A Georgian actress

Act II. PlHUI-ASTERp or

Sc.III.

Rose /yixii' *^ j^ez-**. ^e- 4.e-<t-<i^re^^ /' London, Printed for Drury Lane Theatre, Nov. 9, 1774.

By

Author of

Maide," etc.

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Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton

BOSTON

L. C. PAGE {=f COMPANY (Incorporated)

MDC'CCC

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Copyright,, igoo '

By L. C. Page & Company

(iNCORPOSiVTBD)

All Sig&U Reserved

CCoIonfal $tess

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. SImonds & Co.

Boston, U. S. A.

TO MY BROTHERS

THIS STORY IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

Miss Ann Johnson as Rose . Frontispiece " Peggy began crooning an Indian Lui/-

laby" i6

"He gave the lines as only he could

give them" 189

"She fastened the last letter in the

front of her dress" . . .217

Chapter I

"TV yr ADAME," said Ann, « tell me of i. V J. that England which lies over the sea where Peggy and I are to go some day."

Madame, stepping back from the embroidery-frame that she might draw with freedom the shining length of fine silk through the linen, replied monotonously : " It is a fertile country, surrounded by the sea — "

" I know all that," interrupted Ann, eagerly, "but tell me of the people. Bethink you, I have seen no man's face save my father's unless you would observe the Indians. No gentlewoman have I known other than yourself Oh, how often at night have I stood lonely at my window and put forth my arms. ' Even so, dear moon,' I say, ' do you shine white upon that mighty Rome of which I read, and in your light do lovers walk.' I think of Romeo and Juliet, which play, Madame, affects me profoundly, so that I sigh to myself, yet not all for pain. But when the sun shines I think of England and the children playing in the meadows. I think I should be most content to frolic awhile with the little English children. I would tease them, but only very lovingly, and then I would make daisy-wreaths for them such as I have read about. I think the children must be sweeter than flowers even."

Madame, matching the silk for the yellow heart of a rose, did not reply. The sunlight fell aslant the rich border of the cloth. Amidst loving lavishness of gold thread she laid in stitches in clear scarlet, green, purple, and blue.

The blue was as the sky at noon and the purple soft as the twilight. The green held the greenness of the emerald spring. But the beauty of the scarlet colour thrilled her afresh whenever she drew the cover from the frame to recommence work. She herself had sown and tended the flax, gathered and spun it and bleached the threads, that this cloth for the altar might be the labour of her own hands. In the centre, where the service of the Holy Sacrament should repose, she would embroider a lamb in silk of the whiteness that gleams like silver.

" I beg that you will urge upon my father the necessity of taking us soon to England," ventured Ann, timidly.

Madame's hands shook so that she threaded her needle with difficulty. " How many times have I told you, Ann, that it is best to desire naught, neither pleasure nor power, neither wisdom nor love. Pleasure will burn to ashes; power is a delusion ; wisdom is vanity. As for love, lo, love is emptiness."

" I will have pleasure,"^, cried Ann, pursing her lips obstinately. "As for power, that suffices for men. Neither care I for wisdom, which might grow irksome. But as for love, — why, love is pleasure."

" Love is pain," said her companion.

lo A Georgian Actress

" Then love is pain and pleasure," persisted she, gaily.

"The pain remains," ended Madame, sternly.

Ann's mouth quivered. "You make me afraid when you talk so. Why should I wish to live if all is as you say ? " She rose and stood looking out of the window.

Never had there been known such an autumn in the valley.

" It is the smoke from old Maushope's pipe," said the Indians, as the hazy air grew bluer, filling the forest gaps with purple. Morning after morning the sun came up copper-coloured and the delicate hoar-frost vanished like a breath. Each moment of the magic days seemed deliciously prolonged. The tangled branches of the blackberry and the sumac's velvet plumes flamed along the byways and the outskirts of the forest. There was the soft, incessant sound of falling leaves and the bursting of puff-balls, and, more distinct, the patter of nuts dropping, while louder yet rose the chattering of the squirrels. Flocks of birds drifted slowly southward.

