and Quebec, all smiling and staring about, quizzing glasses raised? And—'Very pretty! monstrous charming! spike me, but the ladies powder here!' And, 'Is this green grass? Damme, where's the snow—and the polar bears, you know?'"
I laughed as she paused, breathlessly scornful, flushed with charming indignation.
"And is not Canada all snow?" I asked, to tease her.
"Snow! It is sweet and green and buried in flowers!" she cried.
"In winter, madam?"
"Oh! You mean to plague me, which is impertinent, because I do not know you well enough—I have not known you above half an hour. I shall tell Lady Coleville."
"So shall I—how you abuse us all here in New York–"
"I did not. You are teasing me again, Mr. Renault."
Defiant, smiling, her resentment was, after all, only partly real.
"We are becoming friends much too quickly to suit me," she said deliberately.
"But not half quickly enough to suit me," I said.
"Do you fancy that I take that silly speech as compliment, Mr. Renault?"
"Ah, no, madam! On such brief acquaintance I dare not presume to offer you the compliments that burn for utterance!"
"But you do presume to plague me—on such brief acquaintance!" she observed.
"I am punished," I said contritely.
"No, you are not! You are not punished at all, because I don't know how to, and—I am not sure I wish to punish you, Mr. Renault."
"Madam?"
"If you look at me so meekly I shall laugh. Besides, it is hypocritical. There is nothing meek about you!" I bowed more meekly than ever.
"Mr. Renault?"
"Madam?"
She picked up her plumed fan impatiently and snapped it open.
"If you don't stop being meek and answering 'Madam' I shall presently go distracted. Call me something else—anything—just to see how we like it. Tell me, do you know my first name?"
"Elsin," I said softly, and to my astonishment a faint, burning sensation stung my cheeks, growing warmer and warmer. I think she was astonished, too, for few men at twenty-three could color up in those days; and there was I, a hardened New Yorker of four years' adoption, turning pink like a great gaby at a country fair when his sweetheart meets him at the ginger bower!
To cover my chagrin I nodded coolly, repeating her name with a critical air—"Elsin," I mused, outwardly foppish, inwardly amazed and mad—"Elsin—um! ah!—very pretty—very unusual," I added, with a patronizing nod.
She did not resent it; when at last I made bold to meet her gaze it was pensive and serene, yet I felt somehow that her innocent blue eyes had taken my measure as a man—and not to my advantage.
"Your name is not a usual one," she said. "When I first heard it from Sir Peter I laughed."
"Why?" I said coldly.
"Why? Oh, I don't know, Mr. Renault! It sounded so very young—Carus Renault—it sounds so young and guileless–"
Speechless with indignation, I caught a glimmer under the lowered lids that mocked me, and I saw her mouth quiver with the laugh fluttering for freedom.
She looked up, all malice, and the pent laughter rippled.
"Very well," I said, giving in, "I shall take no pity on you in future."
"My dear Mr. Renault, do you think I require your pity?"
"Not now," I said, chagrined. "But one day you may cry out for mercy–"
"Which you will doubtless accord, being a gallant gentleman and no Mohawk."
"Oh, I can be a barbarian, too, for I am, by adoption, an Oneida of the Wolf Clan, and entitled to a seat in Council."
"I see," she said, "you wear your hair à l'Iroquois."
I reddened again; I could not help it, knowing my hair was guiltless of powder and all awry.
"If I had supposed you were here, do you imagine I should have presented myself unpowdered and without a waistcoat?" I said, exasperated.
Her laughter made it no easier, though I strove to retrieve myself and return to the light badinage she had routed me from. Lord, what a tease was in this child, with her deep blue eyes and her Dresden porcelain skin of snow and roses!
"Now," she said, recovering her gravity, "you may return to your letter-writing, Mr. Renault. I have done with you for the moment."
At that I was sobered in a trice.
"What letter-writing?" I made out to answer calmly.
"Were you not hard at work penning a missive to some happy soul who enjoys your confidence?"
"Why do you believe I was?" I asked.
She tossed her head airily. "Oh! for that matter, I could even tell you what you wrote: 'Nothing remarkable; the Hon. Elsin Grey still keeps her chamber'—did you not write that?"
She paused, the smile fading from her face. Perhaps she thought she had gone too far, perhaps something in my expression startled her.
"I beg your pardon," she said quickly; "have I hurt you, Mr. Renault?"
"How did you know I wrote that?" I asked in a voice I hoped was steady.
"Why, it is there on your shirt, Mr. Renault, imprinted backward from the wet ink. I have amused myself by studying it out letter by letter. Please forgive me—it was dreadfully indiscreet—but I only meant to torment you."
I looked down, taking my fine lawn shirt in both hands. There was the impression—my own writing, backward, but distinct. I remembered when I had done it, when I had gathered my ink-wet papers under my arms and leaned forward to listen to the creaking of the attic stairway. Suppose it had been Sir Peter! Suppose the imprint had been something that could have admitted of but one interpretation? I turned cold at the thought.
She was watching me all the while, a trifle uneasy at my silence, but my smile and manner reassured her, and my gaiety she met instantly.
"I am overwhelmed," I said, "and can offer no excuse for this frowsy dress. If you had any idea how mortified I am you would have mercy on me."
"My hair not being dressed à l'Iroquois, I consent to show you mercy," she said. "But you came monstrous near frightening me, too. Do you know you turned white, Mr. Renault? Lud! the vanity of