CHAPTER XII—THE HOME OF WASHINGTON

“’Tis early for her to return from headquarters, is it not?” asked the nurse, touching the horse lightly with the whip. “Methinks that I have heard her say that she always heard the first and last guns of a campaign; and campaigns do not begin in April at the North.”

“True,” said Peggy. “Then will it not be an intrusion to go there during her absence?”

“Intrusion to escape a thunder-storm?” laughed Mrs. Johnson. “Hardly, my child. We should be welcome even though we did not seek to avoid a drenching. The general hath left orders with his overseer, Mr. Lund Washington, that hospitality should be extended to every one the same as though he were there in person. Then too every one in this part of the country goes to Mount Vernon for help in every sort of distress. Oh, yes! we shall be very welcome.”

“Mount Vernon?” mused the girl. “I wonder why ’tis so called? We call our country home ‘Strawberry Hill,’ but that is because of the vast quantities of strawberries that grow there. I see not why the general should call his place Mount Vernon.”

“I can enlighten you as to that, Peggy. The estate formerly belonged to his half-brother, Lawrence Washington. He too was of a military turn, and served with Admiral Vernon of the British Navy in an expedition against Carthagena in South America. He married Anne Fairfax on his return, and built this house on the estate left him by his father. So great was his admiration for the gallant admiral that he called his home Mount Vernon, in his honor. There was but one child born of the union, and on her death General George Washington, who was a great favorite with his brother, became his heir. Lawrence died also, so the general came into possession. He hath left the place much as his brother had it, though he contemplates its enlargement when relieved of military duty, I hear. My husband’s mother was of the Fairfax family, which is the reason my son is so called. ’Tis the fashion among Virginians to give family names to their children. There! we are going to be caught by the storm after all!”

There came a vivid flash of lightning followed by a deafening peal of thunder as she finished speaking. Their horse reared in affright, then plunged forward in a terrified run. The storm was upon them in all its fury. The rain beat into the cabriolet from all sides, and soon they abandoned any effort to keep dry. It seemed to Peggy that she had never seen such a storm before, and never had she been out in such a one. The rain came down in torrents. Flash after flash of dazzling light darted across the sky, accompanied by a continuous roar of thunder like the discharge of artillery. It was impossible to hear each other speak, so they drew close together, the nurse controlling the horse as best she could.

Suddenly as they ascended a small steep hill from the edge of a wild ravine the mansion with all its surroundings came into view. Peggy forgot that her garments were wet through and through; forgot that it was raining so hard that the outlines of the dwelling were blurred and indistinct, and leaned forward eagerly to see the home of General Washington.

Stately trees shaded the lodges which stood on each side of the entrance gate; and, as they drove through, a colored boy darted from one of the lodges and taking hold of the bridle rein ran abreast of the animal with them to the dwelling.

The villa, as General Washington called it, was at this time not so large as it is now, the general having enlarged and added to the mansion after the Revolution. It was, however, a house of the first class then occupied by thrifty Virginia planters; of the old gable-roofed style, two stories in height, with a porch in front, and a chimney built inside, at each end, contrary to the prevailing custom. It stood upon a most lovely spot, on the brow of a gentle slope which ended at a thickly wooded precipitous river bank, its summit nearly one hundred feet above the water. Before it swept the Potomac with a magnificent curve, and beyond the broad river lay the green fields and shadowy forests of Maryland.

The door opened as the carriage reached the porch, and a man came hastily to their assistance. He said not a word until they were safely within the entrance hall, and then he turned to Nurse Johnson with a smile.

“Well, well, Hannah Johnson,” he said. “Who would ever have thought of seeing you here? Quite a little sprinkle we’re having.”

“I should say it was a sprinkle, Lund Washington,” retorted Nurse Johnson, gazing ruefully at her wet clothing. “It strikes me more like a baptism; and you know I don’t hold with immersion.”

“I know,” he said laughing. “Never mind. We’ll soon get you fixed up.” Mr. Lund Washington was General Washington’s relative, who had charge of the estate while the owner was away to the war.

At this moment a pleasant-faced, plump little woman came bustling into the hall, and hastened to greet them.

“I could not come sooner, Hannah,” she said. “I was making a lettuce tart which we are to have for supper. Come right up-stairs, both of you, and change that wet clothing. Nay, my child,” as Peggy mindful of her dripping garments hesitated. “It doth not matter about the dripping. All that concerns us is to get you both into dry garments.”

With such a welcome Peggy felt at home at once, and followed the overseer’s wife obediently up the broad stairway to one of the chambers above. Mrs. Washington went to a chest of drawers and drew forth some folded garments.

“These are just the things for you, my dear,” she said. “They were Martha’s, and will fit you exceedingly well.”

“I thank thee,” said Peggy taking them reverently, for Martha had been Lady Washington’s only daughter, and she had been told of her early death.

“I see you are a Quakeress,” said Mrs. Washington pleasantly. “We have many such down here, though not so many as are in your state. How vastly the frock becomes her. Doth it not, Hannah?”

“It does indeed,” replied Nurse Johnson glancing at the girl with approval. “Child, you should never wear aught but colors. You were never made for the quiet garb of your sect.”

“Some of our Society are not so strict anent such matters as they might be,” Peggy told them, a smile coming to her lips as she recalled the numerous rebukes concerning gay apparel given by the elders at the meetings. “’Tis only of late that I have dressed so quietly.”

“Now, my dear,” spoke Mrs. Washington, setting a dainty lace cap on the maiden’s dark hair, “look in the mirror, and see if the result doth not please you.”

“It pleases me well,” answered Peggy surveying her reflection with a smile. “In truth it hath been long since I have been arrayed so gayly. Mother doth not approve of much dressing while the war lasts.”

“Your mother is right,” concurred the lady with warmth. “Mrs. Washington feels just the same about the matter. Still, I doubt if your mother would remain of that opinion were she to see you now. Would that she could, or that a limner^[6] were here to depict your likeness.”