A Georgian Actress ii

Far as her gaze could reach Ann saw but the great forests, — her prison walls.

Through the dusky green of the pines showed the brilliant hues of the changing maple, the butternut, and hickory trees.

" Of all things," she said aloud, with a defiant glance over her shqulder at her companion, " of all things, I hate trees."

All the beauty of the autumn forest she beheld with listless eyes ; to all its mysterious melody she turned unheeding ears. Beyond, beyond, lay the world.

Her sewing slipped from her fingers to the garden below. Indifferent to its fate, she watched with unseeing eyes the waving tree-tops. Her face suddenly brightened. She turned impulsively and knelt beside Madame, who, wearied by long standing before the embroidery-frame, had seated herself.

" Dear Madame," coaxed the girl, " why will you never speak to me of my mother and forbid that I should even mention her name to my father ? What would you think if I told you that I knew, that I had guessed, the reason why ? " She held her head back, looking up into the other's face, her eyes bright with mischievous spirit, her smile arch as that of one who had surprised a delightful secret. " Is it not because she was such a great and beautiful lady that you fear to tell me lest I should become vain of her memory and grow to care for worldly things? Ah, you would reprove me if you but knew how precious is the thought of her. I picture to myself how, when Peggy and I go out into the world, those who knew our mother will whisper when our backs are turned. And though I shall hear them not, yet shall I know what they say. And if either of us looks good in their eyes they will say : ' She has somewhat of her mother's beauty.' And should one of us, by a lucky chance, address them with some poor grace of speech, they will smile and exchange glances and think : ' Now is her mother's brave wit hers.' Then shall I be happy. It will be as I now think. My mother's love, which here I never knew, awaits me in the world. For that love she gave her friends will spring to life again in their hearts when they see her daughters. Thus will her memory rise to meet and bless us in the world. Ah, dear Madame, tell me who my mother was ! "

Madame seldom accorded Ann a caress, yet now she stroked the rounded cheek.

" And sometimes I have thought," continued the girl, encouraged, " that perhaps you were her companion, watched over her as you do over Peggy and me, saw that what she wore became her beauty, your fingers plaited her long and shining hair — "

A strange smile flitted over the older woman's face.

It chilled Ann, who rose slowly to her feet, half-frightened. " Perchance I should not have asked you," she faltered, " perchance I do presume."

" Have I ever failed in my duty to you ? " asked Madame.

Ann's white throat swelled with an unuttered sob. The tears rushed to her eyes. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak, and hurried from the room. She went down-stairs into the garden lying back of the castle. The high brick walls of this garden stretched well into the forest, seeming to push back the trees that crowded jealously forward and thrust long arms over the coping. A brook strayed across one corner and out again, and there a grotto had been built. Closely trimmed box bordered the flower beds and winding paths. There were no shade-trees because the shadow of the forest, varying with the position of the sun, always fell across some part of it. But there were a few fruit-trees and grape and honeysuckle arbours. In the spring the tulip beds planted by the High Dutch girl, and tended so sacredly by her daughters, burst into gorgeous bloom.

The negro women had some time since gathered the grapes and made them into wine and preserves for the long winter. But here and there a bunchy overlooked, had reached the perfection of ripeness and hung, a purple-black cluster with a wine-like ray where the sun shone through. Here Ann paused and ate some of the grapes. Then picking the largest bunch in reach, she followed a path that led to the far corner of the garden. There she found her sister.

"You are grown too great a girl to play with dolls, Peggy," she said, austerely, " bethink yourself that we shall soon go forth into the world where it behoves us to be nimble-witted through much learning to cope with what shall befall us therein, for by lack of knowledge, as well as inexperience, we may appear most strange and foolish in others' eyes."

The little sister, seated on the ground, one doll clasped to her breast, glanced up wistfully.

" Dear Ann," she entreated, " suffer me just this afternoon to play with them and to-morrow I will read with you."

