Mademoiselle de Berny, a story of Valley Forge

Front matter

’ey

* a

r

Chapter I

O N an afternoon in early May, in the year 1778, four people rode into the court-yard of the Green Tree coffee-house in new Philadelphia, and, dismounting, entered the dining-room. It was a long room poorly lighted by diamond-paned Dutch casements of greenish glass set high in the wall and swung half-open. In the furthest corner from the door lounged a man, evidently a hanger-on of the place. His huge bulk clad in drab Quaker costume was so vaguely defined as to suggest merely a lightening of the shadow at that particular spot. His head was dropped on his breast ; his legs stretched out stiffly suggested imminent danger of his slipping from the bench to the floor. A red glow showed fitfully beneath the ashes of his carelessly held pipe.

At the opposite end of the room was the fireplace of such great width one might look up the broad-mouthed chimney to the sky. The backlog was a hewn sione ; the blue tiling had been brought from Liverpool. Above the chimney-hood was a carelessly hung painting of George III. of England, in a tarnished oval frame.

Of the newcomers, one, a British officer, rose from the chair in which he had seated himself and, crossing the room, straightened the picture.

“ Such reverence do these knaves pay tkeir king,” he said, “’tis small wonder they do not turn the portrait clean around and have His Gracious Majesty a-dancing on his head

The one woman of the party, a young girl, glanced up from the flowers she was arrang-

‘‘Your frown is stupendous. Uncle Henry,” she said. “ Methinks my words rang true for all your stormy denial.”.

Augmented by the mischievous gleaming of her eyes, the sweetness of her voice seemed mocking.

“ Now, by your honest soul, dear uncle, confess the truth. You are troubled that these Provincials prove so well their blood-relation to His Majesty's troops ? But yesterday, I heard that when the back is turned the townsfolk whisper 'tis Philadelphia has captured the British, and not the British Philadelphia.”

The little man, still standing near the portrait, made an irritated gesture.

“ Do ye wonder, Diane ? ” he asked ; “ lo, have I not known how the dolts smile and murmur ? And this Mischianza,” he fumed. “ 'Tis well enough for women-folk ! They must have their fol-de-rols. But men, men I say, turned milliners and dancing-masters, wearing uniforms as puppet-soldiers. Was't in this fashion, I ask ye. His Majesty’s soldiers were taught to conduct a campaign — to lie idle the entire winter, gambling and carousing, dancing attendance on these American belles, who, I warrant ye, laugh in their sleeves at the young popinjays ! ”

A young Philadelphian, named Heyward, seated beside Mademoiselle de Berny on the bench, which, starting from the fireplace, ran around the room, had been leaning forward, his cheek resting on his hand, as he idly trailed the lash of his riding-whip along the floor. He drew himself up now, leaning against the wainscoting, which formed the back of the seat, shelving out at the top into a ledge for mugs and pipes.

“ Rumor has it that the winter hardships have but served to toughen the rebels at Valley Forge,” he said, still toying with the whip. “ A hungry dog holds fastest to a bone.”

“ I warrant ye,” retorted General Stirling, and a night’s march would limber up these young coxcombs quicker than dancing. Bah, I can scarce stomach the sight of their smirkings and tip-toeings, and a-picking up the handkerchiefs of these Whig dames ! ”

He seated himself at the massive oak table in the centre of the room, drumming impatiently on the board with his fingers. His disturbed feeling passed into contentment as he watched the young girl. To him her hands appeared even more flower-like than the fragile blossoms she lifted stem by stem. In the halfdusk of the room the flowers acquired an intense and delicate whiteness contrasting with the subdued richness of coloring in her costume. Though bright, the afternoon was cool, and she had worn over her riding-habit a cardinal, an article of attire much affected by the women of those days. This garment, of crimson satin and fur-trimmed, she had unclasped and flung back from her shoulders so that it made a luxurious setting for her fair person. Under his bristling brows the soldier's small, irate eyes softened as he watched her. The fortune of war, he mused, verily, it was strange. What rude and freakish wind had blown this blossom to his protection ? He was a rough soldier, unused to the way of delicate women. A girl’s fancy was an uncertain thing — as a bird’s flight. Yet, who could foretell ? Perhaps, when the war was over, and these rebel dogs had been put down with a strong hand, it would content her to return with the lad and him to the quiet English home, to be as his daughter in his old age. And so amidst thought of the turmoil of war — ay, despite the throbbing of an old wound in his shoulder — there slipped this daydream.

