Part 59 (1/2)

”You should buy the cattle, too,” whispered Nick. ”There be folk in Johnstown would pay well for such a breed o' cow. And there's the pig, Jack, and the sheep and the hens, and all that grain and hay so snug in the barn.”

So I asked very fiercely if any man desired to bid against me; and neither Huetson nor his sulky comrade, Davis, having any such stomach, I fetched ale and apples and nuts and made them eat and drink, and so drew aside the Commissioner and bargained with him like a Jew or a shoe-peg Yankee; and in the end bought all.[21]

[Footnote 21: The Commissioners for selling real estate in Tryon County sold the personal property of Sir John Johnson some time before the Hall and acreage were sold. The Commissioners appointed for selling confiscated personal property in Tryon County were appointed later, March 6, 1777.]

”Shall you move hither from Fonda's Bush and sell your house?” asked Nick, who now was going out on watch.

But I made him no answer, for I had been bitten by an idea, the mere thought of which fevered me with excitement. Oh, I was mad as a March fox running his first vixen, in that first tide of romantic love,--clean daft and lacking reason.

So when Commissioner Outthout and those who had come for the vendue had drank as much of my new ale as they cared to carry home a-horse, and were gone a-b.u.mping down the Johnstown road like a flock of Gilpins all, I took my parchment and went into my bed chamber; and there I sat upon my trundle bed and read what was writ upon my deed, making me the owner of Summer House and of all that appertained to the little hunting lodge.

But I had not purchased it selfishly; and the whole business began with an impulse born of love for Sir William, who had loved this place so well. But even as that impulse came, another notion took shape in my love-addled sconce.

I sat on my trundle bed a-thinking and--G.o.d forgive me--admiring my own lofty and romantic purpose.

The house was still, but on the veranda roof overhead I could hear the moccasined tread of Nick pacing his post; and from below in the kitchen came the distant thump and splash of Penelope's churn, where she was making new b.u.t.ter for to salt it against our needs.

Now, as I rose my breath came quicker, but admiration for my resolve abated nothing--no!--rather increased as I tasted the sad pleasures of martyrdom and of n.o.ble renunciation. For I now meant to figure in this girl's eyes in a manner which she never could forget and which, I trusted, might sadden her with a wistful melancholy after I was gone and she had awakened to the irreparable loss.

When I came down into the kitchen where, bare of arms and throat, she stood a-churning, she looked at me out of partly-lowered eyes, as though doubting my mood--poor child. And I saw the sweat on her flushed cheeks, and her yellow hair, in disorder from the labour, all curled into damp little ringlets. But when I smiled I saw that lovely glimmer dawning, and she asked me shyly what I did there--for never before had I come into her kitchen.

So, still smiling, I gave an account of how I had bought Summer House; and she listened, wide-eyed, wondering.

”But,” continued I, ”I have already my own glebe at Fonda's Bush, and a house; but there be many with whom fortune has not been so complacent, and who possess neither glebe nor roof, yet deserve both.”

”Yes, sir,” she said, smiling, ”there be many such folk and always will be in the world. Of such company am I, also, but it saddens me not at all.”

I went to her and showed her my deed, and she looked down on it, her hands clasped on the churn handle.

”So that,” said she, ”is a lawful deed! I have never before been shown such an instrument.”

”You shall have leisure enough to study this one,” said I, ”for I convey it to you.”

”Sir?”

”I give Summer House to you,” said I. ”Here is the deed. When I go to Johnstown again I will execute it so that this place shall be yours.”

She gazed at me in dumb astonishment.

”Meanwhile,” said I, ”you shall keep the deed.... And now you are, in fact, if not yet in t.i.tle, mistress of Summer House. And I think, this night, we should break a bottle of Sir William's Madeira to drink health to our new chatelaine.”

She came from her churn and caught my arm, where I had turned to ascend the steps.

”You are jesting, are you not, my lord?”

”No! And do not use that term, 'lord,' to me.”

”You--you offer to give me--me--this estate!”