" I fear you like books none too well," sighed Ann ; " here are some grapes for you. They are, indeed, sweeter than honey." As she walked away she fell a-day-dream.ing, and her tears of a moment ago were forgotten.

Left alone, Peggy began crooning an Indian lullaby to the doll in her arms. Turning after awhile to lay it down, she saw that a drift of leaves had been blown with mysterious suddenness over her other children propped in a row against the wall.

As she began to brush the leaves away she heard the cawing of a crow in the pines outside.

"Caw," she mocked, "caw-caw-caw. You are an idle chatterer, Jokawe ! "

" Caw, caw," came the answer from the pine-trees.

Peggy picked up a stick. " Caw," she mimicked, "idle chatterer. Go home to your wife and children, Jokawe." She flung the stick high up among the branches and looked to see the shining black body of Jokawe rise and circle away into the blue sky.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet with a cry of terror. High in the branches a laughing face appeared.

" Who are you ? " she cried.

The face vanished. There came no

"PEGGY BEGAN CROONING AN INDIAN LULLABY,"

reply to her question. The boughs rustled,

A moment later a young man swung from the branches and seated himself on the wall.

" Who are you ? " she repeated.

" I am Jokawe," mocked the stranger, "Jokawe, the crow-man who teaches the young crows caw-caw."

Peggy stared up at him gravely. Her fear had passed, for she saw he was but a man as her father was, and belonged to that far world of which Ann talked so much. Moreover, she knew he was not Jokawe, the crow-man. For Jokawe had black wings instead of arms.

"Wait you still," she said, "whilst I go get Ann."

" No, no," cried he, " do not run away. I'll tell you who I am."

The little maid's rosy mouth was firmly set. " I will go get Ann," she repeated.

"Very well, then," he threatened, "when you return with her I shall be gone. I shall have turned into a crow and flown away. Caw ! " He pointed to her dolls. "Your children will get cold if you uncover them. 'Twas I who flung down the leaves."

Peggy knelt quickly and spread her arms over her dolls.

He laughed. " I have watched you often ; sometimes I have flung down nuts and you have thought it a squirrel. And I have whistled. Listen," putting his fingers to his mouth.

Was there a mocking-bird in the leaves above ? Ah, the melody, the sweetness !

As he ceased, Peggy raised her hand. " Hush," she whispered.

Faintly from far-oflF forest depths, rising infinitely high and sweet and as softly dying away, came the answering song.

" Do you not know me ? " asked the young man. " Look close."

" I know you not," she said.

" Try once again," he begged. " Why, fie on you, little maid, that you cannot read my features. Bear I no likeness to your father ? "

Peggyj gazing with all will to please, laughed and put up her arms. " Ann, "

she cried, " Ann ! " Yet even as the name left her lips her arms fell. " Who are you ? " she whispered, frightened.

" I," he mocked, " I am Ann."

" Ann," said the little maid, piteously, " it is not you." The tears came to her eyes. " Ann," she added, faintly, " it grieves me sorely if this be you."

" Caw-caw," he mimicked, " I am not Ann. I am Jokawe the crow-man, and my wife has one white wing and one black, but mine are both black and shining."

Peggy stooped and gathered up her dolls. She made several steps blindly for the tears in her eyes.

A hand was laid on her shoulder : the tantalising voice, grown gentle, spoke in her ear. " Forgive me, sweetheart, and look up. See, I am not Ann, but like Ann because I am her brother. Do not cry, I but jested. Am I not your brother as well as hers ? "

Peggy smiled through her tears. " Oh, now I know," she cried, " you are Ann's and my brother in that strange world of which she talks so much. Can you tell me if we shall find many brothers in that world?"

" But one," he answered, " as I, though I hunt the wide world o'er, shall find but two sisters. 1 am just come home from London, where I was knighted by his Majesty. But let us sit down on the grass here behind these rose-bushes, that we be not observed, and I will tell you more."

