I think that summer was the strangest ever I have lived,—the most unreal days of life,—so still, so golden, so strangely calm the solitude that ringed me where I was slowly healing of my hurt.

Each dawn was heralded by gold fire, each evening by a rosy conflagration in the west. It rained only at night; and all that crystal clear mid-summer scarcely a shred of fleece dappled the empyrean.

Those winds which blow so frequently in our Northland seemed to have become zephyrs, too; and there was but a reedy breeze along the Vlaie Water, and scarce a ripple to rock the lily pads in shallow reach and cove.

It was strange. And, only for the loveliness of night and day, there might have seemed in this hushed tranquillity around me a sort of hidden menace.

For all around about was war, where Tryon County lay so peacefully in the sunshine, ringed within the outer tumult, and walled on all sides by battle smoke.

Above us our fever-stricken Northern army, driven from Crown Point, now lay and sickened at Ticonderoga, where General Gates did now command our people, while poor Arnold, turned ship's carpenter, laboured to match Guy Carleton's flotilla which the British were dragging piecemeal over Chambly Rapids to blow us out o' the lake.

From south of us came news of the Long Island disaster where His Excellency, driven from Brooklyn and New York, now lay along the Harlem Heights.

And it was a sorry business; for Billy Alexander, who is Lord Stirling, was taken a prisoner; and Sullivan also was taken; and their two brigades were practically destroyed.

But worse happened at New York City, where the New York militia ran and two New England brigades, seized with panic, fled in a shameful manner. And so out o' town our people pulled foot, riotous and disorderly in retreat, and losing all our heavy guns, nearly all our stores, and more than three hundred prisoners.

This was the news I had of the Long Island battle, where I lay in convalescence at Summer House that strange, still summer in the North.

And I thought very bitterly of what advantage was it that we had but just rung bells and fired off our cannon to salute our new Declaration of Independence, and had upset the prancing leaden King from his pedestal on the Bowling Green, if our militia ran like rabbits at sight of the red-coats, and general officers like Lord Stirling were mouse-trapped in their first battle.

Alas for poor New York, where fire and explosion had laid a third of the city in ruins; where the drums of the red-coats now rolled brazenly along the Broadway; where Delancy's horsemen scoured the island for friends to liberty; where that great wretch, Loring, lorded it like an unclean devil of the pit.

God! to think on it when all had gone so well; and Boston clean o' red-coats, and Canada all but in our grasp; and old Charleston shaking with her dauntless cannonade, and our people's volleys pouring into Dunmore's hirelings through the levelled cinders of Norfolk town!

What was the matter with us that these Southern gentlemen stood the British fire while, if we faced it, we crumpled and gave ground; or, if we shunned it, we ran disgracefully? Save only at Boston had we driven the red-coats on land. The British flame had scorched us on Long Island, singed us in New York, blasted us at Falmouth and Quebec, and left our armies writhing in the ashes from Montreal to Norfolk.

And yet how tranquil, how fair, how ominously calm lay our Valley Land in the sunshine, ringed here by our blue mountains where no slightest cloud brooded in an unstained sky!

And more still, more strange even than the untroubled calm of Tryon, lay the Summer House in its sunlit, soundless, and green desolation.

Where, through the long days, nothing moved on the waste of waters save where a sun-burnished reed twinkled. Where, under star-powdered skies, no wind stirred; and only the vague far cry of some wandering wild thing ever disturbed that vast and velvet silence.

Long before she came near me to speak to me, and even before she had glanced at me from the west porch, whither she took her knitting in the afternoons, I had seen Penelope.

From where I lay on my trundle in Sir William's old gun-room I could see out across the hallway and through the door, where the west veranda ran.

In the mornings either my Indian, Yellow-Leaf, or Nick Stoner mounted guard there, watching the green and watery wastes to the northward, while his comrade freshened my sheets and pillows and cleansed my room.

In the afternoons one o' them went a-fishing or prowling after meat for our larder, or, sometimes, Nick went a-horse to Mayfield on observation, or to Johnstown for news or a bag of flour. And t'other watched from the veranda roof, which was railed, and ran all around the house, so that a man might walk post there and face all points of the compass.

As for Penelope, I soon learned her routine; for in the morning she was in the kitchen and about the house—save only she came not to my room—but swept and dusted the rest, and cooked in the cellar-kitchen.

