My protector and chief friend was at this time, as near as may be, fifty years of age; yet he bore these years so sturdily that, if one should see him side by side with his gossip and neighbor, Sir William Johnson, there would be great doubt which was the elder--and the Baronet was not above forty-two. Mr. Stewart was not tall, and seemed of somewhat slight frame, yet he had not only grace of movement, but prodigious1 strength of wrist and shoulders. For walking he was not much, but he rode like a knight2. He was of strictest neatness and method concerning his clothes; not so much, let me explain, as to their original texture3, for they were always plain, ordinary garments, but regarding their cleanliness and order. He had a swift and ready temper, and could not brook4 to be disputed by his equals, much less by his inferiors, yet had a most perfect and winning politeness when agreed with.
All these, I had come to know, were traits of a soldier, yet he had many other qualities which puzzled me, not being observable in other troopers. He swore very rarely, he was abstemious5 with wines and spirits, and he loved books better than food itself. Of not even Sir William, great warrior6 and excellent scholar though he was, could all these things be said. Mr. Stewart had often related to me, during the long winter days and evenings spent of necessity by the fire, stories drawn7 from his campaigns in the Netherlands and France and Scotland, speaking freely and most instructively. But he had never helped me to unravel8 the mystery why he, so unlike other soldiers in habits and tastes, should have chosen the profession of arms.
A ray of light was thrown upon the question this very day by the forward prattle9 of the boy Philip. In after years the full illumination came, and I understood it all. It is as well, perhaps, to outline the story here, although at the time I was in ignorance of it.
In Ireland, nearly eighty years before, that is to say in 1679, there had been born a boy to whom was given the name of James Lynch. His mother was the smooth-faced, light-hearted daughter of a broken Irish gentleman, who loved her boy after a gusty10 fashion, and bore a fierce life of scorn and sneers11 on his behalf. His father was--who? There were no proofs in court, of course, but it seems never to have been doubted by any one that the father was no other than the same worthless prince to wear whose titles the two chief towns of my State were despoiled12 of their honest Dutch names--I mean the Duke of York and Albany.
Little James Lynch, unlike so many of his luckier brothers and cousins, got neither a peerage nor a gentle breeding. Instead he was reared meagrely, if not harshly, under the maternal13 roof and name, until he grew old enough to realize that he was on an island where bad birth is not forgiven, even if the taint14 be royal. Then he ran away, reached the coast of France, and made his way to the French court, where his father was now, and properly enough, an exile. He was a fine youth, with a prompt tongue and clever head, and some attention was finally shown him. They gave him a sword and a company, and he went with the French through all the wars of Marlborough, gaining distinction, and, what is more, a fat purse.
With his money he returned to Ireland, wedded15 a maid of whom he had dreamed during all his exile, and settled down there to beggar himself in a life of bibulous16 ease, gaming, fox-hunting, and wastefulness17 generally. After some years the wife died, and James Lynch drifted naturally into the conspiracy18 which led to the first rising for the Pretender, involving himself as deeply as possible, and at its collapse19 flying once more to France, never to return.
He bore with him this time a son of eight years--my Mr. Stewart. This boy, called Thomas, was reared on the skirts of the vicious French court, now in a Jesuit school, now a poor relation in a palace, always reflecting in the vicissitudes20 of his condition the phases of his sire's vagrant21 existence. Sometimes this father would be moneyed and prodigal22, anon destitute23 and mean, but always selfish to the core, and merrily regardless alike of canons and of consequences. He died, did this adventurous24 gentleman, in the very year which took off the first George in Hanover, and left his son a very little money, a mountain of debts, and an injunction of loyalty25 to the Stewarts.
Young Thomas, then nearly twenty, thought much for a time of becoming a priest, and was always a favorite with the British Jesuits about Versailles, but this in the end came to nothing. He abandoned the religious vocation26, though not the scholar's tastes, and became a soldier, for the sake of a beautiful face which he saw once when on a secret visit to England. He fell greatly in love, and ventured to believe that the emotion was reciprocated27. As Jacob served Laban for his daughter, so did Tom Lynch serve the Pretender's cause for the hope of some day returning, honored and powerful, to ask the hand of that sweet daughter of the Jacobite gentleman.