An hour passed. The breeze, beginning to freshen toward sunset, rippled the grass at their feet. Now and then Peggy shifted the position of the dolls in her arms. She was an entranced listener. For the first time she had forgotten Ann.

At the castle the negroes prepared supper.

Madame Van Vrankin had retired to the chapel to pray at this hour, as was her custom.

In the semi-darkness of the drawing-room Ann sat at her spinet, playing all she loved best to comfort herself for her recent tears.

Chapter II

ANN, unclosing happy eyes at sunrise the next morning, lay quietly. What sweet and delicious experience had been hers in sleep, that her waking soul still thrilled to the pleasure of it ? Fretting at last at the vain effort of memory to recall it, loath to pass from the fleeting dream to meet the sober day, she turned on her pillow to sleep again. But soon she raised herself restlessly to look out of the window and observe the weather. The movement brought her in line with the bar of red sunlight, which, falling across the coverlid, now streamed upon her slim body in its white nightrobe and the braid of black hair.

Terunda, the green parrot, sleeping on a footpost of the ponderous bed, was also bathed in this refulgent light.

" Wake up, Peggy," cried Ann, " and see how strange the morning is."

Peggy stirred in her sleep and flung out one arm. " I shall be your little mother," she murmured.

" Now why will you be my little mother ? " coaxed Ann.

But Peggy, not thus to be beguiled into speaking, wakened.

"You were talking in your sleep," laughed Ann. " See how copper-coloured the light is this morning, more than ever."

Peggy slipped out of bed and went over to the window. The sun, a fiery ball, hung low in a gray sky. The forest in the valley moved in waving undulations like the sea. " It is a storm sun," she announced; "see how a mist creeps over it. And did you notice how the moon last night held water and tipped so that a hunter could have hung his bow on the horned end ? " She put up her hand and stroked Terunda, who had fluttered over and perched himself on her shoulder. " We shall have no more warm days now."

Peggy's prophecy came true.

The long and delicious Indian summer was past. A damp and chilling wind arose and blew continuously, and the sun never showed its face from behind the gray mist.

The first fire was lighted in the drawing-room, and Madame Van Vrankin, ever sensitive to the cold, sat shivering in front of it.

All that bleak afternoon Ann sat on the hall window-seat, the heavy curtains drawn around her for warmth, while she read RoUins's Ancient History, her vivid imagination colouring the dull text; read until her cheeks burned with excitement and her fingers grew cold from the bitter wind pouring in the window-cracks ; read until the twilight crept between her and the printed pages and the faintly tinged clouds of the cold sunset took on the form of her dreams.

Peggy lingered in the garden unmindful of her dolls. She waited in vain the coming of yesterday's guest. She confided no word of the adventure to Ann, not in obedience to a well-thought-out reason, but because she was by nature most secretive. After supper she sought the old Indian Naukoska, who kept the castle gate.

" Naukoska," she asked, " what are the pines saying to-night ? Hear how they are talking, so loud ! "

Old Naukoska took his pipe from his mouth and raised his head to listen. " They are singing the tale of The Wolf-brother" he said, after awhile.

" Repeat it to me," begged the little maid, wistful to be beguiled from her disappointment.

"The trees say it is a wild night," spoke Naukoska, in the Indian language which Peggy understood, "and that the wildness of the night makes them remember the story of The Wolf-brother, for whenever the wind moans, its voice brings to mind a tale that is sad."

" I should prefer a merry tale to-night, Naukoska," said the little maid, pleadingly, " one that will make me laugh."

