MISTRESS THANKFUL remained at the wall until her lover had disappeared. Then she turned, a mere lissom shadow in that uncertain light, and glided under the eaves of the shed, and thence from tree to tree of the orchard, lingering a moment under each as a trout lingers in the shadow of the bank in passing a shallow, and so reached the farmhouse and the kitchen door, where she entered. Thence by a back staircase she slipped to her own bower, from whose window half an hour before she had taken the signalling light. This she lit again and placed upon a chest of drawers; and, taking off her hood and a shapeless sleeveless mantle she had worn, went to the mirror, and proceeded to re-adjust a high horn comb that had been somewhat displaced by the captain’s arm, and otherwise after the fashion of her sex to remove all traces of a previous lover. It may be here observed that a man is very apt to come from the smallest encounter with his dulcinea distrait, bored, or shame-faced; to forget that his cravat is awry, or that a long blond hair is adhering to his button. But as to Mademoiselle—well, looking at Miss Pussy’s sleek paws and spotless face, would you ever know that she had been at the cream-jug?
Thankful was, I think, satisfied with her appearance. Small doubt but she had reason for it. And yet her gown was a mere slip of flowered chintz, gathered at the neck, and falling at an angle of fifteen degrees to within an inch of a short petticoat of gray flannel. But so surely is the complete mould of symmetry indicated in the poise or line of any single member, that looking at the erect carriage of her graceful brown head, or below to the curves that were lost in her shapely ankles, or the little feet that hid themselves in the broad-buckled shoes, you knew that the rest was as genuine and beautiful.
Mistress Thankful, after a pause, opened the door, and listened. Then she softly slipped down the back staircase to the front hall. It was dark; but the door of the “company-room,” or parlor, was faintly indicated by the light that streamed beneath it. She stood still for a moment hesitatingly, when suddenly a hand grasped her own, and half led, half dragged her, into the sitting-room opposite. It was dark. There was a momentary fumbling for the tinder-box and flint, a muttered oath over one or two impeding articles of furniture, and Thankful laughed. And then the light was lit; and her father, a gray wrinkled man of sixty, still holding her hand, stood before her.
“You have been out, mistress!”
“I have,” said Thankful.
“And not alone,” growled the old man angrily.
“No,” said Mistress Thankful, with a smile that began in the corners of her brown eyes, ran down into the dimpled curves of her mouth, and finally ended in the sudden revelation of her white teeth,—“no, not alone.”
“With whom?” asked the old man, gradually weakening under her strong, saucy presence.
“Well, father,” said Thankful, taking a seat on a table, and swinging her little feet somewhat ostentatiously toward him, “I was with Capt. Allan Brewster of the Connecticut Contingent.”
“That man?”
“That man!”
“I forbid you seeing him again.”
Thankful gripped the table with a hand on each side of her, to emphasize the statement, and swinging her feet replied,—
“I shall see him as often as I like, father.”
“Thankful Blossom!”
“Abner Blossom!”
“I see you know not,” said Mr. Blossom, abandoning the severely paternal mandatory air for one of confidential disclosure, “I see you know not his reputation. He is accused of inciting his regiment to revolt,—of being a traitor to the cause.”
“And since when, Abner Blossom, have you felt such concern for the cause? Since you refused to sell supplies to the Continental commissary, except at double profits? since you told me you were glad I had not polities like Mistress Ford—”
“Hush!” said the father, motioning to the parlor.
“Hush,” echoed Thankful indignantly. “I won’t be hushed! Everybody says ‘Hush’ to me. The count says ‘Hush!’ Allan says ‘Hush!’ You say ‘Hush!’ I’m a-weary of this hushing. Ah, if there was a man who didn’t say it to me!” and Mistress Thankful lifted her fine eyes to the ceiling.
“You are unwise, Thankful,—foolish, indiscreet. That is why you require much monition.”
Thankful swung her feet in silence for a few moments, then suddenly leaped from the table, and, seizing the old man by the lapels of his coat, fixed her eyes upon him, and said suspiciously. “Why did you keep me from going in the company-room? Why did you bring me in here?”
Blossom senior was staggered for a moment. “Because, you know, the count—”
“And you were afraid the count should know I had a sweetheart? Well, I’ll go in and tell him now,” she said, marching toward the door.