Sometimes I could see her in apron and pink print, drawing water from the orchard well, and her skirt tucked up against the dew.

Sometimes I saw her early in the garden, where greens grew and beans and peas; or sometimes she hoed weeds where potatoes and early corn stood in rows along a small strip planted between orchard and posy-bed.

And sometimes I could see her a-milking our three Jersey cows, or, with a sickle, cutting green fodder for my mare, Kaya, whose dainty hoofs I often heard stamping the barn floor.

But after the dinner hour, and when the long, still afternoons lay listlessly betwixt mid-summer sun and the pale, cool dusk, she came from her chamber all freshened like a faint, sweet breeze in her rustling petticoat of sheer, sprigged stuff, to seat herself on the west veranda with her knitting.

Day after day I lay on my trundle where I could see her. She never noticed me, though by turning her head she could have seen me where I lay.

I do not now remember clearly what was my state of mind except that a dull bitterness reigned there.

Which was, of course, against all common sense and decent reason.

I had no claim upon this girl. I had kissed her—through no fault of hers, and by no warrant and no encouragement from her to so conduct in her regard.

I had kissed her once. But other men had done that perhaps with no more warrant. And I, though convinced that the girl knew not how to parry such surprises, brooded sullenly upon mine own indiscretion with her; and pondered upon the possible behaviour of other men with her. And I silently damned their impudence, and her own imprudence which seemed to have taught her little in regard to men.

But in my mind the chiefest and most sullen trouble lay in what I had seen under the lilacs that night in June.

And when I closed my eyes I seemed to see her in Steve Watts' arms, and the lad's ardent embrace of her throat and hair, and the flushed passion marring his youthful face——

I often lay there, my eyes on her where I could see her through the door, knitting, and strove to remember how I had first heard her name spoken, and how at that last supper at the Hall her name was spoken and her beauty praised by such dissolute young gallants as Steve Watts and Lieutenant Hare; and how even Sir John had blurted out, in his cups, enough to betray an idle dalliance with this yellow-haired girl, and sufficient to affront his wife and his brother-in-law, and to disgust me.

And Nick had said that men swarmed about her like forest-flies around a pan o' syrup!

And all this, too, before ever I had laid eyes upon this slim and silent girl who now sat out yonder within my sullen vision, knitting or winding her wool in silence.

What, then, could be the sentiments of any honest man concerning her? What, when I considered these things, were my own sentiments in her regard?

And though report seemed clear, and what I had witnessed plainer still, I seemed to be unable to come to any conclusion as to my true sentiments in this business, or why, indeed, it was any business of mine, and why I concerned myself at all.

Men found her young and soft and inexperienced; and so stole from her the kiss that heaven sent them.

And Steve Watts, at least, was more wildly enamoured.... And, no doubt, that reckless flame had not left her entirely cold.... Else how could she have strolled away to meet him that same night when her lips must still have felt the touch of mine?... And how endured his passion there in the starlight?... And if she truly were a loyal friend to liberty, how in God's name give secret tryst and countenance to a spy?

One morning, when Nick had bathed me, I made him dress me in forest leather. Lord, but I was weak o' the feet, and light in head as a blown egg-shell!

Thus, dressed, I lay all morning on my trundle, and there, seated on the edge, was given my noon dinner.

But I had no mind, now, to undress and rest. I desired to go to the veranda, and did fume and curse and bully poor Nick until he picked me up and carried me thither and did seat me within a large and cushioned Windsor chair.

Then, madded, he went away to fish for a silver pike in our canoe, saying with much viciousness that I might shout my throat raw and perish there ere he would stir a foot to put me to bed again.

So I watched him go down to the shore where the canoe lay, lift in rod and line and paddle, and take water in high dudgeon.

"Even an ass knows when he's sick!" he called out to me. But I laughed at him and saw his broad paddle stab the water, and the birchen craft shoot out among the reeds.

Now it was in my thoughts to see how Mistress Penelope would choose to conduct, who had so long and so tranquilly ignored me.

For here was I established upon the spot where she had been accustomed to sit through the long afternoons ... and think on Steve Watts, no doubt!...

Comes Mistress Penelope in sprigged gown of lavender, and smelling fresh of the herb itself or of some faint freshness.