In truth the girl made a charming picture in the dainty frock of dove-colored Persian flowered with roses of cherry hue, and finished with a frill of soft lace from which her white throat rose fair and girlish. A pair of high-heeled red slippers completed the costume, and Peggy would have been more than human if her eyes had not brightened, and her cheeks flushed at her image in the mirror.

Mrs. Washington led them at once to the great dining-room, where they found Mr. Washington, and young Fairfax Johnson who had arrived a short time after them. The storm had ceased, but the clouds still hung dark and lowering, producing an early twilight. A house servant was just lighting the myrtle-berry candles in the lusters as they entered the room, and the light glinted from the floor, scoured to a shining whiteness. The blacks brought in the supper immediately, and the little party gathered about the table informally. Peggy found herself seated beside Fairfax Johnson.

A spirit of mischief seized her, and made her sit silent, waiting for him to speak.

“For,” she thought roguishly, “’twill never do in the world to have naught to record for the girls but those two remarks, ‘It looks like rain,’ and ‘It is raining.’ If I do not speak he must, or else be guilty of discourtesy.”

Her patience was soon rewarded. The youth struggled bravely with his bashfulness, and presently turned to her.

“It hath stopped raining,” he said.

Peggy’s dimples came suddenly, and her eyes twinkled, but she answered demurely:

“It hath, Friend Fairfax, for which I am glad. It was a severe storm. Did thee get very wet?”

“Yes,” he answered. “It rained hard.”

“Oh, dear!” thought the girl. “Will he never have anything to say except about that rain? I wonder what Betty would do? Such a nice lad should be broken of his shyness.” Then aloud: “And Star, friend? Is she all right?”

“Yes. Didn’t seem to mind it a bit, after the first scare. Did you get wet?”

“Yes. Monstrously so,” replied Peggy, surprised that he was doing so well. “He won’t need any help if this continues,” was her mental comment. Then, “Mrs. Washington gave me some of Lady Washington’s daughter’s clothes to wear. They just fit me. Was she not kind?”

“Very,” he answered briefly. “If—if getting wet always makes you look like you do to-night you had better get wet every day,” he blurted out abruptly, and then turned from her decidedly, blushing furiously.

Peggy caught her breath at the suddenness of the thing, and colored also.

“Peggy, Peggy,” she chided herself reproachfully. “Thee should not have spoke about thy frock. No doubt the lad deemed it duty to say something of the kind to thee. ’Twas not seemly in thee. And how shall I answer him?”

She was saved the necessity of a reply, however, by Mr. Washington, who said:

“You are quite well acquainted with the general and his wife, Hannah tells me, Miss Peggy. If ’twould please you to see something of the estate I will take you about a little in the morning before you start. You should see something of the place while you are in these parts.”

“Oh, I should be pleased,” cried Peggy her animation returning at this. “Thee is very kind, sir.”

“The pleasure will be mine,” was the courteous reply.

And so it happened that Peggy rose betimes the next morning, but early as she deemed it Mr. Washington was awaiting her. He had a little pony saddled and bridled ready for her to mount.

“We will have time for a short look about before breakfast,” he said kindly. “’Tis my custom to ride to all the farms through the day, as the general does when he is home. ’Twould take too long for us to do that, but you can form an idea of the extent of the plantation by this détour.”

Thanking him Peggy mounted, and they set off at a brisk pace. All trace of the storm had passed save a dewy freshness of the air, and the wetness of the grass. The sun was shining with all the warmth and brightness of an April day in Virginia. The birds were twittering amid the new-born leaves, and the hyacinths and tulips were coming to their glory in the gardens. The smiles of cultivation were on every hand, and the air was heavy with the perfume of growing things after a rain.

The grounds in the immediate vicinity of the mansion were laid out in the English taste, Mr. Washington told her. The estate itself consisted of ten thousand acres which were apportioned into farms, devoted to different kinds of culture, each having its allotted laborers. Much, however, was still wild woodland, seamed with deep dells and runs of water, and indentured with inlets; haunts of deer and lurking places of foxes. The whole woody region along the Potomac with its forest and range of hills afforded sports of various kinds, and was a noble hunting ground.

The girl found that the plantation was a little empire in itself. The mansion house was the seat of government, with dependencies, such as kitchens, smoke-houses, work-shops and stables. There were numerous house servants for domestic service, and a host of field negroes for the culture of the crops. Their quarters formed a kind of hamlet apart, composed of various huts with little gardens and poultry yards, all well stocked, and swarming with little darkies gamboling in the sunshine.

Among the slaves were artificers of all kinds: tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, wheelwrights, smiths, and so on; so that the plantation produced everything within itself for ordinary use. The time was too short to permit of Peggy’s seeing more than a small part of the whole, but she saw enough to permit of an estimate of the estate. As they returned to the mansion Mr. Washington assisted her to dismount, saying as he did so:

“No view of Mount Vernon is complete without a look at the Potomac from the wharf, Miss Peggy. You will just have time for that before the call comes for breakfast. Be quick; for yonder comes Mrs. Washington, and she won’t want the cakes to cool.”

“I will be back in a minute,” cried Peggy catching his mood. Laughing gayly she ran swiftly across the sward under the trees and on to the wharf, which lay a little below the mansion, in front of the deer park.

“This is the place in truth for a fine view,” commented the girl as she reached the extreme end of the wharf. “Peggy, take a good long look. Thee will never have another chance, I fear. Heigh-ho! what will the girls say to this? ’Twill take the most of three pages in the diary to transcribe the half of this momentous day. It is a beautiful river, though of course I am partial to my own Delaware. No wonder the general loves his home. How the river winds and curves——Why!”

Peggy stopped short in her musings, and opened her eyes wide in surprise; for a large ship was bearing directly toward the wharf. For a moment she gazed, and then, as the ship veered slightly in her course, she caught sight of the flag at the taffrail. And at sight of that flag every drop of color left her face. For the flag was the emblem of England, and the ship was headed for Mount Vernon.