“Then, why did you not tell him when you slipped out an hour ago? eh, lass?” queried the old man, grasping her hand. “But ’tis all one, Thankful: ’twas not for him I stopped you. There is a young spark with him,—ay, came even as you left, lass,—a likely young gallant; and he and the count are jabbering away in their own lingo, a kind of Italian, belike; eh, Thankful?”
“I know not,” she said thoughtfully. “Which way came the other?” In fact, a fear that this young stranger might have witnessed the captain’s embrace began to creep over her.
“From town, my lass.”
Thankful turned to her father as if she had been waiting a reply to a long-asked question: “Well?”
“Were it not well to put on a few furbelows and a tucker?” queried the old man. “’Tis a gallant young spark; none of your country folk.”
“No,” said Thankful, with the promptness of a woman who was looking her best, and knew it. And the old man, looking at her, accepted her judgment, and without another word led her to the parlor door, and, opening it, said briefly, “My daughter, Mistress Thankful Blossom.”
With the opening of the door came the sound of earnest voices that instantly ceased upon the appearance of Mistress Thankful. Two gentlemen lolling before the fire arose instantly, and one came forward with an air of familiar yet respectful recognition.
“Nay, this is far too great happiness, Mistress Thankful,” he said, with a strongly marked foreign accent, and a still more strongly marked foreign manner. “I have been in despair, and my friend here, the Baron Pomposo, likewise.”
The slightest trace of a smile, and the swiftest of reproachful glances, lit up the dark face of the baron as he bowed low in the introduction. Thankful dropped the courtesy of the period,—i. e., a duck, with semicircular sweep of the right foot forward. But the right foot was so pretty, and the grace of the little figure so perfect, that the baron raised his eyes from the foot to the face in serious admiration. In the one rapid feminine glance she had given him, she had seen that he was handsome; in the second, which she could not help from his protracted silence, she saw that his beauty centred in his girlish, half fawn-like dark eyes.
“The baron,” explained Mr. Blossom, rubbing his hands together as if through mere friction he was trying to impart a warmth to the reception which his hard face discountenanced,—“the baron visits us under discouragement. He comes from far countries. It is the custom of gentlefolk of—of foreign extraction to wander through strange lands, commenting upon the habits and doings of the peoples. He will find in Jersey,” continued Mr. Blossom, apparently appealing to Thankful, yet really evading her contemptuous glance, “a hard-working yeomanry, ever ready to welcome the stranger, and account to him, penny for penny, for all his necessary expenditure; for which purpose, in these troublous times, he will provide for himself gold or other moneys not affected by these local disturbances.”
“He will find, good friend Blossom,” said the baron in a rapid, voluble way, utterly at variance with the soft, quiet gravity of his eyes, “Beauty, Grace, Accomplishment, and—eh—Santa Maria, what shall I say?” He turned appealingly to the count.
“Virtue,” nodded the count.
“Truly, Birtoo! all in the fair lady of thees countries. Ah, believe me, honest friend Blossom, there is mooch more in thees than in thoss!”
So much of this speech was addressed to Mistress Thankful, that she had to show at least one dimple in reply, albeit her brows were slightly knit, and she had turned upon the speaker her honest, questioning eyes.
“And then the General Washington has been kind enough to offer his protection,” added the count.
“Any fool—any one,” supplemented Thankful hastily, with a slight blush—“may have the general’s pass, ay, and his good word. But what of Mistress Prudence Bookstaver?—she that has a sweetheart in Knyphausen’s brigade, ay,—I warrant a Hessian, but of gentle blood, as Mistress Prudence has often told me,—and, look you, all her letters stopped by the general, ay, I warrant, read by my Lady Washington too, as if ’twere her fault that her lad was in arms against Congress. Riddle me that, now!”
“’Tis but prudence, lass,” said Blossom, frowning on the girl. “’Tis that she might disclose some movement of the army, tending to defeat the enemy.”
“And why should she not try to save her lad from capture or ambuscade such as befell the Hessian commissary with the provisions that you—”
Mr. Blossom, in an ostensible fatherly embrace, managed to pinch Mistress Thankful sharply. “Hush, lass,” he said with simulated playfulness; “your tongue clacks like the Whippany mill.—My daughter has small concern—’tis the manner of womenfolk—in politics,” he explained to his guests. “These dangersome days have given her sore affliction by way of parting comrades of her childhood, and others whom she has much affected. It has in some sort soured her.”