‘‘Your posies are drooping soon, Diane,” he said, his eyes resting kindly upon her.

“ They are wild flowers,” she answered. She looked up through the open casement where a loosened tendril of a vine swayed against the blue sky. A bird flashed by in the sunlight, and with a little circling motion sank upon its nest built in a network of the Virginia creeper which clambered heavily over the opposite wall of the court. Her eyes grew dreamy, her face softening and losing its alert brightness of expression.

“ There is an orchard in France,” she said softly, “ so old that the trees are gnarled and bent and bear little fruit; yet, where the ground slopes downward, runs a stream, so that the grass all around is long and wet, and the fleur-de-lis is now in bloom. Sometimes there were yellow blossoms among the purple, and some were white, were they not, Armand,” she asked, addressing a lad who had perched himself on the further end of the table, one leg doubled under him, his free foot resting lightly on the head^of a Danish hound crouched upon the floor. He had been playing on a flute, but so plaintively sweet and delicate was his music that although often continuous, it did not disturb conversation, having in its quality something of the nature of a flower’s perfume of which one may be often but half-conscious.

He turned at his sister’s question.

I know, Diane,” he nodded. “ I could And them sooner than you. The scent of white flowers is stronger.”

He slipped down from the table and put his flute away.

Stir yourself. Little Brother,” he said, shoving the hound with his foot. “ Come, bestir yourself, great Lazybones,” he added as the animal stretched itself, yawning ; will you be forever a-nodding off to sleep like an old dame in a chimney-corner?”

With his hand resting caressingly on the head of the Great Dane, who walked beside him, the lad strolled with a peculiarly hesitating and yet direct step towards his sister. He was a picturesque and slender figure wearing the garb of a mourner. This sable color was relieved only by his ruflled shirt of cambric and lace, and the massive silver buckles at his knees and on his low shoes. At his side dangled a heavy sword in a worn sheath. His ash-yellow hair, lightly powdered, was worn in a queue.

Mademoiselle de Berny rose and with her handkerchief brushed away some of the powder which had drifted upon his coat.

Don’t, Diane,” he cried,jerking away ; “ you can’t make a French dandy out of me. It is not I who take after ^at side of the family.”

He drew forth his sword and ran his lingers lightly down the blade, the bright surface of which was spotted as with rust of blood.

“Ah, Diane,” he mocked, “his I have other blood in me.” He stood in the attitude of a listener, his head inclined slightly forward. The merriment in his face did not appear in his eyes, which, large and light gray in color, remained expressionless. In them the diamondshaped panes of the casement above were reflected as from some glassy surface. He had been blind from birth. His sister not replying, he laughed, and returned the sword to the sheath. The same strong family type was revealed in both faces, although the two were but half brother and sister. With the exception of the coloring, for the girl’s hair and eyes bespoke her French nationality, their features were alike save that the oval of her face appeared longer in the lad and his eyes were set nearer together. But in each the high head, the handsome profile, and the full and beautiful curves of the mouth were similar. Even the vein which ran like some faint tracing adown Mademoiselle de Berny’s left temple and cheek found its prototype in her brother’s face.

“ Methinks mine host slower than Father Time,” grumbled General Stirling; “a fine country this which chokes one with dust at every step of his horse. Ye have no such vile roads in England. There the dew lies on the green, and good ale flows plenteously.”

But as he spoke, the door opened and a negro entered with the tray.

‘‘ Were I an American,” said Mademoiselle de Berny, seating herself at the table, ‘‘ my fondness for tea would prove me no rebel.”

General Stirling emptied at a draught the mug of ale placed in front of him.

