Part 11 (2/2)
”And then you mean to wed him?”
She was silent. The color ebbed in her cheeks.
I stood looking at her through the evening light. Behind her, gilded by the level rays of the sinking sun, a new headstone stood, and on it I read:
IN MEMORY OF
Michael Cresap, First Cap't Of the Rifle Battalions, And Son to Col. Thomas Cresap, Who Departed this Life, Oct. 18, A.D. 1775.
Cresap, the generous young captain, whose dusty column of Maryland riflemen I myself had seen when but a lad, pouring through Broadalbin Bush on the way to Boston siege! This was his grave; and a Tory maid in flowered petticoat and chip hat was seated on the mound a-prattling of rebels!
”When do you leave us?” I asked grimly.
”Captain Butler has gone to see Sir Henry to ask for a packet. We sail as soon as may be.”
”Does _he_ go with you?” I demanded, startled.
”Why, yes--I and my two maids, and Captain Butler. Sir Frederick Haldimand knows.”
”Yes, but he does not know that Captain Butler has presumed--has dared to press a clandestine suit with you!” I retorted angrily. ”It does not please me that you go under such doubtful escort, Elsin.”
”And pray, who are you to please, sir?” she asked in quick displeasure.
”You speak of presumption in others, Mr. Renault, and, unsolicited, you offer an affront to me and to a gentleman who is not here to answer.”
”I wish he were,” I said between my teeth.
Her fair face hardened.
”Wishes are very safe, sir,” she said in a low voice.
At that, suddenly, such a blind anger flooded me that the setting sun swam in my eyes and the blood dinned in ears and brain as though to burst them. At such moments, which are rare with me, I fall silent; and so I stood, while the strange rage shook me, and pa.s.sed, leaving me cold and very quiet.
”I think we had best go,” I said.
She held out her hand. I aided her to rise; and she kept my hand in hers, laying the other over it, and looked up into my eyes.
”Forgive me, Carus,” she whispered. ”No man can be more gallant and more sweet than you.”
”Forgive me, Elsin. No maid so generous and just as you.”
And that was all, for we crossed the street, and I mounted the stoop of our house with her, and bowed her in when the great door opened.
”Are you not coming in?” she asked, lingering in the doorway.
”No. I shall take the air.”
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