Mr. Blossom would have recalled this speech as soon as it escaped him, lest it should lead to a revelation from the truthful Mistress Thankful of her relations with the Continental captain. But to his astonishment, and, I may add, to my own, she showed nothing of that disposition she had exhibited a few moments before. On the contrary, she blushed slightly, and said nothing.
And then the conversation changed,—upon the weather, the hard winter, the prospects of the Cause, a criticism upon the commander-in-chief’s management of affairs, the attitude of Congress, etc., between Mr. Blossom and the count; characterized, I hardly need say, by that positiveness of opinion that distinguishes the unprofessional. In another part of the room, it so chanced that Mistress Thankful and the baron were talking about themselves; the assembly balls; who was the prettiest woman in Morristown; and whether Gen. Washington’s attentions to Mistress Pyne were only perfunctory gallantry, or what; and if Lady Washington’s hair was really gray; and if that young aide-de-camp, Major Van Zandt were really in love with Lady or whether his attentions were only the zeal of a subaltern,—in the midst of which a sudden gust of wind shook the house; and Mr. Blossom, going to the front door, came back with the announcement that it was snowing heavily.
And indeed, within that past hour, to their astonished eyes the whole face of nature had changed. The moon was gone, the sky hidden in a blinding, whirling swarm of stinging flakes. The wind, bitter and strong, had already fashioned white feathery drifts upon the threshold, over the painted benches on the porch, and against the door-posts.
Mistress Thankful and the baron had walked to the rear door—the baron with a slight tropical shudder—to view this meteorological change. As Mistress Thankful looked over the snowy landscape, it seemed to her that all record of her past experience had been effaced: her very footprints of an hour before were lost; the gray wall on which she leaned was white and spotless now; even the familiar farm-shed looked dim and strange and ghostly. Had she been there? had she seen the captain? was it all a fancy? She scarcely knew.
A sudden gust of wind closed the door behind them with a crash, and sent Mistress Thankful, with a slight feminine scream, forward into the outer darkness. But the baron caught her by the waist, and saved her from Heaven knows what imaginable disaster; and the scene ended in a half-hysterical laugh. But the wind then set upon them both with a malevolent fury; and the baron was, I presume, obliged to draw her closer to his side.
They were alone, save for the presence of those mischievous confederates, Nature and Opportunity. In the half-obscurity of the storm she could not help turning her mischievous eyes on his. But she was perhaps surprised to find them luminous, soft, and, as it seemed to her at that moment, grave beyond the occasion. An embarrassment utterly new and singular seized upon her; and when, as she half feared yet half expected, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers, she was for a moment powerless. But in the next instant she boxed his ears sharply, and vanished in the darkness. When Mr. Blossom opened the door to the baron he was surprised to find that gentleman alone, and still more surprised to find, when they re-entered the house, to see Mistress Thankful enter at the same moment, demurely, from the front door.
When Mr. Blossom knocked at his daughter’s door the next morning it opened upon her completely dressed, but withal somewhat pale, and, if the truth must be told, a little surly.
“And you were stirring so early, Thankful,” he said: “’twould have been but decent to have bidden God-speed to the guests, especially the baron, who seemed much concerned at your absence.”
Miss Thankful blushed slightly, but answered with savage celerity, “And since when is it necessary that I should dance attendance upon every foreign jack-in-the-box that may lie at the house?”
“He has shown great courtesy to you, mistress, and is a gentleman.”
“Courtesy, indeed!” said Mistress Thankful.
“He has not presumed?” said Mr. Blossom suddenly, bringing his cold gray eyes to bear upon his daughter’s.
“No, no,” said Thankful hurriedly, flaming a bright scarlet; “but—nothing. But what have you there? a letter?”
“Ay,—from the captain, I warrant,” said Mr. Blossom, handing her a three-cornered bit of paper: “’twas left here by a camp-follower. Thankful,” he continued, with a meaning glance, “you will heed my counsel in season. The captain is not meet for such as you.”