CHAPTER XIII—THE APPEARANCE OF THE ENEMY

With the words came a realization of the necessity for action. With an effort she threw off the numbing dread that beset her, and turning fled swiftly to the mansion. As she reached the porch Mr. Lund Washington came to the door.

“You are just in time,” he called cheerily. “Breakfast is ready, and Mrs. Washington feared if you lingered much longer ’twould be cold. Is not the view——Why! what hath happened?” he broke off catching sight of her pale face.

“The British!” panted Peggy. “The British are coming up the river!”

With an exclamation of alarm Mr. Washington sprang past her and hurried toward the wharf. At the same moment cries and shouts rent the air and from all over the plantation the negroes came running. Some were ashen with terror, and ran into the house weeping and wailing. The bolder spirits gathered on the banks of the river to watch the approach of the vessel. From the mansion came Mrs. Lund Washington and Mrs. Johnson, alarmed by the outcries and uproar of the darkies.

“And what is it, my dear?” asked Mrs. Washington as Peggy sank weakly on the steps of the porch. “Why are you so pale? Know you the cause of the commotion?”

“It’s the British,” repeated the maiden fearfully. “A British ship is coming.”

“A British ship!” Each woman’s face paled at the words. They were fraught with such awful meaning. They too stood stricken as Peggy had been with terror. Then Mrs. Washington spoke calmly, but it was with the calmness of despair:

“Let us not despond. It may be that they will exempt this place from destruction. Let us hope.”

“No,” said Peggy with conviction. “They will not spare it. ’Tis our general’s home. They have tried so many times to capture him; there have been so many plots to kill him, or for his betrayal, that anything that can strike a blow at his heart will be used. I fear, oh, I fear the worst!”

Meantime the cruiser drew up alongside the wharf. As soon as the vessel was made fast the captain stepped ashore and approached the spot where Mr. Lund Washington stood.

“What plantation is this?” he demanded brusquely.

“It is Mount Vernon,” replied the overseer.

“Mount Vernon, eh? The seat of the rebel leader?”

“It is General Washington’s home, sir,” was the reply.

“So I thought, so I thought,” returned the officer with a chuckle. “Are you in charge here?”

“Yes; I am Lund Washington, General George Washington’s relative, and represent him during his absence,” Mr. Washington informed him with dignity.

“And I am Captain Graves of the English navy,” responded that officer pompously. “In command of the ‘Acteon’ there. Now, sir, I want breakfast for my crew, and that quickly. And then supplies: flour, corn, bacon, hams, poultry and whatever else there may be on the estate that will feed hungry soldiers. Now be quick about getting them.”

“And if I refuse?” said Mr. Washington.

“Refuse!” roared the officer. “If you refuse, by St. George I’ll burn every building on the place and run off all your negroes. Now do as you please about it.”

Mr. Washington hesitated no longer.

“I will comply with your demands,” he said simply. He would do anything rather than that the general should lose his home.

“And mind,” called Captain Graves, “I want no dallying.”

“There will be none,” answered the overseer quickening his footsteps.

“Wife,” he said as he reached the porch where Peggy and the two women awaited him, “we must have breakfast for the crew as quick as it can be gotten. Do you see to it while I attend to what is wanted for supplies.”

Peggy looked up in amazement, thinking that she had not heard aright.

“Is thee going to give them breakfast and supplies from General Washington’s place, sir?” she asked.

“I must, my child,” replied Lund Washington sadly. “The captain threatens to burn the houses, and run off with all the slaves if I do not. I cannot help myself. They would take what they want anyway.”

“Then thee should let them take it,” cried Peggy excitedly. “The general won’t like for thee to feed the enemy from his stores. He won’t like it, friend.”

“I am in charge of the property,” repeated the overseer. “If anything happens to the place while ’tis in my charge I will be responsible. I will comply with any reasonable demand rather than have the plantation razed.”

“The general won’t like it,” Peggy reiterated in a low tone as Mr. Washington began to give orders to the slaves concerning the supplies while his wife hastened to see about breakfast. “He won’t like it. I know that he would rather have his home burned than that the enemy should be supplied from his plantation. Oh, I know he won’t approve of it.”

“Lil’ missy’s right,” declared a venerable darky who stood near. “Marse George ain’t gwine ter laik hab’n de enemy fed offen his craps. ’Tain’t fitten dat he’d fight ’em, an’ feed ’em, too.”

“That is just it,” declared the girl turning toward him quickly, surprised that a negro should grasp the point of honor affected. “What is thy name?” she added. “I should like to know it.”

“Lawsy, missy! doan you know old Bishop?” said the old darky, bowing deeply. “Why, I wuz Marse George’s body sarvant all froo de French an’ Indian Wahs. Bin wif him most ebbrywhar, old Bishop has. Too old to go enny mo’ dough, an’ so he has Mista Willum Lee to look aftah him. P’raps you might hab seen Mista Lee. A black, sassy nigga, lil’ missy.”

“Yes,” answered Peggy smiling. “I know him, Bishop. I used to see him often at Middlebrook. And so thee is Bishop?”

For Peggy had heard General Washington speak affectionately of his former body servant. Bishop was too old now for camp life, but he had, as he said, served General Washington through the French War. He was almost eighty years old now. There were deep furrows upon his cheeks, his hair was gray, and his form was bent by the weight of his years, but old Bishop knew his master’s heart, and knew that that master would rather lose his whole property than to have it succor the enemies of his country.

So the venerable darky and the maiden watched with sorrow the labor of the slaves as they ran back and forth to the ship, laden with flour, hams, bacon from the storehouses; chickens, geese and turkeys from the poultry yards; fruits and vegetables from the cellars; while the air was filled with the shrill cries of swine being slaughtered.

It was over at last. The crew had been fed; the ship was heavily laden with supplies, and with a sarcastic acknowledgment of their courtesy the captain weighed anchor and sailed away. And then the family sat down to a belated breakfast.

The meal was a mere pretense, however, and soon after it the cabriolet was brought round, and Peggy and her companions set forth once more upon their journey.