"Nay;" he answered, "they tell but the tale of The Wolf-brother to-night. They say that once upon a time there were two brothers and one sister, and that the three lived together, for their parents were dead. The sister, who was much given to the wearing of fine wampum and the braiding of her long hair with beads and to putting on long-fringed leggins and gay moccasins, had no time to care for the little brother. Neither did the elder brother have time, for the blood of manhood was rushing in him and he had shame to play with children. So the little brother grew lonely and ran away weeping. Now the sister heard him weeping as he ran, and she thought it was a dove mourning and hearkened not. He passed close by the elder brother, who heard him weeping also, but believed the sound to be the whimpering of a cub which had run into the bush after he had killed its mother for her fine coat. When the little brother did not come back, they knew he was lost in the forest and believed him dead. But when the snow melted and the soft rains fell, the elder brother went forth on a long fishing trip. One afternoon near the close of day, he was out on the lake in his canoe. He heard some one singing :

" ' My brother, my brother, I am turning into a wolf, I am turning into a wolf.'

Then he saw his little brother standing on the shore. He paddled toward him, and on drawing near was frightened to behold him half-turned into a wolf. He reached the shore and drew his canoe upon the beach and sprang out. He ran toward his brother and strove to catch him in his arms, crying, ' My brother, my brother, come to me ! ' But the little brother eluded his embrace, and fled, still singing :

" ' My brother, my brother, I am turning into a wolf, I am turning into a wolf.'

Then he disappeared in the forest.

"The hunter stood still and listened. Soon he heard the howling of a wolf. Then very sad he went away. At the melting of the snows every year he went to that spot on the lake shore and called, but the Wolf-brother never came again. Thus goeth the tale which the pines are telling each other to-night, and some of the oldest trees remember hearing the little brother weep as he passed under their shade the day he ran away. Hear how soft they rustle now. They show thus how loud he wept."

Naukoska fell to smoking his pipe again.

Outside the wall the trees swayed wildly. The wind had broken the leaden sky, and now and then, through swiftly moving clouds, shone out a star burning brightly in the deep blue heavens.

The story, the night, affected Peggy strangely. Why had not her brother come? Was this precious, newly-found possession to be taken from her? The deeply maternal instinct in the little maid had been stirred to its depths. All that was protecting and lovable in her had gone out to him. Old Naukoska's face, the stone wall, faded away. She seemed to see her brother alone in the forest, no longer wearing the scarlet coat of yesterday, but a shaggy skin. Gaunt, longer of limb, in her fancy he tarned and glared at her, and as she met his gaze she thrilled with terror. His smile was no longer pleasant, his eyes were those of a wolf! She sprang to her feet and shook the nodding Naukoska awake.

" Naukoska, Naukoska ! " she cried, " open the gate ! " For suddenly she felt she must go to her brother, to wrap her arms around him, to press her face to his changed one, to hold him within her embrace until that which was so strange, so ferocious, should pass away.

" Naukoska," she cried, impatient at the old man's delay, " it is I, thy little daughter of the Singing Trees. Naukoska, open the gate for me."

Slowly he rose, unlocked and pushed open the heavy gate. " Thou wouldst go out and see how all goes in the forest to-night," he said indulgently, " To-morrow we shall have snow."

It was a secret between these good friends that every night he undid the gate and she stepped outside for a little while, breathing all the peace and balmy scents of the forest, enchanted that no walls surrounded her. Now, as she stood without in the majestic woods and felt the cool rush of air, unbroken by the wall, sweep over her, the hot impulse died down and she wondered at the lengths to which her imagination had carried her. Still, she was sure that something unforeseen and terrible must have occurred to prevent her brother's coming, not realising, in her ignorance of the world and its demands, that many things, not in themselves serious, might intervene between the making and keeping of an appointment.

" Naukoska," she asked the old gatekeeper as she had many times before, " where is my father's home ? "

And old Naukoska would answer : "There is a strip of forest and beyond lies the Indian village and still beyond that, is thy father's home."

This time he did not reply. Turning, she saw him nodding with sleep, for he was very old. She glanced at the upper right-hand wing of the castle where showed a patch of orange. Through the window came faintly the sweet sound of Ann's spinet. Madame Van Vrankin's room she could not see, but she knew she was there, spending her evening in solitude as was her custom.

Old Naukoska, waking, found his companion gone. Doubting not that she had returned to the castle, he laboriously closed the heavy gate, then, reseating himself, puffed at the dying coal in his pipe.