Thankful suddenly grew pale and contemptuous again as she snatched the letter from his hand. When his retiring footsteps were lost on the stairs she regained her color, and opened the letter. It was slovenly written, grievously misspelled, and read as follows:—
|
“SWEETHEART: A tyranous Act, begotten in Envy and Jealousie, keeps me here a prisoner. Last night I was Basely arrested by Servile Hands for that Freedom of Thought and Expression for which I have already Sacrifized so much—aye all that Man hath but Love and Honour. But the End is Near. When for the Maintenance of Power, the Liberties of the Peoples are subdued by Martial Supremacy and the Dictates of Ambition the State is Lost. I lie in Vile Bondage here in Morristown under charge of Disrespeck—me that a twelvemonth past left a home and Respectable Connexions to serve my Country. Believe me still your own Love, albeit in the Power of Tyrants and condemned it may be to the scaffold. “The Messenger is Trustworthy and will speed safely to me such as you may deliver unto him. The Provender sanktified by your Hands and made precious by yr. Love was wrested from me by Servil Hands and the Eggs, Sweetheart, were somewhat Addled. The Bacon is, methinks by this time on the Table of the Comr-in-Chief. Such is Tyranny and Ambition. Sweetheart, farewell, for the present. ALLAN.” |
Mistress Thankful read this composition once, twice, and then tore it up. Then, reflecting that it was the first letter of her lover’s that she had not kept, she tried to put together again the torn fragments, but vainly, and then in a pet, new to her, cast them from the window. During the rest of the day she was considerably distraite, and even manifested more temper than she was wont to do; and later, when her father rode away on his daily visit to Morristown, she felt strangely relieved. By noon the snow ceased, or rather turned into a driving sleet that again in turn gave way to rain. By this time she became absorbed in her household duties,—in which she was usually skilful,—and in her own thoughts that to-day had a novelty in their meaning. In the midst of this, at about dark, her room being in the rear of the house, she was perhaps unmindful of the trampling of horse without, or the sound of voices in the hall below. Neither was uncommon at that time. Although protected by the Continental army from forage or the rudeness of soldiery, the Blossom farm had always been a halting-place for passing troopers, commissary teamsters, and reconnoitring officers. Gen. Sullivan and Col. Hamilton had watered their horses at its broad, substantial wayside trough, and sat in the shade of its porch. Miss Thankful was only awakened from her daydream by the entrance of the negro farm-hand, Cæsar.
“Fo’ God, Missy Thankful, them sogers is g’wine into camp in the road, I reckon, for they’s jest makin’ theysevs free afo’ the house, and they’s an officer in the company-room with his spurs cocked on the table, readin’ a book.”
A quick flame leaped into Thankful’s cheek, and her pretty brows knit themselves over darkening eyes. She arose from her work no longer the moody girl, but an indignant goddess, and, pushing the servant aside, swept down the stairs, and threw open the door.
An officer sitting by the fire in an easy, lounging attitude that justified the servant’s criticism, arose instantly with an air of evident embarrassment and surprise that was, however, as quickly dominated and controlled by a gentleman’s breeding.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with a deep inclination of his handsome head, “but I had no idea that there was any member of this household at home—at least, a lady.” He hesitated a moment, catching in the raising of her brown-fringed lids a sudden revelation of her beauty, and partly losing his composure. “I am Major Van Zandt: I have the honor of addressing—”
“Thankful Blossom,” said Thankful a little proudly, divining with a woman’s swift instinct the cause of the major’s hesitation. But her triumph was checked by a new embarrassment visible in the face of the officer at the mention of her name.
“Thankful Blossom,” repeated the officer quickly. “You are, then, the daughter of Abner Blossom?”
“Certainly,” said Thankful, turning her inquiring eyes upon him. “He will be here betimes. He has gone only to Morristown.” In a new fear that had taken possession of her, her questioning eyes asked, “Has he not?”
The officer, answering her eyes rather than her lips, came toward her gravely. “He will not return to-day, Mistress Thankful, nor perhaps even to-morrow. He is—a prisoner.”
Thankful opened her brown eyes aggressively on the major. “A prisoner—for what?”
“For aiding and giving comfort to the enemy, and for harboring spies,” replied the major with military curtness.
Mistress Thankful’s cheek flushed slightly at the last sentence: a recollection of the scene on the porch and the baron’s stolen kiss flashed across her, and for a moment she looked as guilty as if the man before her had been a witness to the deed. He saw it, and misinterpreted her confusion.
“Belike, then,” said Mistress Thankful, slightly raising her voice, and standing squarely before the major, “belike, then, I should be a prisoner too; for the guests of this house, if they be spies, were my guests, and, as my father’s daughter, I was their hostess; ay, man, and right glad to be the hostess of such gallant gentlemen,—gentlemen, I warrant, too fine to insult a defenceless girl; gentlemen spies that did not cock their boots on the table, or turn an honest farmer’s house into a tap-room.”