“I wish,” said Mrs. Johnson as they drove away from the mansion, “I wish you were safe at home, Peggy. I don’t believe that I am doing right in permitting you to go on.”

“I must,” spoke Peggy quickly. “There is my cousin dying, friend nurse. I must go on. Does thee fear an invasion of the whole state?”

“It looks as though the invasion were here, Peggy. Of course, it may be but a predatory incursion as others have been before, but I fear, I fear——” ended the good woman shaking her head.

“How much longer will it be before we reach Williamsburg?” inquired the girl.

“We should be there the fourth day from this,” replied Nurse Johnson. “Of course it may be the right thing for you to go on, as you are so near the end of the journey; but I do wish you were safe at home.”

“I shall lose no time in returning after I have done all for my cousin that can be done,” declared Peggy. “I think mother would wish me to go on now, but when all is over——”

“Then you must get back as quickly as possible,” said the nurse.

After all Peggy and old Bishop were right regarding General Washington’s feelings concerning the raid on the plantation.

“It would have been a less painful circumstance to me,” he wrote to his representative when he heard of the matter, “to have heard that, in consequence of your non-compliance with their request, they had burned my house and laid my plantation in ruins.”

So sensitive was this man concerning anything that would seem to touch his honor.

CHAPTER XIV—THE JOURNEY’S END

Presently the spires of churches and the roofs of several large buildings came into sight, clustered in one small spot, as it seemed to Peggy, until they entered the town itself, when they receded to their proper distances. The maiden leaned forward eagerly to see the place, for she had heard much of its gayety and fashion.

One broad unpaved street was the main thoroughfare of the town. It was very straight, shaded by mulberry and poplar trees, and ran for a measured mile from the Capitol at one end to the goodly college of William and Mary at the other. Houses, vine-clad, with wide porticoes and large gardens, bordered it, and two or three narrower streets debouched from it.

“This is the Duke of Gloucester Street, my dear,” explained Nurse Johnson as they entered the broad thoroughfare. “Yonder lies the Capitol where the courts convene. Once it was the center of all the legislation of the state, but all that is past since the capital hath been removed to Richmond.”

“Hath it?” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I did not know it. When was it, friend nurse?”

“’Twas done two years ago,” responded the nurse sadly. “Williamsburg was deemed too accessible to the enemy, so the government was removed to Richmond. I doubt not that we should be thankful, since the British did march for the capital in their late invasion of the state. The worst feature of the matter is that the traitor, Arnold, led the force that sacked and burned Richmond in January. No doubt ’twould have been our fate had the government still been here. Look well at the college, Peggy. It hath sent forth many of the men who are of prominence in the nation.”

Peggy regarded the college with great interest, for its fame was far spread, as it was the second university to be founded in the New World, Harvard being the first.

On the right of the large campus was the president’s house, built of brick alternately dull red and gray, brought over from England. Opposite was another building of like proportions and architecture known as the Brafferton School, built and endowed as an Indian seminary, a modest antitype of Hampton.

Although there were a number of shops and ordinaries, as the taverns were called, the town was thinly peopled, and Peggy was conscious of a chill of disappointment. Where was the glitter and glamour of pageantry of which she had heard so much?

Was this modest hamlet with its few detached houses with no pretentions to architectural beauty the gay capital of Virginia? As though divining her feeling Nurse Johnson spoke.

“Virginia is a state of large plantations and few cities,” she said.

“Williamsburg is not like Philadelphia, my dear, and yet it hath had its share of gayety. Before the war began ’twas a goodly sight in winter to see the planters and their families come in for divertisement and enjoyment. ’Twas very gay then. Gloucester Street was filled with their coaches and the spirited horses of the youths. Those were gladsome times that I fear me we shall see no more since the capital hath been removed.”

She sat for a time lost in thought, and then spoke mournfully:

“Ah, child, ’tis sad to see the passing of greatness. There are many like me who grieve to see the old town overshadowed. And this,” she continued as they passed a long low building with a wide portico and a row of dormer windows frowning from the roof, “this is the Raleigh Tavern. Its Apollo room is a famous place for balls, and meetings of belles and beaux. We are entering Palace Street now, Peggy. That large building at the end was formerly the Government Building, or the Palace, as ’tis called, where the royal governors were wont to dwell. The old powder magazine yonder held the spark that ignited the wrath of Virginians to rebel against the king. And this, my dear, is the end of our journey. ’Twas formerly the barracks of the mansion, but ’tis now used for a hospital.”

Peggy was conscious of quickening heart throbs as she alighted from the cabriolet, and ascended the few steps that led to the door of the building.

The westering sun cast a pleasant glow through the wide hall, for the entrance doors were thrown back, but Peggy had time for only a glance. The nurse led the way at once to one of the rooms which opened from the hall, saying:

“I must give report of the supplies immediately to the storekeeper, my child. Then I will see the matron and find where your cousin lies. Sit you here for a short time.”

Peggy sank obediently into the high-backed chair that the nurse pulled forward, and waited with some trepidation for the summons to go to her cousin. The office was full of business. A large force of storekeepers were busied in giving bedding and other necessaries to what seemed to Peggy an endless stream of nurses; while a number of clerks bent over their books, deep in the accounts of the storekeepers.

The song of birds came through the open window near which the girl sat. A bee hummed drowsily over a budding peach tree that stood just outside, and all at once it came to her that she was a long, long way from home. All her light-heartedness had vanished. The sunshine, the budding trees, the journey with its pleasant companionship, and, above all, her own youth, had served to lull into forgetfulness, for the time being, the purpose of the journey. Now, however, the passing to and fro of the nurses, the coming and going of the doctors with their low-toned orders, all brought a vivid realization of her mission, and Peggy felt suddenly faint and weak.

“I wish mother were here,” she thought, a great wave of longing sweeping over her. “Oh, I do wish that mother were here, or else that everything was done that must be done so that I could go back.”

At this point in her musings Nurse Johnson returned, and it was well that she did so, for Peggy was getting very close to the point of breaking down.