Don’t trouble your pretty head about the rebels ! ” he said, wiping the foam from his lips. ‘‘ I fear I am a gruff keeper for so dainty a bird. War is a hard mistress. She does not make ladies’ men of us, lily-fingered. We who have grown old in her service know whereof we speak. I remind me of a surgeon once saying that the constant sight of suffering did not harden him, but on the contrary, made it a sorrier thing for him to witness pain, pain which he necessarily gave. So with war. After the pomp and glory prove hollow and the heyday of youth is past, then comes the realization of war. Desolate homes and a waste country, fatherless children and women weeping — ” he put his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand. ‘‘ I am an old war-horse, my little girl, an old war-horse, who in time of peace is stupid and to be roused only by the scent of battle. Life is a hard lesson. We who fight must not look back over the field, lest our heart sicken.”

Mademoiselle de Berny’s brother had been leaning on the back of her chair.

‘‘No, no, Uncle Henry,'' he cried, “war is glorious ! Did not my father say, there was fame ? Ah, why could not the good God have let him live ? I should enlist if Diane would let me. She said they would not take a boy. But you can't fool me, Diane. It is because I am blind."

She put up her hand, covering his as it rested on her shoulder.

“In what capacity could you serve, dear," she asked. “ Certainly not in action on the field, and I know of but one other. You would not be a spy, Armand ? "

“ Why not," said the lad, his face clouding. “ What do women know of war ^ Let go my hand." He slipped into a chair between her and his uncle.

The young man who had been seated beside Mademoiselle de Berny on the bench had not changed his position, engrossed in untying a knot he had made in the lash of his riding-whip. He looked up smiling at the boy’s words, directing his amused glance toward the young girl. He rose leisurely and, drawing a chair up to the table, seated himself beside her and opposite General Stirling and his nephew.

“ I fear your temper is too frank, my lad,” he said pleasantly, “ for you to win success as lO a spy. It takes a less honest man, I fear, to serve in that position.''

Young Stirling's mouth quivered with pitiful responsiveness, but he did not speak.

‘‘Trouble not, boy," said his uncle, slapping him on the shoulder ; “ your spirit is worth a dozen of these hired Hessian louts. Ye'll be called on in good time to serve your king."

Mademoiselle de Berny smiled. “ But not as a spy," she said.

“Tut, tut, Diane," said the soldier; “'tis not for a chit of a girl to set up as a judge. Good men and true have entered the secret service. In that particular I hold myself no whit more virtuous than the spy I employ, for do I not benefit by him ? "

“ I have thought differently," she answered gravely; “always have I been taught that a spy is a necessary evil of war, an instrument whose usefulness cannot veneer its hatefulness and which burns the fingers of those who touch it."

General Stirling shook his head. “ Ye show an ungentle heart for a young girl," he frowned.

“ The world does not commiserate traitors," she retorted, “at least — "

“You are mistaken there. Mademoiselle," interrupted Heyward, his pleasant face acquiring a shade of earnestness ; “ a spy is no traitor who betrays his cause. A spy, be he loyal, meeting an ignominious death is a martyr."

Perhaps,” she said, shrugging her shoulders slightly as she passed him a plate of biscuit ; yet a martyrdom scarcely the choice of a gentleman. You agree with me. Monsieur?”

“In war. Mademoiselle,” he answered, “men use the term ‘ patriot ’ in preference to that of gentleman.”

She smiled. In the fashion of the day she held daintily in her fingers the lump of sugar, then accounted a great luxury, with which to sweeten her tea. She took tiny bites of the sugar, sipping the fragrant beverage. H er glance met Heyward’s curiously over the cup lifted to her lips.

“In peace,” she said, returning the cup to the saucer, “the term ‘gentleman’ is permitted but one signification, that of a man of honor, but war licenses much, and the word ‘patriot’ like the mantle of charity covers a multitude of — let us sa)^ ‘ gentlemen ’ of divers employment. Do I grasp your meaning. Monsieur ? ”

On the young man’s face, habitually grave, with dark eyes over whose intense gaze the lids seldom drooped, dawned a smile. A warm light came into his glance.

