Part 92 (1/2)
”This is the urgent news I ask of you. I am horribly afraid. In mercy send me some account; for there are terrible rumours afloat in this fortress--rumours of other spies taken by your soldiery, and of brutal executions--I can not bring myself to write of what I fear. Pity me, Jack, and write me what you hear.
”Could you not beg this one mercy of Billy Alexander, that he send a flag or contrive to have one sent from your Northern Department, explaining to us poor women what truly has been,--and is like to be--the fate of such unfortunate prisoners in your hands?
”And remember who it is appeals to you, dear Jack; for even if I have not merited your consideration,--if I, perhaps, have even forfeited the regard of Billy Alexander,--I pray you both to remember that you once were a little in love with me.
”And so, deal with me gently, Jack. For I am frightened and sick at heart; and know very little about love, which, for the first time ever in my life, has now undone me.
”Will you not aid and forgive your unhappy,
”CLAUDIA.”
Good Lord! Claudia enamoured! And enamoured of that great villain, Henry Hare! Why, d.a.m.n him, he hath a wife and children, too, or I am most grossly in error.
I had not heard that Walter Butler was taken. I knew not whether Lieutenant Hare had been caught in Butler's evil company or if, indeed, he had fought at all with old John Butler at Oriska.
Frowning, disgusted, yet sad also to learn that Claudia could so rashly and so ign.o.bly lavish her affections, nevertheless I resolved to ask Lord Stirling if a flag could not be sent with news to Claudia and such other anxious ladies as might be eating their hearts out at Oneida, or Oswego, or Buck Island.
And so I laid aside her painful letter, and unfolded the last missive.
And discovered it was writ me by Penelope:
”You should not think harshly of me, Jack Drogue, if you return and discover that I am gone away from Johnstown.
”Douw Fonda is returned to Cayadutta Lodge. He has now sent a carriage for to fetch me. It is waiting while I write. I can not refuse him.
”If, when we meet again, you desire to know my mind concerning you, then, if you choose to look into it, you shall discover that my mind contains only a single thought. And the thought is for you.
”But if you desire no longer to know my mind when again--if ever--we two meet together, then you shall not feel it your duty to concern yourself about my mind, or what thought may be within it.
”I would not write coldly to you, John Drogue. Nor would I importune with pa.s.sion.
”I have no claim upon your further kindness. You have every claim upon my life-long grat.i.tude.
”But I offer more than grat.i.tude if you should still desire it; and I would offer less--if it should better please you.
”Feel not offended; feel free. Come to me if it pleaseth you; and, if you come not, there is in me that which shall pardon all you do, or leave undone, as long as ever I shall live on earth.
”PENELOPE GRANT.”
When Snips had powdered me and had tied my club with a queue-ribbon of his proper selection, he patched my cheek-bone where a thorn had torn me, and stood a-twirling his iron as though lost in admiration of his handiwork.
When I paid him I bade him tell Burke to bring around my horse and fetch my saddle bags; and then I dressed me in my regimentals.
When Burke came with the saddle-bags, we packed them together. He promised to care for my rifle and pack, took my new light blanket over his arm, and led the way down stairs, where I presently perceived Kaya saddled, and p.r.i.c.king ears to hear my voice.
Whilst I caressed her and whispered in her pretty ear the idle tenderness that a man confides to a beloved horse, Burke placed my pistols, strapped saddle-bags and blanket, and held my stirrup as I gathered bridle and set my spurred boot firmly on the steel.
And so swung to my saddle, and sat there, dividing bridles, deep fixed in troubled thought and anxiously concerned for the safety of the unselfish but very stubborn girl I loved.