“You are tired,” exclaimed the nurse at sight of her face. “Child, give o’er the meeting until to-morrow. You would be more fit then.”

“’Tis naught, friend nurse,” said Peggy rousing herself resolutely. “I fear me I was getting just a little homesick. And how is my cousin? Is he—is he——”

“He is better,” the nurse hastened to tell her. “Much better, the matron says, and longing for his sister. You are to go to him at once, but he must not do much talking as he is still very weak. With careful nursing he may pull through. And now come, but be careful.”

Peggy arose and followed her across the hall into a large room, scrupulously clean, and bare of furniture save the rows of beds, some small tables and a few chairs.

On one of the beds in the far corner of the room lay a youth so like her father that Peggy could not repress an exclamation. His eyes were closed; his face very pale, and serene in its repose. His hair was light brown in color, with auburn lights in it that fell low over his forehead. Peggy drew near and looked at him with full heart.

“How like he is to father,” she murmured with a quick intake of her breath. “He doth not look like either Cousin William, or Harriet. Oh, he should have been my brother!”

The nurse bent over the lad, and touched him gently.

“Captain Williams,” she said. “Here is some one to see you.”

His eyes opened, and Peggy almost gasped, so like were they to David Owen’s.

“Harriet,” whispered the youth making a weak attempt to rise. “Hath she come at last?”

“It is not Harriet,” said Peggy touching his forehead gently, “but Peggy, my cousin.”

The young fellow turned a wondering look upon her.

“But Harriet, Harriet?” he murmured. “Why do you call me cousin?”

“Thee is not to talk,” cried Peggy quickly, as the nurse shook a warning finger. “I call thee cousin because thou art my Cousin Clifford. Harriet could not come because she had been sent to New York. I am Peggy. Peggy Owen, thy very own cousin. I have come to care for thee, and to take thee home when thou art strong enough. And that is all,” she ended breathlessly as the nurse again nodded a warning.

“I want Harriet,” reiterated the youth turning away from her. “Why have you come? I want you not.”

This was more than the girl could stand. She had been on the road for ten long days and was fatigued almost beyond the point of endurance. And when Clifford, who was so like her father that she had been stirred to the very depths of her being, said:

“I want you not. Why have you come?” she could no longer control her feelings but burst into tears.

“I came because thy sister was sent on to New York and could not come,” she sobbed.

“Because thee said in thy letter that thee didn’t want to die with none of thy kin near. And I have come all the way from Philadelphia to be with thee if thou shouldst die, and to take thy last messages.”

“I am not going to die,” said he in an obstinate voice. “And I shall save my last messages for my sister.”

At that Peggy looked up in blank amazement, thinking she had not heard aright. She had made no small sacrifice to come to Virginia to minister to him on his death-bed, if need be; or to bring him to health by careful nursing. And now for that cousin to tell her that he would give her none of his messages was unsettling to say the least.

And so the girl looked up, and met the lad’s eyes, which held a queer look of defiance. His lips were bloodless, but they were set in a straight line of determination. He looked so like a great big spoiled child that Peggy’s tears vanished as if by magic, and she gave vent to a low laugh. A laugh so sweet and girlish that many who heard it smiled in sympathy, and turned to get a glimpse of the maiden.

“Thee is a great big goose,” she cried wiping her eyes. “And I am another. I shall hold thee to thy words as a promise. Thee is to save thy last messages for thy sister. And until she comes, which, I make no doubt, will be soon, I shall care for thee whether thee likes or not. And I shall begin right now by fixing that pillow. Thee is not comfortable. Nurse, please may I have some vinegar? My cousin’s head is so hot. There! Sleep now, and to-morrow thee may talk some more. Sleep, my cousin.”

And Peggy, mistress of herself once more, firmly checked the feeble remonstrances of the youth and began stroking his forehead with soft, soothing touches. Finding his protests of no avail her cousin submitted to her ministration, and soon, in spite of his efforts to keep awake, his eyelids drooped, the drawn look of his face relaxed, and he slept.

“And now you too must rest,” said the nurse. “Come, my child, to my home.”

“But these other poor fellows,” said Peggy. “Can we not make them comfortable first?”

“We will let the others attend to it for to-night, Peggy. The first duty in nursing is to keep one’s self in trim, otherwise the nurse herself becomes a patient. Come.”

And nothing loth Peggy followed her.

CHAPTER XV—PEGGY IS TROUBLED

It was a week later, and Peggy stood by the open window of the living-room of the cottage gazing thoughtfully at the garden. The sunshine lay warm upon the thick green grass studded with violets. Daffodils flaunted golden cups at their more gorgeous neighbors, the tulips. The lilac bushes were masses of purple and white blossoms. The apple trees in the orchard were great bouquets of rose and snow. It was a pleasant place, cool and inviting under the trees.

But Peggy was looking with eyes that saw not its pleasantness. She was considering the events of the past few days. The matron of the hospital had acceded to her desire to assist in the care of her cousin, and she had devoted herself to him assiduously. But Clifford’s manner toward her troubled her, and there was a pained expression upon her face as she gazed into the pretty garden. Unconsciously she sighed.

Nurse Johnson threw aside her sewing and came to her side.

“Child,” she said, “what troubles you? Are you homesick?”

“Friend nurse,” answered Peggy abruptly, “my cousin doth not like me.”

“Why do you think so, Peggy?” asked the nurse quietly. “Hath he been rude?”

“Rude? Oh, no! I would he were,” answered the girl. “Were he rude or cross I should think ’twas merely his illness. Mother says the best of men are peevish when convalescing, but my Cousin Clifford is not cross. Yet he is surely getting well. Does thee not think so?”

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Johnson with conviction. “He surely is. He began to mend from the day you came. The matron, the doctors, the nurses all say so.”

“And yet,” said Peggy sadly, “’tis not because of my coming, nor yet of my care that he hath done so. It seems rather as though he were trying to get well in a spirit of defiance.”