“There are some women. Mademoiselle,” he said, “ whose perfection is such that to disagree with them seems not only a reflection upon a man’s gallantry, but even makes his opinion seem wrong because adverse to theirs. And of this argument what shall I say ? That neither

Ma^lemoiselle de Berny of us are, perhaps, in a position to render fair judgment ? Yet, doubtless, we can both conceive of circumstances in which a patriot would serve his country gladly, in no matter how ignominious a way, and, although it seems paradoxical, yet maintain his honor. After all, why should he be condemned more than the great body of soldiers fighting for the same result?

One is permitted to show preference for individuals,’' she said.

His expression relaxed momentarily into a smile, but he leant a little forward with some eagerness.

“ Does not the end sometimes justify the means ? A selfish motive only condemns the spy. Otherwise he may hold himself invulnerable. No accusation stings a quiet conscience.” His even voice gained a penetrating quality and his eyes burned steadily in an otherwise impassive countenance.

‘‘ Think you it a trivial thing for a man to give his life to his country ? But if he goes further and lays down that counted dearer than life, his reputation as a man of honor among honorable men ? Is it a little thing to forego the glory of a death on the field amongst the foremost, to endure the meanness of a spy’s life ? And I have always held it the duty of that man, whosoever he is, to serve where he is most needed, and if it lies with him to best perform a peculiar service necessary to the good of his country, he should do it regardless of rank.”

“ Bravo ! sir,” cried the soldier, hitting the table with his fist; “you stir my sluggish blood anew. But how falls it ye wear the garb of a citizen ? And, by my faith, ye seem no coward ! Fie on ye, young sir, is it by such passive loyalty ye serve your king ? ”

“ I can hold neither party entirely blameless,” said Heyward ; “ still my sympathies incline — ”

“Yet sit not idle sucking your thumbs, man,” interrupted the other. “ It shows more manhood to strike for the party nearest right in your estimation, e’en though it be with the rebels, and I say it as should not, being loyal to King George.”

Young Stirling had been leaning across the table whispering to his sister. He laughed, nodding his head, as she refilled his cup of tea. He raised the cup high, the liquid splashing over.

“ As good Englishmen,” he cried, “ we will pledge the health of King George and drink to the downfall of the Boston tea-party.”

“ Best let the nerve-destroying stuff alone,” said General Stirling, gulping down his portion with a wry face.

“ Has every one his tea, now ? ” asked the boy. “Pass me the sugar and a spoon, — a spoon, Diane.”

‘‘In a moment, Armand,” she answered. As she passed a cup of tea to Heyward, it slipped between their extended fingers, and, hitting against the table-edge, fell broken on the floor.

Mademoiselle de Berny rose, gathering the train of her riding-habit from the spreading liquid.

“ There is no tea left, now. Monsieur,'* she said, “ so you cannot drink the toast." She smiled slightly. But though her eyes met his indifferently, her face had grown curiously pale.

General Stirling rose and opened the door, letting a flood of sunlight into the sombre room. He stepped out into the court-yard to order the horses. The kitchen was on the further side of the yard, opposite the dining-room. Thin white-washed pillars ran in a line by house, kitchen, and stable alike, supporting the verandah of the former two and the first floor of the latter. The walls of red and black brick in their checker-board regularity suggested the staid Quaker. Through the archway in the low wall opposite the stable could be seen the street and the varying forms of people passing by. A vine climbed over this wall, wreathing the arch heavily in green. The officer sauntered tov/ards the stable, his pompous little figure in its scarlet uniform brilliant in the mellow sunlight of the latening afternoon.

In the dining-room, Richard Heyward leant against the table, watching Mademoiselle de Berny as she drew on her gloves.

Young Stirling at the further end of the room was feeding biscuit to his dog. He moved back against the man sleeping in the corner, who had changed his position but slightly since the party had entered the room, and then only to relapse into seemingly deeper slumber.

I beg your pardon, sir,'* said the lad, bowing with a fine and marked courtesy.

A heavily drawn breath was his only reply.