One day there came to him at Paris, to offer his sword to the Stewarts, a young Irish gentleman who had been Tom's playmate in childhood--Anthony Cross. This gallant28, fresh-faced, handsome youth was all ablaze29 with ardor30; he burned to achieve impossible deeds, to attain31 glory at a stroke. He confessed to Tom over their dinner, or the wine afterward32 perhaps, that his needs were great because Love drove. He was partly betrothed33 to the daughter of an English Jacobite--yet she would marry none but one who had gained his spurs under his rightful king. They drank to the health of this exacting34, loyal maiden35, and Cross gave her name. Then Tom Lynch rose from the table, sick at heart, and went away in silence.
Cross never knew of the hopes and joys he had unwittingly crushed. The two young men became friends, intimates, brothers, serving in half the lands of Europe side by side. The maiden, an orphan36 now, and of substance and degree, came over at last to France, and Lynch stood by, calm-faced, and saw her married to his friend. She only pleasantly remembered him; he never forgot her till his death.
Finally, in 1745, when both men were nearing middle age, the time for striking the great blow was thought to have arrived. The memory of Lynch's lineage was much stronger with the romantic young Pretender of his generation than had been the rightfully closer tie between their more selfish fathers, and princely favor gave him a prominent position among those who arranged that brilliant melodrama37 of Glenfinnan and Edinburgh and Preston Pans, which was to be so swiftly succeeded by the tragedy of Culloden. The two friends were together through it all--in its triumph, its disaster, its rout--but they became separated afterward in the Highlands, when they were hiding for their lives. Cross, it seems, was able to lie secure until his wife's relatives, through some Whig influence, I know not what, obtained for him amnesty first, then leave to live in England, and finally a commission under the very sovereign he had fought. His comrade, less fortunate, at least contrived38 to make way to Ireland and then to France. There, angered and chagrined39 at unjust and peevish40 rebukes41 offered him, he renounced42 the bad cause, took the name of Stewart, and set sail to the New World.
This was my patron's story, as I gathered it in later years, and which perhaps I have erred43 in bringing forward here among my childish recollections. But, it seems to belong in truth much more to this day on which, for the first and last time I beheld44 Major Cross, than to the succeeding period when his son became an actor in the drama of my life.
The sun was now well up in the sky, and the snow was melting. While I still moodily45 eyed my young enemy and wondered how I should go about to acquit46 myself of the task laid upon me--to play with him--he solved the question by kicking into the moist snow with his boots and calling out:
"Aha! we can build a fort with this, and have a fine attack. Bob, make me a fort!"
Seeing that he bore no malice47, my temper softened48 toward him a little, and I set to helping49 the negro in his work. There was a great pile of logs in the clearing close to the house, and on the sunny side near this the little girl was placed, in a warm, dry spot; and here we two, with sticks and balls of snow, soon reared a mock block-house. The English boy did no work, but stood by and directed us with enthusiasm. When the structure was to his mind, he said:
"Now we will make up some snowballs, and have an attack I will be the Englishman and defend the fort; you must be the Frenchman and come to drive me out. You can have Bob with you for a savage50, if you like; only he must throw no balls, but stop back in the woods and whoop51. But first we must have some hard balls made, so that I may hit you good when you come up.--Bob, help this boy make some balls for me!"
Thus outlined, the game did not attract me. I did not so much mind doing his work for him, since he was company, so to speak, but it did go against my grain to have to manufacture the missiles for my own hurt.
"Why should I be the Frenchman?" I said, grumblingly52. "I am no more a Frenchman than you are yourself."
"You're a Dutchman, then, and it's quite the same," he replied. "All foreigners are the same."
"It is you who are the foreigner," I retorted with heat. "How can I be a foreigner in my own country, here where I was born?"
He did not take umbrage53 at this, but replied with argument: "Why, of course you're a foreigner. You wear an apron54, and you are not able to even speak English properly."
This reflection upon my speech pained even more than it nettled55 me. Mr. Stewart had been at great pains to teach me English, and I had begun to hope that he felt rewarded by my proficiency56. Years afterward he was wont57 to laughingly tell me that I never would live long enough to use English correctly, and that as a boy I spoke58 it abominably59, which I dare say was true enough. But just then my childish pride was grievously piqued60 by Philip's criticism.
"Very well, I'll be on the outside, then," I said. "I won't be a Frenchman, but I'll come all the same, and do you look out for yourself when I do come," or words to that purport61.