“He is an Englishman, Peggy. Saw you ever one who was not obstinate? The nurses have remarked the lad’s frame of mind, and ’tis commonly thought that he believed that you desired him not to recover.”

“What?” cried Peggy horrified. “Oh, friend nurse, why should he think such a dreadful thing? I desire his death? Why, ’tis monstrous to think of.”

“A mere fancy, child; though why any of us should wish any of the English to live is more than I can understand. What with all the ravaging and burning that is going on ’twould be small wonder if we should desire the death of them all. But if he lives, Peggy, as he seems in a fair way to do, ’twill be owing to your care.”

“Still,” said Peggy, “I wish he were not so cold to me. Mother and I cared for Cousin William, his father, when he was wounded, and often he was irritable and would speak crossly. Yet he always seemed to like it right well that we were with him, and would say sometimes that he knew not what he would have done without us. And Harriet! why, when Harriet was ill with fever she was petulant and fretful at times, but there were other occasions where she was sweet and grateful. But Clifford accepts my attentions in a manner which shows plainly that he would prefer another nurse, but that he submits because he cannot help himself. As of course he cannot,” she added smiling in spite of herself. “Sometimes I would rather he would be cross if he would discover more warmth of manner.”

“Don’t mind him, child. It is, it must be some vagary of his illness. I should not pay much attention to it, and I were you.”

“He does not know that I notice it,” the girl told her. “But I cannot help but think of it, friend nurse. ’Tis strange that he should dislike me so. ’Twould cause mother much wonder.”

“Have you writ anent the matter to her, Peggy?”

“No; ’twould worry her. I have told her only of his condition and that I hope that he will soon be strong enough to start for Philadelphia. When does thee look for Dr. Cochran to come?”

“About the first of June. Should your cousin be well enough you might start north before that time. For my part, while sorry to lose you, I shall be glad when you are at home with your mother. You have been so occupied with your cousin that you may not have noticed that the militia are drilling every evening now.”

“I have seen them on the Market Green,” answered Peggy. “Is the fact alarming, friend nurse?”

“The cause of such frequent drill is quite alarming, child. The British, under General Arnold, have come out of their quarters at Portsmouth, and have started up the James on another ravaging expedition. General Phillips hath joined the traitor and hath sent a large force against Richmond again. They are plundering and destroying every plantation and town on the south side of the river. ’Tis wonder they have not come to Williamsburg ere this. I fear that they will soon. Would there were a way for you to go home, Peggy.”

“If it were not for Clifford I could go on Star,” mused Peggy.

“Alone? Why, child, I should not be easy one moment if you were to start on that journey all by yourself. Ten days on that lonely road? ’Tis not to be thought of.”

“No,” sighed the girl. “I suppose not, friend nurse. There is but one thing to do at present, and that is to care for my cousin. And that reminds me that ’tis time to go to him now.”

Throwing aside all her melancholy, for Peggy had been taught that gloom had no place near the sick, she went into the kitchen, took from its place on the dresser a salver which she covered with a napkin, placed thereon a bowl of steaming broth, for Peggy permitted no one to prepare his food but herself, and then regarded it thoughtfully.

“There should be some brightness,” she mused. “’Tis passing hard to lie all day in bed with no hint of the spring time. I have it.”

She ran out to the empurpled grass where the violets grew thickest, and gathered a small nosegay of the largest blossoms. These she brought in and laid daintily on the salver beside the bowl of broth.

“As thee cannot go to the blossoms I have brought the blossoms to thee,” said she brightly when she reached her cousin’s bedside. “See, my cousin, ’tis a bit of the May, as thee calls it, although May hath not yet come in truth; but ’tis very near. Friends say Fifth month, though ’tis not so pretty a name as thine. Thou canst hold them if thou wishest. ’Tis so small a bunch that it will not tire thy poor, weak fingers.”

“I thank you,” said the lad coldly. “I fear me that you put yourself to too much trouble for me.” He took the violets listlessly, never vouchsafing them so much as a glance.

“And how does thee do this morning, my cousin?” The girl shook up the pillows, then slipped them under his head so that he half sat, half reclined in the bed, cheerfully ignoring the chilly reception that the poor violets received. “I think thee looks brighter.”

“I rested well, Mistress Peggy,” he answered briefly, and then he dropped the blossoms, and taking the spoon from her, added: “I will not trouble you to feed me this morning. I am quite strong enough to feed myself.”

“Very well,” assented Peggy with becoming meekness, quietly arranging the salver in front of him.

The lad began strongly enough, but soon his hand began to tremble. The perspiration stood on his forehead in great drops as he continued to make the effort, and presently the spoon fell with a clatter from his nerveless fingers. He sank back, panting and exhausted, on his pillows.

“Thou foolish boy,” rebuked Peggy gently wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Thee must not waste thy strength if thee wishes to get well soon. Thee must be patient a little longer, my cousin.”

“Would I had died,” broke from him passionately, tears of humiliation in his eyes, “ere I was brought to lie here like a baby compelled to accept services that I wish not.”

A deep flush dyed the girl’s face, and she choked. For a moment she feared lest she should lose her self-control, then mastering herself—Peggy had been well schooled in self-repression—she said mournfully:

“Thee must not excite thyself, Cousin Clifford. Suffer me to care for thee a little longer. If it can be arranged so that another may take charge of thee, it shall be done. I knew not that thou didst dislike me so much.”

He made no reply, but partook of the broth she gave him without protest. Then, because it was part of her duty to wait beside him until the morning visit of the surgeon, she picked up the little bunch of violets and sat down quietly.

Her heart was very full. She could not understand the youth’s aversion. It was as though he held something against her that she had done; the resentment of an injury. In wondering perplexity she fondled the violets, and with unconscious yearning her thoughts flew back to far-off Philadelphia, and the long ago time when there was no war, and she had not known these troublesome cousins.

What times she, and Sally, and Betty, and all the girls of The Social Select Circle had had gathering the wild flowers in the great woods! When was it they had gone there last? It came to her suddenly that it had been six long years before, just after the battle of Lexington. They had made wreaths for their hair, she remembered. Was it violets that made Sally’s, she wondered, the blue of the flowers she held stirring her memories vaguely. No; it was quaker-ladies, and they were blue as Sally’s eyes. They never would go to the great woods again because the British had felled the trees.