He waited a moment. Then he stretched out his hand and passed it delicately over the great body and the face with its closed lids and open mouth.

‘‘Your foolish large mouth argues more body than wit, friend,” chuckled the lad, slowly withdrawing his hand from the man’s cheek.

The eyes of the sleeper opened and shot a quick glance at the boy.

Like a flash young Stirling’s hand covered the man’s eyes and felt the lashes brush his fingers as the lids closed again. He bent his beautiful face down so that his breath stirred the other’s hair.

“ A-a-h, my friend,” he said, laughing softly and speaking in a whisper, “you were not asleep.”

Chapter II

T he other two occupants of the room were oblivious to the incident, the young man being engrossed in buttoning one of Mademoiselle de Berny’s gloves, while she was observing him as he did so with an intent gaze which took in every detail of his costume from his brown hair unpowdered and tied with a ribbon, to the boutonniere she herself had pinned on the lapel of his bottle-green coat, made high-collared and with gilt buttons ; the full lace ruffles at his breast and wrists ; his buff cassimere breeches and high riding-boots. He, growing conscious of her attentive regard, glanced up inquiringly.

“ Monsieur,'' she said, in answer to his unspoken question, “ I cannot help wondering why a man whose sentiments are so fine and patriotic should wear citizen's dress and make no effort to prove his valor as a soldier. Your words sounded curiously in my ears as well as in General Stirling's."

His head was bent low over her wrist, but she saw the color rise to the roots of his hair.

You are very hard on me. Mademoiselle," he said, with a slight protesting laugh ; “ have

i6 you yet to learn 'tis man's weakness to profess much that, Spartan-like, you would force him to prove his words by deeds ? Alas, how clumsy a man's fingers ! " he added lightly, “ how fine a woman's veriest trifle ! There's another button gone, but have patience a moment longer."

“A man may profess much, intending little," she said, “but I do you no such injustice. You spoke in no half-hearted fashion, but bravely, this afternoon. Yet when a citizen gives to patriotic sentiment such a tone of feeling, one says, ah, a soldier at heart, but on which side?"

She felt a tremor run through his fingers. He had buttoned her glove, but still held her wrist.

“ Monsieur," she continued, “ how was it that when I passed you the cup of tea this afternoon, your fingers slipped and the tea was lost ? You know what people say — that no upright loyalist refuses to pledge the health of his king in tea."

He dropped her wrist, and lifting his head, met her glance.

“ And how does that concern me. Mademoiselle ? " he asked, his mouth settling into hard lines.

“To this extent. Monsieur," she said, “to this extent." She looked around the room. In his corner the Quaker had taken an attii8 tude of profounder slumber, putting his feet and legs up on the bench and drawing his hat over his eyes. On the further side of the table, her brother sat on the bench, feeding cake to his hound. Then her gaze returned to Heyward. In their acquaintance he had been puzzled by certain unaccountable changes in her manner from ease and gaiety to coldness and annoyance. Now it seemed as if that feeling, which had hitherto shown itself in fitful bursts of anger and little sparkles of irritation, had suddenly broken bounds and flamed forth with the force of a burning challenge.

“ Tell me,'' she said, lowering her tone, tell me, why I have not the right to refuse to associate with one who — " the scornful words trembled unuttered on her lips.

“ Monsieur," she continued after a slight pause, I spoke of your dress a moment ago. Why ? Because although it is the attire of a gentleman, yet worn by you it signifies something less. Do you think that it needed but the spilling of the tea to tell me what your position is ? Ah, Monsieur, I scorn to say it ! It shames me to know that you are here as a spy ! ”

Except for the death-like pallor which spread over his face, he showed no emotion.

“ Do you desire to insult me. Mademoiselle de Berny ? " he said coldly. His face was set in a calm which would not be disturbed, but beneath the lids, as he looked down at her, his eyes seemed a line of gleaming light, cold and suspicious.

As she met his glance, his changed glance, in which hitherto she had read all warmth and trust, her face flamed with passionate anger.

Insult you,” she echoed stingingly, “insult you ! Ah, Monsieur, doubtless your position leads you to forget there are those who are generally considered to have lost the right to resent an affront.”