I rested both hands upon the arms of my Windsor chair and so managed to stand erect.

She turned rosy to her ear-tips at the sudden encounter, but her voice was self-possessed and in nowise altered when she greeted me.

I offered my hand; she extended hers and I saluted it.

Then she seated herself at leisure in her Windsor reading-chair, laid her basket of wool-skeins upon the polished book-rest, and calmly fell to knitting.

"So, you are mending fast, sir," says she; and her smooth little fingers travelling steadily with her shining needles, and her dark eyes intent on both.

"Oh, for that," said I, "I am well enough, and shall soon be strong to strap war-belt and sling pack and sack.... Are you in health, Mistress Pen?"

She expressed thanks for the civil inquiry. And knitted on and on. And silence fell between us.

If it was then that I first began to fear I was in love with her, I do not surely remember now. For if such a doubt assailed me, then instantly my mind resented so unwelcome a notion. And not only was there no pleasure in the thought, but it stirred in me a kind of breathless anger which seemed to have long slumbered in its own ashes within me and now gave out a dull heat.

"Have you news of Lady Johnson and of Mistress Swift?" I asked at last.

She lifted her eyes in surprise.

"No, sir. How should news come to us here?"

"I thought there might be channels of communication."

"I know of none, sir. York is far, and the Canadas are farther still. No runners have come to Summer House."

"Still," said I, "communication was possible when I got my hurt last June."

"Sir?"

"Is that not true?"

She looked at me in troubled silence.

"Did not Lady Johnson's brother come here in secret to give her news, and take as much away?"

She did not answer.

"Once," said I, "although I had not asked, you told me that you were a friend to liberty."

"And am so," said she.

"And have a Tory lover."

At that her face flamed and her wool dropped into her lap. She did not look at me but sat with gaze ahead of her as though considering.

At last: "Do you mean Captain Watts?" she asked.

"Yes, I mean him."

"He is not my lover."

"I ask your pardon. The inference was as natural as my error."

"Sir?"

"Appearances," said I, "are proverbially deceitful. Instead of saying 'your lover,' I should, perhaps, have said 'one of your lovers.' And so again ask pardon."

"Are you my lover, sir?"

"I?" said I, taken aback at the direct shot so unexpected.

"Yes, you, my lord. Are you one of my lovers?"

"I think not. Why do you ask me that which never could be a question that yes or no need answer?"

"I thought perhaps you might deem yourself my lover."

"Why?"

"Because you kissed me once,—as did Captain Watts.... And two other gentlemen."

"Two other gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir. A cornet of horse,—his name escapes me—and Sir John."

"Who!" I blurted angrily.

"Sir John Johnson."

"The dissolute beast!" said I. "Had I known it that night at Johnson Hall——" But here I checked my speech and waited till the hot blood in my face was done burning.

And when again I was cool: "I am sorry for my heat," said I. "Your conduct is your own affair."

"You once made it yours, sir,—for a moment."

Again I went hot and red; and how I had conducted with this maid plagued me so that I found no word to answer.

She knitted for a little while. Then, lifting her dark young eyes:

"You have as secure a title to be my lover as has any man, Mr. Drogue. Which is no title at all."

"Steve Watts took you in his arms near the lilacs."

"What was that to you, Mr. Drogue?"

"He was a spy in our uniform and in our camp!"

"Yes, sir."

"And you gave him your lips."

"He took what he took. I gave only what was in my heart to give to any friend in peril."

"What was that?"

"Solicitude."

"Oh. You warned him to leave? And he an enemy and a spy?"

"I begged him to go, Mr. Drogue."

"Do you still call yourself a friend to liberty?" I asked angrily.

"Yes, sir. But I was his friend too. I did not know he had come here. And when by accident I recognized him I was frightened, because I thought he had come to carry news to Lady Johnson."

"And so he did! Did he not?"

"He said he came for me."

"To visit you?"

"Yes, sir. And I think that was true. For when he made himself known to his sister, she came near to fainting; and so he spoke no more to her at all but begged me for a tryst before he left."

"Oh. And you granted it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"I was in great fright, fearing he might be taken.... Also I pitied him."

"Why so?" I sneered.