At this point in her meditation Peggy looked up with a start to find her cousin regarding her with such an intent look that the color mantled her cheek and brow. He seemed as though he was about to speak, and, fearful that there would be another outbreak which would agitate him, she began speaking hurriedly:

“I am thinking of the great wood, cousin, which used to lie along the banks of the Schuylkill River at home. We went there in spring time for violets, and all the wildings of the forest. Thee should have seen the great trees when they were newly leaved, and again in the autumn when they were clothed in scarlet and gold; and——”

“What have you done with Harriet?” interrupted he in a tense tone.

“What have I done with Harriet?” repeated Peggy so surprised by the question that she let the violets fall to the floor unheeded. Clifford had not mentioned his sister’s name since the first day she came. “I told thee, my cousin, that the council had sent her to New York, because she communicated with Sir Henry Clinton which is not allowed. She had been warned, but she heeded it not. Does thee not remember?”

“I know what you told me,” he made answer. “Think you that I believe it? Nay; I know that your people have prevented her from coming to me.”

For a moment Peggy was so amazed that she could only stare at him. When she had recovered sufficiently to speak she said clearly:

“I think thee must be out of thy mind, cousin. I spoke naught but truth when I told thee of Harriet. I should not know how to speak otherwise. Why should we hinder thy sister from coming to thee? There would be no reason.”

“At one of the taverns where we stopped on the way down here, a captain, a whipper-snapper Yankee, flaunted a shirt in my face made by my sister.” The boy’s eyes flashed at the recollection. “I wrote her praying her to tell me that he did it but to flout me. I prayed her to write that she was still loyal to her king and country. And she answered not. I sent another letter, and still there was no reply. Then I tried to escape to get to her, and I was wounded in the attempt. The director of the hospital here promised, to quiet me, that he would see that she received a letter, and I wrote for her to come. Harriet would have come had she not been prevented.”

“But why should she be prevented?” demanded the astounded Peggy.

“Because ’twas feared that once she was with me she would return to her allegiance. That my influence would make her remember that Colonel Owen’s daughter could show no favors to a Yankee captain; that——”

“Clifford Owen,” interrupted the girl sternly, “listen to me. Thou art exciting thyself needlessly. Thy sister likes the Yankee captain, as thee calls him, no more than thee does. She did make that shirt; but ’twas done because she was as full of idle fancies as thou art, and mother sought by some task to rid her of the megrims. She gave it to John hoping to flout him, thinking that he would not wear a garment bearing the inscription embroidered, in perversity, upon it. She did write to thee. Not once but several times. That thee did not receive the letters is to be deplored, but not to be wondered at, considering the state of the country. She exerted herself on thy behalf to procure a parole, and ’twas near accomplishment when, impatient at the delay, she wrote to Sir Henry Clinton imploring him to ask thy exchange. As I have told thee, ’tis not permitted for any to communicate with the enemy, and so she was sent to New York. And now thee has the gist of the whole matter,” concluded Peggy with dignity.

“And why is she not here?” he asked obstinately.

The girl rose quickly.

“I have told thee,” she said quietly. “I will say no more. If thee chooses to doubt my word then thee must do so. I have spoke naught but truth. My cousin, thee will have to get another nurse. I am going back to my mother. ’Twas a mistake to come. I but did so because mother and I felt sorrow for thee alone down here with none of thy kin near, and perchance dying. ’Twas a mistake, I say, to have come, but I will trouble thee no longer. I shall start home to-day on my pony. The way is long, and lonely; but better loneliness and fatigue than suspicion and coldness. I hope thee will recover, my cousin. Farewell!”

She turned, standing very erectly, and started to leave the room. Before she had taken a half dozen steps, however, there came the quick beat of the mustering drum from the Market Green, and a hoarse shout from without:

“The British! The British are coming!”

CHAPTER XVI—THE TABLES TURNED

The sound of a few shots was borne presently on the breeze, followed by the rush of running men, and the militia which had marched forth so bravely but a short time before, came flying back, panic stricken.

“There are thousands of them,” cried the panting men. “We could not stand against the whole British army.” On they ran, while from the other direction came the first division of Major-General Phillips’ army, the Queen’s Rangers, under Lieutenant-Colonel Simcoe, which marched in with drums beating, and colors flying.

At the first alarm Peggy had paused abruptly, hardly knowing what to do. Her first impulse had been to return to the cottage, but remembering that Fairfax was with the militia, and Nurse Johnson somewhere about the hospital, she hesitated. As she did so there came a peremptory voice from the bed:

“Mistress Peggy!”

“Well, my cousin?” Peggy went back to Clifford reluctantly.

“Are my people truly coming?”

“They seem to be,” answered the girl.

“And where were you going?”

“I really don’t know,” answered she. “I would be alone at Nurse Johnson’s cottage, which I would like not. Solitude is conducive to fear, and I wish ever to present a brave front in the presence of the enemy. I shall remain somewhere about the hospital by necessity.”

“Stay by me,” he said.

“But thee has hardly ceased telling me that thee does not want me near thee?” cried the girl opening wide her eyes in surprise.

“I have not changed my opinion concerning the matter,” he said grimly. “But I am an English officer, and the safest place for you is by my bedside. Therefore, mistress, I command you to sit here by my bed.”

“I don’t want thy protection,” began Peggy hotly. “I think I prefer thy soldiers.”

“Did I want your nursing?” he demanded savagely. “No, I did not; yet was I compelled to submit to it. And while I did not desire your attendance, still you have attended me. For what purpose I know not, nor doth it now matter. The fact remains that I am under an obligation of which I would be quit. I will requite whatever of service you have rendered me by procuring exemption from pillage or annoyance for both yourself and the friends with whom you are staying. Sit you here beside me, Mistress Peggy, and bide the result.”