Meanwhile, Peggy followed fearlessly the forest path old Naukoska had so often pointed out to her. She heard the hooting of Ohowa, the owl.

" Whoo, whoo," she mocked, " are your big eyes watching where I go, Ohowa ? "

Far above her the big trees clashed their branches as Owera, the wind, passed over them.

" I have heard the tale you whispered to the trees to-night, Owera," she said.

Presently she crossed the little stream and soon came to the Indian village. She made a half-circuit around it to avoid being seen and perhaps delayed. She noted that only the squaws and children were to be seen encircling the fires in front of the wigwams, and so judged that the warriors were on a long hunt. Naked children played with their dogs. A handsome young squaw, her face gay with paint, her wild black hair falling on her shoulders, appeared to be relating a story to a group of women.

As Peggy passed by a corn field, she was startled by a shrivelled old crone, who stepped across her path from out the rustling stalks. The little maid shuddered, for she judged her to be the old woman of whom Naukoska had told her, and who, before death entered a wigwam, was always to be seen sitting at the doorway just at twilight.

Beyond the village, facing the county highway, Johnson Hall, built of gray stone, loomed up in solitary grandeur. The entrance doors were flung wide, and a strong yellow light, dimmed by smoke, streamed forth from the interior.

Peggy quickened her steps eagerly.

Within, her father. Sir William Johnson, the superintendent of Indian affairs in the Mohawk Valley, was entertaining the warriors of the Five Nations of the Iroquois. Over five hundred were now assembled in the hall, each warrior with his pelts beside him awaiting his turn to trade them. These assemblies generally lasted several days, and during this time much pleasure as well as business was in order. Preparations for the entertainment had been going on for weeks. The negro servants, although knowing that the Indians despised them as slaves, were more joyous than any over the festivities, and had the larder well stocked with their choicest delicacies.

Sir William Johnson, in honour to his guests, wore the dress of a Mohawk chief, even to the detail of exchanging his powdered wig for one made of straggling black hair. Long association with these People of the Long House, as the tribes living in the valley were called, had developed in him certain like characteristics. He was dignified and inclined to be taciturn, sober to an extent bordering on melancholy. These peculiarities he showed chiefly in dealing with the Indians. There were other occasions when his love of humour and good living broke through his reserve and he seemed what he had been born, a hearty, handsome Irishman of the merchant class, who had by his own efforts raised himself to a position of undisputed honour and responsibility. George III. had granted him the largest tracts of land ever accorded to a private person. There in the forest wilds, he, at once prosperous trader and undisputed sovereign, entertained with splendid hospitality the strangers and officers whose duties led them to that part of the country.

His honourable dealings with the Indians, and his protection of their interests against the white traders who were ever quick to take advantage of the savages; his wisdom in never grasping at a petty advantage, although never failing to promote his own advancement ; his reserve on ordinary occasions and his fiery eloquence when the time was ripe for speech ; his great bravery and self-control matching their own, combined to give him undisputed sway over them.

To-night he sat in a chair on a platform that ran across the back of the long hall. He smoked a long Indian pipe as he bargained with the warriors. To his right were flung the purchased skins, and on his left were piles of gay calicoes, beads, bright-hued blankets, buttons, and various attractive trinkets.

On this same platform three British officers and a Dutch hunter, from the little town of Albany, with their pipes and wine, sat around a small table playing cards. The white wigs of the officers, their scarlet uniforms trimmed with gold lace, added a brilliant touch of colour to the hall. The hunter's dress, with its leathern breeches, its worn velvet coat of brown, seemed sober enough by contrast. His chestnut hair, waving back in careless ringlets from his forehead, was tied at the nape of the neck by a simple black ribbon. His bronzed, youthful countenance, animated by laughter, afforded a pleasing comparison with the rubicund faces of his companions. Heated by wine, they were begining to show some ill-nature at his continued good fortune in the game.