In the Valley | Page 8

never knowing there could be such a place as
America? And that later we slept together in the same tent, and thanked
our stars for not being bundled together into the same trench, years
upon years?"
"Yes, and I know who you are, what's more!" said the pert boy,
unabashed.
"Why, that's wisdom itself," said Mr. Stewart, pleasantly.
"You are Tom Lynch, and your grandfather was a king----"
"No more," interposed Mr. Stewart, frowning and lifting his finger.
"That folly is dead and in its grave. Not even so fair a youth as you
must give it resurrection."
"Here, Bob," said the Major, with sudden alacrity. "Go outside with
these children, and help them to some games."

Chapter III.

Master Philip Makes His Bow--And Behaves Badly.

My protector and chief friend was at this time, as near as may be, fifty
years of age; yet he bore these years so sturdily that, if one should see
him side by side with his gossip and neighbor, Sir William Johnson,
there would be great doubt which was the elder--and the Baronet was
not above forty-two. Mr. Stewart was not tall, and seemed of somewhat
slight frame, yet he had not only grace of movement, but prodigious
strength of wrist and shoulders. For walking he was not much, but he
rode like a knight. He was of strictest neatness and method concerning
his clothes; not so much, let me explain, as to their original texture, for
they were always plain, ordinary garments, but regarding their
cleanliness and order. He had a swift and ready temper, and could not
brook to be disputed by his equals, much less by his inferiors, yet had a
most perfect and winning politeness when agreed with.
All these, I had come to know, were traits of a soldier, yet he had many
other qualities which puzzled me, not being observable in other
troopers. He swore very rarely, he was abstemious with wines and
spirits, and he loved books better than food itself. Of not even Sir
William, great warrior and excellent scholar though he was, could all
these things be said. Mr. Stewart had often related to me, during the
long winter days and evenings spent of necessity by the fire, stories
drawn from his campaigns in the Netherlands and France and Scotland,
speaking freely and most instructively. But he had never helped me to
unravel the mystery why he, so unlike other soldiers in habits and tastes,
should have chosen the profession of arms.
A ray of light was thrown upon the question this very day by the
forward prattle of the boy Philip. In after years the full illumination
came, and I understood it all. It is as well, perhaps, to outline the story
here, although at the time I was in ignorance of it.
In Ireland, nearly eighty years before, that is to say in 1679, there had
been born a boy to whom was given the name of James Lynch. His
mother was the smooth-faced, light-hearted daughter of a broken Irish
gentleman, who loved her boy after a gusty fashion, and bore a fierce
life of scorn and sneers on his behalf. His father was--who? There were
no proofs in court, of course, but it seems never to have been doubted

by any one that the father was no other than the same worthless prince
to wear whose titles the two chief towns of my State were despoiled of
their honest Dutch names--I mean the Duke of York and Albany.
Little James Lynch, unlike so many of his luckier brothers and cousins,
got neither a peerage nor a gentle breeding. Instead he was reared
meagrely, if not harshly, under the maternal roof and name, until he
grew old enough to realize that he was on an island where bad birth is
not forgiven, even if the taint be royal. Then he ran away, reached the
coast of France, and made his way to the French court, where his father
was now, and properly enough, an exile. He was a fine youth, with a
prompt tongue and clever head, and some attention was finally shown
him. They gave him a sword and a company, and he went with the
French through all the wars of Marlborough, gaining distinction, and,
what is more, a fat purse.
With his money he returned to Ireland, wedded a maid of whom he had
dreamed during all his exile, and settled down there to beggar himself
in a life of bibulous ease, gaming, fox-hunting, and wastefulness
generally. After some years the wife died, and James Lynch drifted
naturally into the conspiracy which led to the first rising for the
Pretender, involving himself as deeply as possible, and at its collapse
flying once more to France, never to return.
He bore