He turned and walked towards the half-open door, seeking to maintain his composure.

Mademoiselle de Berny's eyes followed him wrathfully. Her mouth quivered, and the anger in her eyes gave way to pride deeply wounded. She went towards him to go into the court-yard. He, divining her intention, stepped back, opening wide the door, bowing profoundly as she passed him. She did not vouchsafe him a glance. On the verandah she turned and looked back past him into the room where her brother still remained. He had thrown himself lengthwise wearily on the bench and appeared to be sleeping. As she observed his fair hair, his slender form clothed in the mourning garments he could not be persuaded to discard since his father’s death over a year ago, her face softened magically.

“Armand,” she called gently, “Armand,” waiting to see that he heard her, “ we must go.”

Then as he sat up, stretching his arms and yawning, she turned and went down the steps as the groom brought up her horse.

Heyward watched her hungrily, his heart torn by conflicting emotions. Her horse bent its head to a lump of sugar she held in her palm, and which during lunch she had taken from the table and slipped in the pocket of her cardinal for it. The extravagance of the action at that time, when sugar was accounted a luxury even by the very rich, filled him with bitter resentment. The incident, trifling though it was, yet seemed to separate them more surely than the words which had just passed between them. What comprehension had she of the suffering and oppression which drove men to endure famine and cold for liberty — she, to whom life signified naught save beauty and pleasant ease ? Long shadows of the departing day lay across the little court, but did not touch her upon whose slender figure the brightness of the afternoon seemed to be concentrated. Her plumed hat shaded her face so that he could see but the rounded chin, the curving lips, as vividly crimson as the cardinal hanging loosely from her shoulders. Against the rich satin the gray fur trimming of the garment acquired an electrical silvery lustre. And as all that was lovely and to be desired centred in lier, so also did it seem to him that he stood in the shadow of whatever was ignoble and to be despised in the estimate of men. Now he felt himself under a ban of contumely which not even her hands, although they should be extended to him, might push aside.

“ Hasten, young sir,” cried General Stirling, impatiently, are ye gone o’ day-dreaming ? What o’ the lad, Diane ? But here he comes,” he added, as his nephew emerged from the interior, his hands in his pockets, whistling, the sun shining full in his unwinking, sightless eyes.

Heyward reentered the room to procure his gloves and hat, which, with his riding-whip, lay on the table near the mass of wild flowers Mademoiselle de Berny had discarded. He looked at the drooping blossoms a moment, but did not offer to touch them. With a heavy sigh he drew forth his handkerchief, — a letter slipping unperceived from his pocket to the floor as he did so, — and passed it over his forehead, on which appeared the cold beads of perspiration.

After he had left the room a curious scene was enacted. The Quaker whirled his feet suddenly off the bench, and rose, stretching himself. But he moved, as if unconsciously, toward the letter, until sufficiently near to cover it by his foot at the next step. As this was about to happen, young Stirling’s dog picked up the paper. The fellow bent and spoke coaxingly to the hound, patting its head, and pulling gently at the letter held between his teeth. The animal growled angrily. His owner heard and called him, and the dog trotted out of the room, retaining the letter.

In the street outside the archway, Richard Heyward, pleading an engagement, said goodafternoon, and, turning his horse, rode away in the direction opposite to that which was taken by the rest of the party.

The young man was not gallant, Diane,” observed General Stirling, his eyes twinkling. ‘‘What did ye to him that he left us in such hasty fashion ? ”

“ I,” she answered, “ I but asked him a simple question, were the tea I poured too sweet or too bitter that he spilled it, and lo, he frowned as at some sorry jest.”

“Ye jest far,” said the soldier; “’twas a reflection on the man’s honor ye made, Diane. Thy idle words are oft-times barbed.”

She laughed. “If the coat fits,” she said airily.

“ Hark ye, my girl,” he said, his shaggy eyebrows drawn together in a heavy frown and raising one hand in emphasis of his words, “ lest such careless hinting breathe dishonor on a man’s fair name as a breath dims the bright steel.”