"Because he had courted me at Caughnawaga.... And at first I think he made a sport of his courting,—like other young men of Tryon gentry who hunt and court to a like purpose.... And so, one day at Caughnawaga, I told him I was honest.... I thought he ought to know, lest folly assail us in unfamiliar guise and do us a harm."

"Did you so speak to this young man?"

"Yes, sir. I told him that I am a maiden. I thought it best that he should know as much.... And so he courted me no more. But every day he came and glowered at other men.... I laughed secretly, so fiercely he watched all who came to Cayadutta Lodge.... And then Sir John fled. And war came.... Well, sir, there is no more to tell, save that Captain Watts dared come hither."

"To take you in his arms?"

"He did so,—yes, sir,—for the first time ever."

"Then he is honestly in love with you?"

"But you, also, did the like to me. Is it a consequence of honest love, Mr. Drogue, when a young man embraces a maiden's lips?"

Her questions had so disconcerted me that I found now no answer to this one.

"I know nothing about love," said I, looking out at the sunlit waters.

"Nor I," said she.

"You seem willing to be schooled," I retorted.

"Not willing, not unwilling. I do not understand men, but am not averse to learning something of their ways. No two seem similar, Mr. Drogue, save in the one matter."

"Which?" I asked bluntly.

"The matter of paying court. All seem to do it naturally, though some take fire quicker, and some seem to burn more ardently than others."

"It pleasures you to be courted? Gallantries suit you? And the flowery phrases suitors use?"

"They pleasurably perplex me. Time passes more agreeably when one is knitting. To be courted is not an unwelcome diversion to any woman, I think. And flowery phrases are pleasant to notice,—like music suitably played, and of which one is conscious though occupied with other matters."

"If this be not coquetry," I thought, "then it is most perilously akin to it."

Obscurely yet deeply disturbed by the blind stirring of emotions I could not clearly analyze, I sat brooding there. Now I watched her fingers playing with the steels, and her young face lowered; now I gazed afar across the blue Vlaie Water to the bluer mountains beyond, which dented the horizon as the great blue waves of Lake Ontario make molten mountains against an azure sky.

So still was the world that the distant leap and splash of a great silver pike sounded like a gun-shot in that breathless, sun-drenched solitude.

Yet I found no solace now in all this golden peace; for, of the silence between this maid and me, had been born a vague and malicious thing; and like a subtle demon it had come, now, into my body to turn me sullen and restless with the scarce-formed, scarce-comprehended thoughts it hatched within me. And one of these had to do with Stevie Watts, and how he had come here for the sake of this girl.... And had taken her into his arms under the stars, near the lilacs.... And my lips still warm from hers.... Yet she had gone to him in the dusk.... Was afeard for him.... Pitied him.... And doubtless loved him, whatever she might choose to say to me.... Under any circumstances a coquette; and, innocent or wise, to the manner born at any rate.... And some Tryon County gallant likely to take her measure some day ere she awake from her soft bewilderment at the ways and conducting of mankind.

Nick came at eventide, carrying a pike by the gills, and showed us his fingers bleeding of the watery conflict.

"Is all calm on the Sacandaga?" I enquired.

"Calm as a roadside puddle, Jack. And every day I ask myself if there be truly any war in North America or no, so placid shines God's sun on Tryon.... You mend apace, old friend. Do you suffer fatigue?"

"None, Nick. I shall sit at table tonight with Mistress Grant and you——"

My voice ceased, and, without warning, the demon that had entered into me began a-whispering. Then the first ignoble and senseless pang of jealousy assailed me to remember that this girl and my comrade had been alone for weeks together—supped all alone at table—companioned each the other while I lay ill!——

Senseless, miserable clod that I was to listen to that demon's whispering till my very belly seemed sick-sore with the pain of it and my heart hurt me under the ribs.

Now she rose and looked at Nick and laughed; and they said a word or two I could not quite hear, but she laughed again as though with some familiar understanding, and went lightly away to her evening milking.

"We shall be content indeed," said Nick, "that you sit at supper with us, old friend."

But I had changed my mind, and said so.

"You will not sit with us tonight?" he asked, concerned.

I looked at him coldly:

"I shall go to bed," said I, "and desire no supper.... Nor any aid whatever.... I am tired. The world wearies me.... And so do my own kind."

And I got up and all alone walked to my little chamber.

So great an ass was I.