An expression of half pain, half amusement, covered the face of the major, but he made no other reply than by a profound and graceful bow. Courteous and deprecatory as it was, it apparently exasperated Mistress Thankful only the more.
“And pray who are these spies, and who is the informer?” said Mistress Thankful, facing the soldier, with one hand truculently placed on her flexible hip, and the other slipped behind her. “Methinks ’tis only honest we should know when and how we have entertained both.”
“Your father, Mistress Thankful,” said Major Van Zandt gravely, “has long been suspected of favoring the enemy; but it has been the policy of the commander-in-chief to overlook the political preferences of non-combatants, and to strive to win their allegiance to the good cause by liberal privileges. But when it was lately discovered that two strangers, although bearing a pass from him, have been frequenters of this house under fictitious names—”
“You mean Count Ferdinand and the Baron Pomposo,” said Thankful quickly,—“two honest gentlefolk; and if they choose to pay their devoirs to a lass—although, perhaps, not a quality lady, yet an honest girl—”
“Dear Mistress Thankful,” said the major with a profound bow and smile, that, spite of its courtesy, drove Thankful to the verge of wrathful hysterics, “if you establish that fact,—and, from this slight acquaintance with your charms, I doubt not you will,—your father is safe from further inquiry or detention. The commander-in-chief is a gentleman who has never underrated the influence of your sex, nor held himself averse to its fascinations.”
“What is the name of this informer?” broke in Mistress Thankful angrily. “Who is it that has dared—”
“It is but king’s evidence, mayhap, Mistress Thankful; for the informer is himself under arrest. It is on the information of Capt. Allan Brewster of the Connecticut Contingent.”
Mistress Thankful whitened, then flushed, and then whitened again. Then she stood up to the major.
“It’s a lie,—a cowardly lie!”
Major Van Zandt bowed. Mistress Thankful flew up stairs, and in another moment swept back again into the room in riding hat and habit.
“I suppose I can go and see—my father,” she said, without lifting her eyes to the officer.
“You are free as air, Mistress Thankful. My orders and instructions, far from implicating you in your father’s offences, do not even suggest your existence. Let me help you to your horse.”
The girl did not reply. During that brief interval, however, Cæsar had saddled her white mare, and brought it to the door. Mistress Thankful, disdaining the offered hand of the major, sprang to the saddle.
The major still held the reins. “One moment, Mistress Thankful.”
“Let me go!” she said, with suppressed passion.
“One moment, I beg.”
His hand still held her bridle-rein. The mare reared, nearly upsetting her. Crimson with rage and mortification, she raised her riding-whip, and laid it smartly over the face of the man before her.
He dropped the rein instantly. Then he raised to her a face calm and colorless, but for a red line extending from his eyebrow to his chin, and said quietly,—
“I had no desire to detain you. I only wished to say that when you see Gen. Washington I know you will be just enough to tell him that Major Van Zandt knew nothing of your wrongs, or even your presence here, until you presented them, and that since then he has treated you as became an officer and a gentleman.”
Yet even as he spoke she was gone. At the moment that her fluttering skirt swept in a furious gallop down the hillside, the major turned, and re-entered the house. The few lounging troopers who were witnesses of the scene prudently turned their eyes from the white face and blazing eyes of their officer as he strode by them. Nevertheless, when the door closed behind him, contemporary criticism broke out:—
“’Tis a Tory jade, vexed that she cannot befool the major as she has the captain,” muttered Sergeant Tibbitts.
“And going to try her tricks on the general,” added Private Hicks.
Howbeit both these critics may have been wrong. For as Mistress Thankful thundered down the Morristown road she thought of many things. She thought of her sweetheart Allan, a prisoner, and pining for her help and her solicitude; and yet—how dared he—if he had really betrayed or misjudged her! And then she thought bitterly of the count and the baron, and burned to face the latter, and in some vague way charge the stolen kiss upon him as the cause of all her shame and mortification. And lastly she thought of her father, and began to hate everybody. But above all and through all, in her vague fears for her father, in her passionate indignation against the baron, in her fretful impatience of Allan, one thing was ever dominant and obtrusive; one thing she tried to put away, but could not,—the handsome, colorless face of Major Van Zandt, with the red welt of her riding-whip overlying its cold outlines.