We had a good, long contest over the snow wall. I seem to remember it all better than I remember any other struggle of my life, although there were some to come in which existence itself was at stake, but boys' mimic62 fights are not subjects upon which a writer may profitably dwell. It is enough to say that he defended himself very stoutly63, hurling64 the balls which Bob had made for him with great swiftness and accuracy, so that my head was sore for a week. But my blood was up, and at last over the wall I forced my way, pushing a good deal of it down as I went, and, grappling him by the waist, wrestled65 with and finally threw him. We were both down, with our faces in the snow, and I held him tight. I expected that he would be angry, and hot to turn the play into a real fight; but he said instead, mumbling66 with his mouth full of snow:
"Now you must pretend to scalp me, you know."
My aunt called us at this, and we all trooped into the house again. The little girl had crowed and clapped her hands during our struggle, all unconscious of the dreadful event of which it was a juvenile67 travesty68. We two boys admired her as she was borne in on the negro's shoulder, and Philip said:
"I am going to take her to England, for a playmate. Papa has said I may. My brother Digby has no sport in him, and he is much bigger than me, besides. So I shall have her all for my own. Only I wish she weren't Dutch."
When we entered the house the two gentlemen were seated at the table, eating their dinner, and my aunt had spread for us, in the chimney-corner, a like repast. She took the little girl off to her own room, the kitchen, and we fell like famished69 wolves upon the smoking venison and onions.
The talk of our elders was mainly about a personage of whom I could not know anything then, but whom I now see to have been the Young Pretender. They spoke of him as "he," and as leading a painfully worthless and disreputable life. This Mr. Stewart, who was twelve years the Chevalier's senior, and, as I learned later, had been greatly attached to his person, deplored70 with affectionate regret. But Major Cross, who related incidents of debauchery and selfishness which, being in Europe, had come to his knowledge about the prince, did not seem particularly cast down.
"It's but what might have been looked for," he said, lightly, in answer to some sad words of my patron's. "Five generations of honest men have trusted to their sorrow in the breed, and given their heads or their estates or their peace for not so much as a single promise kept, or a single smile without speculation71 in it. Let them rot out, I say, and be damned to them!"
"But he was such a goodly lad, Tony. Think of him as we knew him--and now!"
"No, I'll not think, Tom," broke in the officer, "for, when I do, then I too get soft-hearted. And I'll waste no more feeling or faith on any of 'em--on any of 'em, save the only true man of the lot, who's had the wit to put the ocean 'twixt him and them. And you're content here, Tom?"
"Oh, ay! Why not?" said Mr. Stewart. "It is a rude life in some ways, no doubt, but it's free and it's honest. I have my own roof, such as it is, and no one to gainsay72 me under it. I hunt, I fish, I work, I study, I dream--precisely what pleases me best."
"Ay, but the loneliness of it!"
"Why, no! I see much of Johnson, and there are others round about to talk with, when I'm driven to it. And then there's my young Dutchman--Douw, yonder--who bears me company, and fits me so well that he's like a second self."
The Major looked over toward my corner with a benevolent73 glance, but without comment. Presently he said, while he took more meat upon his plate:
"You've no thought of marrying, I suppose?"
"None!" said my patron, gravely and with emphasis.
The Major nodded his handsome head meditatively74. "Well, there's a deal to be said on that side," he remarked. "Still, children about the hearth75 help one to grow old pleasantly. And you always had a weakness for brats76."
Mr. Stewart said again: "I have my young Dutchman."
Once more the soldier looked at me, and, I'll be bound, saw me blushing furiously. He smiled and said:
"He seems an honest chap. He has something of your mouth, methinks."
My patron pushed his dish back with a gesture of vexation.
"No!" he said, sharply. "There's none of that. His father was a dominie over the river; his mother, a good, hard-working lady, left a widow, struggles to put bread in a dozen mouths by teaching a little home-school for infants. I have the boy here because I like him--because I want him. We shall live together--he and I. As he gets older this hut will doubtless grow into a house fit for gentlemen. Indeed, already I have the logs cut out in part for an addition, on the other side of the chimney."
The Major rose at this, smiling again, and frankly77 put out his hand.
"I meant no harm, you know, Tom, by my barracks jest. Faith! I envy the lad the privilege of living here with you. The happiest days of my life, dear friend, were those we spent together while I was waiting for my bride."
Mr. Stewart returned his smile rather sadly, and took his hand.