“Clifford Owen,” retorted the maiden so bitterly angry that she could scarcely speak, “were it not for those friends who have been so kind to me, I would die rather than accept aught from thy hands. But because of them I will take whatever of favor thee can obtain for us. But ’tis under protest. Under strong protest, I would have thee understand.”

“So?” he said. “That is quite as it should be.”

For one long instant the two gazed at each other. The lad’s whole appearance betokened the keenest enjoyment of the situation. He looked as though he had received a draught of an elixir of life, so animated and strong did he appear.

Peggy, on the contrary, found no pleasure in the state of things. She was as near blind, unreasoning wrath as her gentle nature ever came. Had it not been for Nurse Johnson and her son, she would have left her cousin’s bedside forthwith. As it was she sat down beside him in anything but a meek frame of mind.

The streets of the little city thronged with the red coats of the British, and they took possession of public buildings, dwellings, and shops as though they were masters returning to their own.

It was not long before several soldiers under the leadership of an officer made their appearance in the hospital. Rapidly they went through the rooms searching for British prisoners among the wounded and sick inmates. There was no rudeness nor annoyance of any sort offered to either the American sick, or their white-faced nurses. As they approached his bed Clifford sat up stiffly, and gave the officer’s salute.

“Ha!” cried the English officer. “What have we here?” and he paused beside him.

“I am Captain Williams, of the Forty-eighth Regiment, sir,” declared Clifford with another salute. “I have been a prisoner with the enemy since the last week of February.”

“Ha! yes; I remember. Taken at Westchester while on private business for Sir Henry Clinton,” said the other.

“The very same, sir. And this,” indicating Peggy, “is my cousin, Mistress Margaret Owen, of Philadelphia, who hath been put to no small inconvenience by my illness. She hath nursed me back to health, or at least until I am on the road to recovery. For the sake of whatever service I have been able to render General Sir Henry Clinton, I beg you to see that neither she, nor any of the inmates of the house where she dwells, be subjected to annoyance. She hath also a pony, I believe, of which she is very fond. Wilt see that it is exempted from impressment? It is needless to say that any favor rendered me in the matter will not go without recompense.”

A significant glance was exchanged between the two which Peggy did not notice. What she did see, however, was that the officer saluted in turn, saying pompously:

“Whatever you desire in the matter, captain, will be done. If the young lady will come with me to show me the house I will at once put a guard on the premises. I promise that she will suffer no annoyance of any sort.”

As Clifford spoke of her as his cousin, Peggy felt a quick revulsion of feeling. It was the first time he had so called her. Then, as he openly acknowledged his indebtedness to her nursing, the girl’s anger toward him died away. After all, she thought, the lad was doing his best to repay her for what she had done. That he was doing it from a desire to be quit of the obligation did not matter in the least. She knew now how he had felt during the time when he had submitted to her attentions, and a sense of justice made her aware that he was acquitting himself handsomely. And so as she rose to accompany the officer to the cottage, she said humbly:

“I thank thee, my cousin. I will not forget thy kindness in the matter.”

A puzzled look came into the youth’s eyes at her changed demeanor, but he merely gave a slight bow, and motioned her to go on with the officer. But Peggy was not yet through with him.

“May I come again to attend thee?” she asked in a low tone. “Thee is not well yet, thee must know.”

“Yes,” he said. “Come, and you will, mistress. I will not mind your ministrations so much now.”

And in much better spirits than she had deemed possible a few moments before the girl accompanied the officer to the cottage. Nurse Johnson came to the door wringing her hands as they neared the entrance.

“There will be naught left, Peggy,” she said despairingly. “The soldiers are in the house now stripping it of everything. ’Twill be a mercy if the house is left.”

Before Peggy could make reply the officer removed his cocked hat, bowing courteously.

“That shall be stopped immediately, madam,” he said. “War is not a gentle thing, and sometimes suffering must fall upon even our friends. In this case, however, your inconvenience will be short.”

The good woman had not recovered from her bewilderment at this speech, ere he pushed past her into the house, and they heard him reprimanding the looting soldiers sharply.

“What doth it mean, child?” she gasped as every article taken was restored to its place, and a guard mounted before the dwelling. “Why are we so favored when our poor neighbors are faring so ill?”

“’Tis Clifford,” Peggy told her. “He insisted that my friends and I should not be subjected to annoyance by his people as a return for nursing him.”

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed the nurse. “And you thought he did not like you!”

“He doesn’t, friend nurse. He made sure that I should understand that his feeling toward me had not changed, but he felt that he was under an obligation of which he would be quit. Still,” a little gleam came into Peggy’s eyes as she spoke, “he did think that he would not mind my ministering to him so much now.”

“Of course not,” laughed Nurse Johnson. “He will think it his due now. Isn’t that like an Englishman? But I am very thankful none the less, though I see not how he could do other than he hath done. It is certainly reassuring to know that we shall not be molested.”

So Peggy and her friend stayed in the cottage, or went back and forth to the hospital untroubled, save for the irksomeness of having armed men about the dooryard. And in the stable Star ate her oats, or tossed her slender head unwitting of the fact that she had been saved from helping in the marauding expeditions of the enemy.

“I have misjudged my cousin,” thought Peggy with a warm glow of gratitude toward the lad as she prepared his breakfast the next morning. “And yesterday I was so angry. Peggy, Peggy! will thee never learn to govern thy temper? Thee must be more patient, and guard thy unruly tongue better. Heigh-ho! ’tis an adventurous jaunt after all, though still I would I were with mother. There! I don’t believe that my cousin will ignore my offering this morning.”

And with this she placed a few violets on the platter, and started for the hospital, going through the gate of the orchard which opened into Palace Street.

As she closed the gate and turned in the direction of the hospital she saw an officer coming down the street. There was something strangely familiar in his appearance, and Peggy was so impressed with the idea that it was some one she had met that she regarded him keenly. She stopped as though she had received a shock as she recognized him. For the man was Major-General Benedict Arnold, and he was coming directly toward her.