The time for parting had come. The two men stood hand in hand, with moistened eyes and slow-coming words, meeting for perhaps the last time in this life; for the Major was to stop but an hour at Fort Johnson, and thence hasten on to New York and to England, bearing with him weighty despatches.
While they still stood, and the negro was tying Master Philip's hat over his ears, my aunt entered the room, bearing in her arms the poor little waif from the massacre78. The child had been washed and warmed, and wore over her dress and feet a sort of mantle79, which the good woman had hastily and somewhat rudely fashioned meantime.
"Oh, we came near forgetting her!" cried Philip. "Wrap her snug80 and warm, Bob, for the journey."
The Major looked blank at sight of the child, who nestled in my aunt's arms. "What am I to do with her?" he said to my patron.
"Why, papa, you know she is going to England with us," said the boy.
"Tut, lad!" spoke the Major, peremptorily81; then, to Mr. Stewart: "Could Sir William place her, think you, or does that half-breed swarm82 of his fill the house? It seemed right enough to bring her out from the Palatine country, but now that she's out, damme! I almost wish she was back again. What a fool not to leave her at Herkimer's!"
I do not know if I had any clear idea of what was springing up in Mr. Stewart's mind, but it seems to me that I must have looked at him pleadingly and with great hope in my eyes, during the moment of silence which followed. Mr. Stewart in turn regarded the child attentively83.
"Would it please you to keep her here, Dame84 Kronk?" he asked at last.
As my aunt made glad assent85, I could scarcely refrain from dancing. I walked over to the little girl and took her hand in mine, filled with deep joy.
"You render me very grateful, Tom," said Major Cross, heartily86. "It's a load off my mind.--Come, Philip, make your farewells. We must be off."
"And isn't the child to be mine--to go with us?" the boy asked, vehemently87.
"Why be childish, Philip?" demanded the Major. "Of course it's out of the question."
The English lad, muffled88 up now for the ride, with his large flat hat pressed down comically at the sides by the great knitted comforter which Bob had tied under his chin, scowled89 in a savage fashion, bit his lips, and started for the door, too angry to say good-by. When he passed me, red-faced and wrathful, I could not keep from smiling, but truly rather at his swaddled appearance than at his discomfiture90. He had sneered91 at my apron, besides.
With a cry of rage he whirled around and struck me full in the face, knocking me head over heels into the ashes on the hearth. Then he burst into a fit of violent weeping, or rather convulsions more befitting a wild-cat than a human being, stamping furiously with his feet, and screaming that he would have the child.
I picked myself out of the ashes, where my hair had been singed92 a trifle by the embers, in time to see the Major soundly cuff93 his offspring, and then lead him by the arm, still screaming, out of the door. There Bob enveloped94 him in his arms, struggling and kicking, and put him on the horse. Major Cross, returning for a final farewell word, gave me a shilling as a salve for my hurts, physical and mental, and said:
"I am sorry to have so ill-tempered a son. He cannot brook denial, when once he fixes his heart on a thing. However, he'll get that beaten out of him before he's done with the world. And so, Tom, dear, dear old comrade, a last good-by. God bless you, Tom! Farewell."
"God bless you--and yours, mon frère!"
We stood, Mr. Stewart and I, at the outer gate, and watched them down the river road, until the jutting95 headland intervened. As we walked slowly back toward the house, my guardian96 said, as if talking partly to himself:
"There is nothing clearer in natural law than that sons inherit from their mothers. I know of only two cases in all history where an able man had a father superior in brain and energy to the mother--Martin Luther and the present King of Prussia. Perhaps it was all for the best."
To this I of course offered no answer, but trudged97 along through the melting snow by his side.
Presently, as we reached the house, he stopped and looked the log structure critically over.
"You heard what I said, Douw, upon your belonging henceforth to this house--to me?"
"Yes, Mr. Stewart."
"And now, lo and behold98, I have a daughter as well! To-morrow we must plan out still another room for our abode99."
Thus ended the day on which my story properly and prophetically begins--the day when I first met Master Philip Cross.
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1
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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2
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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3
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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7
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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9
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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10
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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12
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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15
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bibulous
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| adj.高度吸收的，酗酒的 | |
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wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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28
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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29
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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41
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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43
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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45
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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46
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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47
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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48
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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49
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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50
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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51
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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grumblingly
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| 喃喃报怨着，发牢骚着 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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58
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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62
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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88
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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89
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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93
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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96
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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97
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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99
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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